Only her long, fuchsia-streaked, black hair seemed out of place. She wore it loose, which gave her a gothic mystique. The overall effect was a little disconcerting, as though Cher’s head had been grafted onto a young Ivanna Trump body.
She didn’t call me in, just stood there, smiling warmly. That, at least, was encouraging. Zach was the one who spoke. “You can go in now.” As if I couldn’t figure that out for myself.
As I walked toward her, I had the sense that she was sizing me up and disapproving of my height, weight and shoe/belt combination. I held out my hand, feeling a slight tingle as though I was passing it through a Star Trek force field. “Dr. Steiner. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
Handshakes say a lot about a person, or so I had once written in a Strange and Unusual article. Bone Crushers show insecurity. Limp Wrists are pessimistic (or recovering from hand surgery). The sheepish ones grab only your fingers.
Dr. Steiner was a dominating Control Freak. There was nothing wishy-washy or faint-hearted about her handshake. She gripped my hand firmly and then turned her wrist over confidently so that my palm went belly-up.
“Ms. Royce. Please come in.” Her voice had a cultured tone, with a velvety articulation that was slightly mesmerizing. She held on to my hand as she led me into the office, releasing it only when the door had closed. Her touch was eerie, lasting a little too long for business-like, but not long enough to really be called invasive. I wondered if I was being tested. I had a psychology professor in college who liked to stand inside your personal space, just to see how you’d behave. It always made me a bit seasick. The feeling with Dr. Steiner was the same, and I was glad to get a little distance.
She gestured near a large picture window toward three over-stuffed black leather chairs that formed a triangle in the corner of her office. Rain blurred the naked branches of a large deciduous tree outside. None of the chairs appeared to be her official spot, and I guessed that this was another test. Which chair would I take—the one with the view of the tree, the one with its back to it, or the one from which one could either look or not look? I opted for the intermediate position and sat down to more gaseous leather. My favorite childhood story had been “Goldilocks.” Maybe the story should have been “Goldilocks and the Three Chairs.” And this was either my baby bear tactic of “This one is just right” or a symptom of an indecisive streak too deep to fathom.
Dr. Steiner selected the chair next to the window. The hazy light gave her a shimmering hair halo and cast her face in shadow, making her seem even more mysterious. I wondered if she had chosen that chair on purpose. Regardless, I felt out-maneuvered, which was a pattern worthy of contemplation. After all, I had often ended up, in fetish parlance, the bottom in relationships. I had made choices without really thinking things through.
Dr. Steiner smoothed her suit jacket and looked at me expectantly as I pulled out my pen and tapped “record” on my iPhone app. I’ve never been much for preamble when it comes to interviewing people. A good interview flows from the interchange of the questions and answers—information that often neither person knows is there. Some people want the questions ahead of time, but those interviews are usually stilted and dull. Rarely any surprises.
With a click of my pen, I launched into my list of questions. “As I said in my email, I’m doing a story on The Slutterati Salon and a friend gave me your name as a place to start my research. Can you tell me your connection to the Salon and if there is anything especially interesting about it I should know?”
Dr. Steiner smiled slightly. Clearly, thinking about the Salon gave her pleasure. “I’ve been involved with the good people there since its inception. I know the artist who hosts the parties. Well, the parties used to be private before he opened them to the public. Sometimes they still hold private functions for the regulars. And some of my customers are regulars. Let’s just say that our businesses are sympathetic.”
I was curious how connected they were. “Do you find customers there, or do they find you?”
Her smile dimmed a little. “I don’t typically discuss how my clients find me. Suffice to say that there is sometimes a connection.”
Although unsure what to make of that, I shrugged internally and started to continue. She stopped me with a raised finger. “As to the second part of your question—about something interesting to know—that could lead to a very long conversation. I take it you haven’t been.”
I shook my head. “Not yet. I only first heard of it yesterday, when the assignment came.”
