Despite all of this, I still felt like I had no idea what I was doing—but I was learning. I watched videos online, joined FetLife, found a mentor through Twitter, and asked questions. Nashville has a strong underground D/s and swinging culture, but the more I researched, the more I knew I’d never join any clubs or ask to be invited as a guest to explore my options. Through FetLife, I learned that the local men who were masters or dominants were almost all white, and the language in their profiles frequently set off my internal racist alarms. I saw one man with a picture of a Confederate flag belt buckle he used for flogging. The most popular local club, or “professional dungeon,” lists in its code of conduct that “respect should always be accorded to every individual,” but when I’d see the expected attendees for gatherings, I’d cringe at how few people of color seemed to be present. There were some Black men who were doms, but based on their profiles, they were masters of primarily white women. I didn’t feel like I’d be safe or respected if I tried to attend one of the gatherings—not as someone new to the life, and definitely not as a Black woman.
I tried to find local Black women dommes, but the majority of the Black women I found were subs and slaves, who subjected themselves to race play—being called “nigger,” or acting as maids or breeders. The few dommes I did see were fairly hardcore, their profiles filled with images of them in latex and stacked heels, whips gleaming in their hands. I was too intimidated to approach them for mentorship. And I knew that wasn’t the kind of domme I wanted to be.
So I lived online, researching how to handle male subs. I asked my male friends to tell me ways they’d like to be punished, if they would allow themselves the freedom of being submissive. Because that’s one of the many things I’d discovered as my relationship with Baby Sub continued: All he had to do was wait for me to give him instructions, wait to serve. There’s something very freeing about that. Meanwhile, I had to put him on a schedule: when to wake up, when to contact me, when to go to bed. I had to tell him what to wear, distribute punishments and rewards, figure out ways he could be of service. Imagine being a teacher and creating lesson plans, then grading all day, every day, without break. It was slightly exhausting; his need to be controlled was controlling me. Being someone’s mistress was more work than I’d anticipated, and I was no longer sure it was sustainable.
In fact, I started to feel more like his mother than his domme. It reminded me a bit of those hetero relationships where the man conveniently acts helpless so the woman has to do everything at home. I resented having to chart out every moment of his life, especially considering I was still figuring out my own. He was trying to steer me into a 24/7 total power exchange, and I didn’t want that responsibility. I resented that yet another man, despite his claim of submissiveness, was trying to manipulate me.
Soon our schedules were in conflict, and seeing each other became a chore. He began to throw more tantrums, upset at the lack of time we were spending together. My knee-jerk reaction, habit from my more traditional relationships, was to give him what he wanted. Then I’d remember, I’m the domme here, not this pouty brat who needs more attention than I can give. I didn’t have to put up with his attempts to manipulate me. So I told him to move on and find someone more willing to devote the time he clearly needed.
Since then, I’ve had relationships that followed more traditional gender roles, but playing a domme unleashed parts of myself that can’t be bottled up again. I’m much more confident voicing displeasure, as well as satisfaction. I’ve also learned that when people call it a lifestyle, they really mean it. It’s so much more than tying someone up or wanting to be spanked. It can consume you, but it’s also a responsibility.
When I moved to New York in 2017, I was still lurking at FetLife, but I couldn’t see myself pursuing domme life more seriously. My Twitter mentor told me I’m horrible at establishing boundaries, and she was right. Baby Sub and I sometimes hung out in public, giving the appearance that we were a “real couple,” and letting Baby Sub think he had a more significant status than he actually did. It was a rookie mistake.
I deactivated my OkCupid account, feeling like it had served its purpose. I haven’t talked to Baby Sub in years. I joined Feeld, which is hailed as the kinky dating app, and I’ve had quite a few good times as a result. I don’t think I can ever get enough of having men come to my home, remain silent, eat me out as long as I want, and then leave without any expectation of reciprocity. It truly makes me feel like a goddess.
In the language of the community, I’m a switch—someone who can be dominant or submissive, depending on the need. I want to be worshipped; then I want him to pull my hair. Sometimes I want to beg please, but even as I make my voice go all baby girl, I know I still have the power to make him lose himself from a few breathy words. And when he is no longer in control because of something I said against his ear or because I hiked my leg around his waist, it fills me up so much I can feel myself glowing inside. Dominant, submissive, mistress or baby girl, the power always returns to me.
Acknowledgments
When I would visit home, after moving away and finding myself stuck in a practical career I hated, my aunt Gwen would ask me, “Nicki, when are you writing a book? Where’s your book, Nick?” Here it is, Gwen. Thank you.
Mama, I bring you into everything I do because a love like yours should be immortalized, and I want everyone to know there is no me without you.
To my sister and brother: I love y’all beyond thought. I’m so thankful I have you on either side of me to keep me standing.
For my father: I know you tried. I’m trying, too.
Thank you to everyone at the 2017 BuzzFeed Emerging Writers fellowship program—the editors and my cohort—Jennifer H. Choi, Alessa Dominguez, and Frederick McKindra. You helped me realize this book was possible.
Kima Jones and the 2017 Jack Jones Retreat were such a blessing to me. I shared one of the first chapters I’d written for this book at the retreat and met some incredible writers there. Take me back to New Mexico!
I don’t know how to thank my agent Kiele Raymond or my editor Maddie Caldwell enough. I missed so many deadlines! But you both stuck with me and made me feel like I was writing something worthwhile.
Thank you to my copy editors, to Jacqueline Young, and to the cover artist, Adriana Bellet, and everyone else at Grand Central Publishing who helped get this book into readers’ hands.
