Breakfast in Stilettos

by Liz Kingswood

  It was lucky for me that, online, no one can hear you snicker.

  Chapter 7: Neal4U

  It didn’t take me too long to realize the limits of my domina vocabulario. Beyond the requisite kneeling, spanking, licking, and periodic profanity, I didn’t have much to say. Soon, I resorted to good old-fashioned conversation. Perhaps it was unprofessional, but I was interested in who was on the receiving end of my digital abuse.

  Neal4U proved to be a twenty-two-year-old business student at Gonzaga University. I knew little of the school, except that it was located on the outskirts of Spokane near the Washington/Idaho border.

  Neal’s opinion of it was clear. “The place is in the middle of a cultural black hole—the land of shit kickers.”

  “So why are you there?” Typing is inherently bereft of emotional cues, even with those vile emoticons. I didn’t want to come off like a shrink. Or his mother. But I was curious.

  Neal didn’t respond right away. I assumed he was typing out a detailed explanation, so I killed a little time and Googled the school.

  Gonzaga was named after a real person, Aloysius Gonzaga, a sixteenth-century Italian Jesuit who died while trying to save adolescents from the plague. For this, he was eventually dubbed the patron saint of youth. It didn’t say whether Aloysius died of the plague or not. I wondered what St. Gonzaga would think of this particular charge’s tendency, and whether he would consider it another affliction to be cured.

  Neal’s answer finally flashed onto the screen. It was a long-winded explanation of his family’s financial situation, their convenient proximity to the school and his lack of acceptance elsewhere. The more I read, the more normal he appeared. I felt sorry for him.

  His low self-esteem was responsible for his sex-less nights in Spokane, rather than any shortage of fetish-folk.

  There was nothing intriguing or sexy about this kind of quasi-therapy. I realized then why a good dominatrix sticks to the fetish business at hand. With that thought I cut our conversation short in a properly dominant style and decided to practice in another chat room.

  Just as I was about to click off the page, I saw a link to a quiz to determine whether you were a dominant or a submissive. A dating site called QuizCupid apparently had a battery of tests you could take, and this was a popular one. Why not? I clicked the link.

  The link took me to a page with the preamble that “Take this quiz to teach you, if you don’t already know, whether you’re Dominant or submissive.” Apparently Dominants got capital letters but submissives were strictly lower case. It went on, “Discover whether you are you a top or bottom, Master or slave, etc.”

  Below the text was a big green button, indicating “Next.” So I clicked it, sensing that my proclivity toward “even-steven” would not be an option.

  The first question asked if I thought of myself as a Dominant, switch, submissive or the ever-decisive “unsure.”

  My initial impulse was to answer “switch,” but that implied that I could be both Dominant and submissive at will. So I decisively selected “unsure.”

  Question 2: Have you ever had sex? Next.

  Question 3 asked if I liked sex best on top or on the bottom. Well, that would be bottom. Being on top didn’t feel as good. But did that mean I was submissive?

  The next set of questions were about who orders food at a restaurant, who decides what we’re doing or where we’re going, who manages the money, cooks, initiates physical pleasure, cleans up after sex, controls the remote, does the grocery shopping, drives the car, etc. My answers always seemed to veer toward “it depends.” A few questions clearly hit my no-way-o-meter such as, “Your partner insists that you can only hang out with the opposite sex when he or she is with you.” The really telling question asked whether I liked to be tied or up not. Where was the middle road for that? I couldn’t choose, “Can I just watch?” Or “How about we flip a coin?”

  The final question was no slacker either. “Are you living your life by your own rules? A) Yes; B) No.”

  I thought about this for a moment. Was I? Part of me answered a resounding, YES, while another part hesitated. But I thought about the sniveler Neal4U and realized how much I didn’t want to sound like that. After all, nobody was making me do anything, so I channeled Mistress Em, and confidently clicked “Yes” and then “Submit” to get my results. The timer spun for only a few moments and the results loaded into the browser window.