She nodded. “The Salon, as we call it, is a gathering place for artists or for those who enjoy art that blurs the line between media—theater, painting, dance, song, craft, poetry—sometimes all at the same time. And they most certainly color outside the lines. While other venues may promote the physicality of sex, the Salon offers temptation that appeals to the spiritual, emotional, intellectual and the physical. It has the allure of fetish, of secrets unspoken, of taboo.”
There was something sinuous about the way she spoke, as though just broaching this topic made her a little steamy. The atmosphere was awkward enough that I wanted to change the subject. But I’d come to ask about the Salon and ask I would.
“Can you give me some insight into why people go to The Salon? I mean, what are they looking for?”
“Oh, there are many reasons, but I guess I would say that most want to watch or participate in a scene.”
“A ‘scene’? Scene as in the alternative culture sense of the word?” I was thinking of how people wanted to be part of “the scene, man.”
“No.” She let the word hang in the air for a moment, maybe weighing her words and what to say to a newbie like me. “No, a ‘scene’ is more like a play, or play-acting, where two or more people act out a fantasy. There are all kinds of ‘scenes,’ and the Salon encourages people to explore them. ‘Scenes’ there aren’t typically about sex. They are about taboo, power exchange, or any of a number of, let’s say ‘less acceptable’ social behavior that people want to experience.”
“For instance? Can you give me some examples?” I had my ideas, but they were just that, ideas or better yet, nightmares.
The doctor tilted her head as if considering. “In general, in a Dominant/submission scene, the Dom forces the sub to do what the sub really wants to do. They create an exchange of power; the sub submits and in return the Dom gives him or her exactly what she wants. What the sub wants, well, that could be any one of a thousand things—to be bound or spanked is very common. You’ll probably see scenes of this sort at The Salon. Of course, scenes elsewhere can be much more extreme.
I didn’t want to go there. The tying up and spanking seemed plenty. I steered the conversation back to safe ground.
“So people go to the Salon to either watch or participate in scenes that somehow resonate with their sexual proclivities.”
“It isn’t necessarily sexual. That’s a stereotype. But it is safe to say that there will be sexy scenes taking place.”
I nodded, feeling like I needed to ask about fetishes. “Your website says that you are ‘fetish-friendly.’ Do your clients come to make peace with their fetishes or get rid of them?”
Dr. Steiner arched one perfect crescent of an eyebrow. Suddenly she was all business. “Get rid of them? Ms. Royce, a fetish cannot be cured, if that is what you are suggesting. A fetish is most often a fundamental part of a person’s sexual identity, like homosexuality. These people can’t be cured, for they are not diseased. People come to me to help them survive in a judgmental and intolerant world.”
My insides constricted at her tone. In our family, you only spoke someone’s name when you were angry with them. Emily Royce, where are your manners?
I sensed I had offended her, though I suspected this might not be difficult to do. I plowed onward. “Do any of your patients wish they could rid themselves of a fetish?”
She finally smiled. Slightly. “Oh, of course. But they come to understand such issues very quickly. There�
��s no reason for false hope. There’s nothing wrong with a fetish and many more people have them than will admit it. Sometimes people just need to augment the actuality of their fetish.”
She undoubtedly viewed anyone who sat in this chair as a sexual denial-in-waiting. For what seemed like the fiftieth time since Kenner assigned this story, I wondered what dark fetish would rise to the surface from my repressed depths.
“What’s the most common type of fetish you see?”
She leaned back in her chair and, with her elbows on the overstuffed arms, steepled her fingers in front of her chin. “Clothing fetishes—shoes, corsets, gloves, uniforms—are the most prevalent. The preference is for leather, spandex, vinyl and nylon, etc.” She shifted in her chair, looking a little bored. “But people who come to me often have more extreme fetishes than the average person. Inclinations that tend toward pain inflicted either upon themselves or others, and issues around fear and control.”