My beta readers! Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedules to give me helpful feedback. I was so worried that I’d written something only I could understand, and you assured me that was not the case. Kalenda Eaton, Cynthia Harris, Danny Lavery, Al Letson, and Rashad Mobley, you are all golden shimmers in my life.
Cynthia, you gave me the push I needed to write a certain chapter, and I’m glad you did. You have been there to witness the moment when I started to believe in my own magic. I don’t know if there is such a thing as a Bad Bitch Doula, but that’s what you are.
Michael Arceneaux, Keah Brown, Ashley C. Ford, Roxane Gay, Saeed Jones, Jesmyn Ward—your work has cleared a path for me, and I am forever grateful.
Bim Adewunmi, Alisha Cheek, Tracy Clayton, Dria Roland…I’m so proud of each of you. Y’all know how I hate the mushiness, but I have learned so much from each of you, and I am ready to be a part of your World Domination Committees. Please put me in charge of the skinny men.
Nicole Cliffe! You know what you’d done for me, and I think you’re incredible.
Keisha Dutes, Julia Furlan, Eleanor Kagan, Neena Pathak, Cher Vincent…you showed me I can be good at more than what I thought possible. You have changed my life. Thank you.
To all the Thirst Buckets out there…I was hosting Thirst Aid Kit while working on this book, and sharing those thirsty moments with you often helped me stay sane. Sometimes I would think that my work was insignificant, but you’d send a thoughtful email or a shamelessly parched tweet, and turn my thoughts around. You are a true joy in my life, and I miss you.
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nbsp; If you do not see your name here or any mention of you in the book, please do not take it personally. Maybe you’ll show up in the next memoir or I’ll write a fictionalized version of you into something else. I finished this book during a pandemic, and it was very stressful!
If any of the men I wrote about read this and want to talk, you can find me wherever you get your podcasts…but don’t.
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About the Author
Nichole Perkins is a writer from Nashville, Tennessee. She is a 2017 Audre Lorde Fellow at the inaugural Jack Jones Literary Arts Retreat and a 2017 BuzzFeed Emerging Writers Fellow. She is also a 2016 Callaloo Creative Writing Fellow for poetry. Nichole currently hosts This Is Good For You, a podcast about the ways we seek pleasure in life. She formerly co-hosted Thirst Aid Kit, a podcast about pop culture and desire, and was also a co-host of The Waves podcast at Slate, which looked at news and culture through a feminist lens. Her first collection of poetry, Lilith, but Dark, was published by Publishing Genius in July 2018.
Reading Group Guide
Discussion Questions
In “Fast,” how does Nichole see and feel that intimacy is a double-edged sword often turned against women? How has sex and desire shaped your life in terms of these dueling capacities?
In “A Woman Who Shouts,” how does Nichole negotiate her relationship with religion alongside the pressures of societal expectations and the judgment of the congregations she’s a part of? What does this say about how we each can navigate the world when faced with external pressures?
It took growing up for Nichole to recognize the abusive qualities of Kermit and Miss Piggy’s relationship. Reflecting on the pop culture you consumed as a child, what subliminal or explicit messaging do you think was passed on to you at an early age?
Nichole reflects on a number of past romantic relationships in the essay “White Boys.” Several of them taught her valuable lessons about what she is willing to put up with (or not), particularly as she experienced several racist incidents. How do these experiences speak to the difficulties and complexities of dating as a Black woman? What does that reveal about the prevalence of racism, and the failure of white allyship, in America more broadly?
Janet Jackson’s career and her public perception left lasting impressions on both Nichole and her mother, albeit very different ones. How is it possible that we each draw such disparate meanings? About her body, Nichole writes that “everyone saw what they wanted to see.” Could that be true of these pop culture artifacts as well?
In “Prince’s Girl,” Nichole writes that the titular artist was a “stranger [she] knew [she’d] never meet, but he knew [her].” What is so meaningful about feeling recognized or represented in the media we consume? How does this essay and the larger collection speak to the effects of a dearth of positive Black representation in pop culture?
Both with Hector and in reference to the Okayplayer message boards, Nichole explores the value of boundaries. Especially now, as the internet has become integral to every facet of our lives, why is it important to construct boundaries and determine limits? Likewise, how are they important in our real-life relationships?
Nichole says she finds power in a range of roles, from dominant to submissive, mistress to baby girl. What do you think is empowering about exploring such dynamics within sexuality generally and for women specifically? What restrictions are placed on the sexuality of Black women in particular that might complicate these power dynamics?
The popularity of true and fictionalized crime shows, podcasts, and books continues to grow, as Nichole illustrates on a micro level with the show Bones. What do you think attracted her to that show during a particularly dark period of her life? What do you think this says about our collective interest in crime?
In a number of her essays, Nichole touches on the importance of being seen in pop culture. Feeling seen by people, like her college classmates or Aunt C, seems to have made an equally significant impact on Nichole. Do you have anyone you think shaped the course of your life or sense of self in this way?
Nichole focuses on a number of pop culture touchstones throughout this collection, from Cheers to Prince, analyzing how they shaped her understanding of the world. What are a few cultural touchstones that likewise affected how you interact with our society and culture more broadly?
The title of the book is a line from “If I Was Your Girlfriend,” Nichole’s favorite Prince song, referenced in the chapter “Prince’s Girl.” Although she does not explicitly quote this line in her memoir, how do you think it represents the theme of the book and Nichole’s life overall?
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