  The results page displayed one big word across the top: “Subassertive.” Below the title was an explanation that indicated I was neither Dominant nor submissive. Neither top nor bottom. I could play both roles, but did not identify with either.

  Oddly enough, the results indicated that I had scored more dominant than 81% of the other people who had taken the quiz. Which gave me the sense that there were a few dominant lions prowling around in a world of submissive bunnies. I was the prickly hedgehog that wanted to be neither predator nor prey.

  Chapter 8: Chocolate Donuts and Emoticons

  The alarm rang at 6:00 a.m., interrupting an angst-filled dream in which Mick Jagger had volunteered to sing backup for me. I had apparently been feeling shaky on the lyrics for my first solo concert, and he had offered to help out. I liked the idea that he would help me out and it never occurred to me (in the dream, that is) that he might upstage me. We were just good pals.

  I don’t remember when I first started dreaming about famous people—it was years and years ago. Granted they are never about people I am really interested in, but instead the likes of Mick Jagger, Michael Jackson, Tom Cruise, and Demi Moore. Why don’t I have dreams about Viggo Mortensen in full Lord of the Rings regalia, sweeping me off to some spectacular castle on his noble steed? Now that would be a dream! Still, these folks are rich and famous. I guess I aspire to be a secret celebrity-in-training—something I definitely keep to myself.

  The house was pitch-black as I slowly sat up in bed. I made my way to the bathroom where a steamy shower soon brought me up to normal speed. By the time I hit the chilly kitchen, I was racing through my bowl of cereal and flying out the door in search of the free warmth of the office.

  Climbing into the Jeep, I fired up the engine and rolled out onto the dark, deserted street. The misty morning air was the not quite dry, not quite rainy wetness of the typical Seattle winter day. I merged into the sluggish stream of traffic that edged forward with polite Northwest sub silentio. No one honks. I remember seeing an official traffic sign in a Manhattan neighborhood “No Honking, $300 fine.” No need for that in Seattle. We don’t honk. We don’t jaywalk.

  But we do apparently have sex. I wondered if our politeness had resulted in a kinder, gentler BDSM community. Were we more laid back and relaxed? Was our dominance less dominant? Was “subassertive” just another way of saying I was an unassertive, lily-livered, mousy, paper tiger of a dominatrix? Was I the best the Northwest had to offer?

  When I arrived at work around 7:30 a.m., my boss was already at his desk. He gave a silent salute and went back to work, as we rarely spoke before 9:00. We both needed our private time.

  I liked arriving early, before the cacophony of phone calls and rapid-fire keyboarding filled the air. No one else in our department was around. In fact, it was so quiet that I heard the heater kick on with its sultry, breathless whoosh. I strategically rolled my chair to the side of my cubical that received the strongest gust while still allowing me to peruse my computer. There I started to thaw, dreaming of the day I could afford my first car with heated seats.

  The morning’s headlines held no surprises. The world appeared to be chugging along at its usual state of slow decay—no ecological, economic or terrorist catastrophe had occurred overnight to signal the first of the Last Days. I read through the new email that had come in overnight—a few news feeds nearly buried by spam.

  Halfway down the list, I noticed an email from Frank. I clicked it, half hoping that he was on the pursuit again, but he was just providing additional information for the story.


  “Here are the names of a couple of local dommes and a sub with some insights into the Salon. Also a therapist who specializes in fetish. You might find them helpful.”

  There was a short description of each woman and what he thought would be of value. He reiterated his offer to go along as a guide. I silently reiterated my promise not to ask him.

  I hadn’t planned on doing any more fetish research per se. The story didn’t require it, and The Sun Times would never publish it. But I was curious to talk to someone who actually did fetish for a living. And while Mistress Maven might be at the Salon tomorrow night, I doubted she would have the time to talk to me anyway. Perhaps it would be better to check out the women Frank suggested.

  I shot off an email to one submissive, Pixie Caldwell, right away. The whole idea of a submissive—quiet, passive, obedient—seemed the least frightening. I also assumed that she would be the candidate most likely to share secrets.