There had been no shortage of that in the sites I had visited online. I didn’t really understand why people enjoyed pain, and I said as much to the doctor.
“Pain and fear can be very compelling. Fear provokes physiological reactions. For some, the moment of relief after fear is the most erotic. For others, the thrill revolves around the love received after the hurt.”
I tried to imagine Frank attempting to inflict me with anything remotely resembling pain and I had to stifle a laugh. But then, maybe it wasn’t only physical. I’d certainly had my fair share of emotional pain bestowed by His Truly. “So, can pain be emotional instead of physical?”
She gave me a scathing boil-the-idiot look.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I backpedaled. “I just wondered, because there can be so much emotional pain in a relationship. Is that a form of fetish?”
“Is there so much emotional pain in relationships?” She looked at me intently. When I didn’t answer, she continued, “The question one should ask is whether one enjoys the pain or not.”
I didn’t think I liked pain, but “one” might make an argument that I did. At least my friends, family and boss would have given a big “maybe” to the idea—considering all my on and off whining about Frank. I decided to skip down to questions about BDSM. Bunglesome. Discombobulated. Self-conscious. Muddled.
“I’m curious about Dominants and submissives. Do they share defining traits that make them easy to spot in a crowd?”
She separated her steepled fingers and leaned forward as though interested in the conversation for the first time. “In other words, can I tell if you are a Domme or a sub?”
I twitched in my chair. “Uh. I guess.” I didn’t want to look into her eyes, afraid I’d give something away, but then I felt stupid for the thought. I sat up, giving her my best regard sévère.
This made her laugh. “No, Ms. Royce, I can’t tell if you are one or the other. Some people will tell you they have this skill, though I’ve never met anyone who genuinely could. Not with any consistency. But, if I were to hazard a guess, I would say you suffer from assertiveness-deficiency.”
She acted like this would mean something to me. I asked her to clarify.
Nodding her head—as if this lack of comprehension on my part was a symptom—she explained. “A person may have dominant tendencies, but be confused or hesitant to take full control. This is typical of younger women. I could recommend a book on assertiveness if you are interested in some self-appraisal.”
Well that jived with the online test results from last night—that I was assertive but held on to some degree of submissiveness. That I did not identify with either. Back to even-steven. Did I want to be more dominant?
I was hesitant to ask the larger question, but I sensed that I wasn’t the first woman in this chair to have this issue. She looked at me intently, an X-ray vision stare that made me feel extremely vulnerable. This woman could somehow see into me, to that hidden person—the one I did not wish, under any circumstances, to reveal. But she saw that person anyway. A short conversation ensued. Not one with words, but that rare exchange that occurs when someone looks both at you and through you. Her eyes seemed to say, “It is time you stood up and faced yourself. Reveal that hidden person. Take control of your own power. For once.
There was something very strong about that “for once,” and I wondered how she could possibly know. But there it was.
I sat there for only a minute or two, frozen like a Star Trek crewman stuck in the Enterprise’s transporter beam—unable to budge, but knowing full well that I was being conveyed on a molecular level to somewhere entirely new.
The moment passed and the world sprang back into normal focus. Dr. Steiner was still looking at me, with her clear, direct, no nonsense look. “In the world of BDSM, you can’t stand on the fence. You can be a switch—moving from the submissive to the Dominant and back, but you can never be indecisive or wishy-washy. This is all about power. The giving or taking of power. You are too much of a controller to relinquish and too shy to actually take command.”
It wasn’t a question. She was giving me her executive summary. I could do nothing but nod. It was all true.
“If it is any consolation, the vast majority of Dommes don’t emerge until they reach their mid-thirties. It can take years of work to integrate conflicting inner thoughts and feelings.” She smiled. “I’m here if you ever need to talk about it.”
The rest of the interview was fairly uneventful and ended with Dr. Steiner handing me a printout of her recommended books. From the list, I had the sense she must see a lot of Dominatrix clients in need of continuing education credits. I took the proffered list and thanked her for her time, making sure as I exited her office to make no parting comments that might be misconstrued by whoever was waiting their turn while seated in the chair version of ménage à trois.