  I was particularly intrigued by the therapist, a Dr. Rachel Steiner. A quick look at her website showed she was a “kink-aware therapist” and AASECT certified. This, I learned from further reading, stood for American Association of Sex Educators, Counselors and Therapists. At least she was certified by something approaching academia. Images of sweet little old Dr. Ruth formed in my mind.

  I doubted she would be in her office yet so I avoided my initial impulse to give her a call. Instead, I outlined my questions and described my upcoming outing in an email, so she would be thoroughly briefed on what I wanted. I finished the note by asking if she had time for a short interview later today or tomorrow. As I clicked “Send,” I wondered whether she would be interested or put off by the idea of an interview. Some people love the press; others despise it.

  Satisfied that I had scratched one task off my list, I got up and made a pot of tea. Friday donuts would appear as soon as the assigned staffer arrived. I’d brought them last week. The bowl of cereal would tide me over until the chocolate glazed made their rounds.

  At just after 9:00 a.m., Kenner emailed back my finger-pulling data transfer article with some edits. The email said simply, “My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go.” And then there was a little smiley face.

  I wondered what Shakespeare would have made of emoticons. Or the Bible for that matter. Instead of “Jesus wept,” there would just be #:-(.

  It was almost lunchtime when I finished the edits to Kenner’s satisfaction. I sent the final draft and was just getting ready to pursue some food when an email arrived from the therapist. A quick click showed that she was press-friendly and very interested in meeting in the afternoon. Two o’clock sharp. She knew about the Slutterati Salon and attended performances from time to time as a guest of the owners, so she’d be willing to fill me in on preparatory details.

  The prospect of an interview with a sex therapist left me a little faint, and I had a hard time concentrating after lunch. What would a sex therapist think of me, anyway? Would she imagine me naked? Having sex? Would my suppressed sexuality be somehow written on my face or in the way I crossed my legs? I kept rereading my questions, feeling more and more self-conscious, until apparently I looked so flustered that Kenner stopped at my desk.

  His large form loomed over me, eclipsing the ceiling lights. From his initial silence, I knew he was trying to decide whether to approach me as a friend or as The Boss. He always worried about me, and perhaps with good reason, after all the ups and downs I’d been through with Frank.

  “You look a little on edge. Is everything all right? Are you nervous about this assignment or did you sign up for another date with he-who-must-not-be-named?”

  “I’m fine. Honest.” I gave him my best “happy” look, which elicited a grimace.

  “That never works, you know.” But he smiled.

  I waved him away. “Shoo. I’m working.”

  I tried to focus on reading my email, but I could feel him giving me the stink eye. “Emily, why don’t you go home? Or shopping. Or something.”

  I met his gaze. I could tell he was concerned, but I didn’t think he really wanted to know what was going on with me. We rarely talked about what we did outside the office. Well … except for all the conversations about Frank. And I certainly didn’t want to discuss the fact that I was speaking to him again. Nor did I want to tell him about my afternoon appointment with the sex shrink. But maybe he was right; maybe I should take off.

  I sighed. “OK, you win. I’ve got a few more emails to answer and then I’ll go. Honest.”

  After giving me one more assessing glance, Kenner nodded. “Good. Just promise me you won’t be consorting with the devil over the weekend.”

  I laughed, trying to steer him away from further questioning. “I promise.” But an image of the Biblical serpent smiling at Eve kept surfacing in my mind. I wondered whether she had suspected the serpent when it offered up the apple all those eons ago.

  Maybe she had felt a little antsy, too.

  Chapter 9: Sex Shrink

  Dr. Steiner’s office was located on Capitol Hill. Like Rome, Seattle had been built on the seven hills. Of that group of seven, Capitol Hill was the only one that managed to garner the nickname “The Hill” without the added descriptor; just as Mount Rainier, which dominated the southern skyline, got the generic moniker of “The Mountain,” and the ever popular Pike Place Market above the waterfront was called just “The Market.” If you could triangulate “The Mountain,” “The Hill” and “The Market,” you were in beautiful downtown Seattle.

  “The Hill,” which rose directly east of downtown, was home to a crazy mix of multi-millionaires, single gays (the older ones moved to the islands), and students. Old stately mansions were in abundance, and Dr. Steiner’s office was located in one that had been converted to offices for alternative medicine types—chiropractors, acupuncturists, naturopaths, and, apparently, sex therapists.

  I squeezed the Jeep into a small Doris Day parking spot right out front. The house was a three-story manor that had an air of refurbished elegance about it. Nothing even vaguely sleazy or sordid. A massive wall of rhododendrons surrounded the perfectly buzz-cut lawn. I could imagine, come spring, the place blossoming with brilliant color.

  I grabbed my notes, feeling a twinge of disappointment that my worst fears hadn’t been realized. I had expected something different, something tawdry.

  The rain was pelting down, hard as BB’s, so I dashed across the lawn and up the set of curved stone steps to seek shelter on the porch. Several small brass plaques were mounted next to a line of doorbells, one for each occupant. I pressed the one for Dr. Steiner and, within a few heartbeats, heard a young man’s voice ask my name and ring me in. Only as I swung the door open did I notice the small camera mounted overhead. I smiled brightly, trying to wipe any trace of sexual deviance off my face.

  Once inside, small signs pointed to the various offices. Dr. Steiner was up the grand marble stairway to the left. The door into her rooms was open and I could see a young man at the reception desk. He gestured with an air of eternal patience, and I wondered what drug he was on.

  “Please close the door behind you.” He had a Hollywood smile, short blond hair, big brown eyes and a thick British accent. Everything in his dress and mannerism said “gay” in that Queer Eye way so often confused with Euro-trash. Or so said all my gay friends. I decided to reserve judgment.

  “Dr. Steiner will be with you in a moment. Please take a seat.” He turned back to his computer monitor.

  No one else was in the library-ish waiting room. The room seemed too large for a waiting room and I couldn’t help wondering if maybe the doctor held intimate cocktail parties here. A giant mahogany armoire at the far end of the room looked like it would hold a nice array of alcoholic beverages and elegant crystal goblets. Perhaps her clients all met up here for a little pre-party flirting before heading out for an evening at a private sex club. Maybe she offered guided tours. I wondered, with an inner titter, if I could get a
n invitation.

  Two mission-style leather couches and several heavy oak chairs were set at angles around the room. Matching end tables piled with magazines further divided the seating arrangements. I walked from one table to another, looking for the latest copy of People. I couldn’t bring myself to actually subscribe to it, but I read it every chance I got—hair salons, doctors’ offices, friends’ bathrooms.

  Unfortunately People was nowhere to be found. The magazines were mostly scientific journals, seniors’ magazines and a few National Geographics thrown in for titillation. I picked up the latest and sat down on the closest couch, which was chilly and made gaseous sounds whenever I moved.

  I was just getting into an article on sharks when Dr. Steiner’s inner-office door opened. A short balding man backed out of the room, nodding rather sadly. “Yes, of course. I’ll practice.” He closed the door very quietly, paused, then turned and mumbled to the receptionist as he ambled by, “Next week, Zach.”

  The receptionist—Zach—glanced up, giving a rerun of the absolument parfait smile. “Next week, Mr. Dobson.”

  As I watched Mr. Dobson leave, I could only wonder what sort of “practice” a sex therapist would prescribe. Nothing about Mr. Dobson seemed particularly sexy. In fact, he looked as though he had been denied once too often. And I wondered who might possibly participate in said “practice.”

  When no one else came out of the room, I went back to my shark article. It was another ten minutes before the inner sanctum opened again. As the door swung wide, a very tall woman filled the doorframe. She stood at least six feet and was very thin in a rich, emaciated sort of way. It was hard to tell how old she was—maybe forty or forty-five. She was dressed in a conservative black suit.