Chapter 10: Books and Flowers
The rain had let up by the time I came out of Dr. Steiner’s office and got into my car. A patch of milky blue was peeking out through the gray clouds like a robin’s egg nestled in a basket of dirty cotton.
I wasn’t in any hurry to go home to a cold house, so I decided to take the book list to my favorite literary shrine—Third Place Books—to see if they had any of the titles Dr. Steiner had suggested. I wasn’t sure whether to buy into the idea that I had some sort of assertiveness deficiency, but there was no harm in doing a little research. The list contained about fifteen titles, all dealing with improving assertiveness or self-esteem. All seemed geared toward women. A few examples:
Civilized Assertiveness for Women: Communication with Backbone ... not Bite;
Stat: Special Techniques in Assertiveness Training for Women;
How to Be an Assertive (Not Aggressive) Woman in Life, in Love, and on the Job.
The implication was that women needed special guidance in assertiveness or else they would become aggressive bitches. And while I had a notion that this was true, given the impressive lineup of bitchy women I knew, I wondered if women were being secretly brainwashed into believing that men were properly assertive. Asshole Bob et al. Though maybe there were books like Civilized Assertiveness for Men: Communication with Bite … not Backhand. I had my doubts.
I used to have an ongoing argument with a male co-worker who insisted that men had to be aggressive because they had egos to deal with. Women on the other hand didn’t have egos, so we could be happily passive. And perhaps I was being passive when I didn’t punch him in the face.
The bookstore was only a short drive from The Hill and, besides, it was on the way home. Third Place was a sanctuary for me—a homey collection of new and used books with that heady aroma of moldy pages and fresh ink. Chairs were scattered throughout the place, plus they had free wireless and ample amounts of tea. Their book selection was eclectic so I doubted that all these titles would be on the shelf, but I always managed to find what was really important, even if I’d been looking for something else.
As was typical of a Friday night in Seattle, the parking lot w
as nearly full as I drove in. I nudged into a spot at the end of the row and passed the line-up of smokers standing outside. They tended to huddle around the very out-of-place Maharishi-style fountain on sunny days and, on rainy days, under the awning where they could read the pin-up board listing just about anything imaginable for sale or rent.
Racks of forlorn bargain books sat on either side of the front door. I never saw anyone perusing these books and I felt sorry for them, sitting like homeless people begging at intersections. I always felt tempted to slip a dollar inside the cover of one at random in hopes that the book would take on a certain glamour and entice someone to rescue it from the stack and take it home.
I stood at the rack and ran my fingers over the spines as I read the titles. One felt rough with age as I plucked it from the shelf and turned it over to read the title. Bottoming for Beginners. I felt a little shiver of serendipity; something that one should never shy away from. The back flap read “the classic text on how to be the bottom of your dreams.” OK. That was creepy. I paged to the Table of Contents where I saw the header, “Where Is Your Power?” That was a very good question. On impulse, I tucked the book under my arm and made my way inside. Something in the book called me, and I wasn’t going to ignore an enigmatic omen, even a second-hand one.
It took me a good five minutes of wandering around the bookstore before I found the self-help section. I just smiled and shook my head at the three clerks who offered to assist, but, if I couldn’t find the self-help section myself, I suffered from larger problems than even Dr. Steiner had intimated. Of course, asking for help might have been more assertive, but there was no need to rush into things.
The section was in the far corner of the store, closest to the restrooms. Half of the shelves were self-help, while the other half represented every religion imaginable. Two people were already ensconced in the stuffed chairs in front of the stack, clearly deeply involved in their own personal healing. I refrained from trying to read the covers of their books. Self help and religious study both require a certain degree of privacy. I hoped they would accord me the same courtesy.
Breakfast in Stilettos Page 5