Joy and Terror with My Dominatrix |
Issue 7
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I
Pushing aside all my dark emotional garbage, I met someone. She looked like a young, gamine Patti Smith and sounded like a sarcastic Lauren Bacall. Her first name was Eva. At a mutual friend’s party I asked her, “You know that last line in Kit Marlowe’s poem: ‘Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?’ well that is us.” She laughed her explosive laugh and stated the obvious: “That’s the most fucking pretentious pick-up line I have ever heard in my life.” But it was painfully true and painfully clear: un coup de foudre, for the French, first sight love is poetically labeled as a “lightning strike!”
My byline was Gregory: another thirty two year old, Caucasian, cisgender, crackerjack writer from the Midwest, being mid-height, mid-weight and with a murderous ambition. I presented a deceptive boyish charm, mussed up hairstyle and Lennon circular glasses. If you saw me on the street you would not wonder “Who?” but shudder with fake horror to the diagnosis “To what end?” When I first arrived in New York City it was a summer of sadistic heat and sultry humidity. It was all unbelievably tropical and visually overwhelming. So after work, I would wander the streets till darkness made everything cool and electric. I knew no one, but I was friendly with a sideway glance and slanting smile, savory and sweet. Alone, I had a hunger disguised as love. Then I met her, she was a whimsical delight and other sterner stuff. II
Eva was a twenty-eight year old artist with a goofy kid’s smile and her right incisor was slightly crooked. She looked tall, but she was only five foot nine and so thin, she was gaunt. Eva was one inch taller than me and she got a bang out of having that dominate position. This woman had a hedonistic shag hair style that imperfectly framed her beautiful angular face. Those dark brown eyes, dark jagged brows, dark smooth hair and dark hidden thoughts were exquisite temptations for me. But, she dressed kinda dumb: everyday just the same downtown art worker uniform of a baggy black t-shirt, slim fit blue jeans, lace-up Dr. Martens boots and her coquettish smirk.
I was amazed by Eva’s uncensored and quicksilver mind, with obscene and sarcastic retorts to any of my pretentious comments and asides. Her mystifying artwork and assemblies were self-labeled as mixed media vandalism. She was another anorexic, badass, difficult woman to love and another impossible, convoluted puzzle to solve. The French label this uncontrolled affliction of the heart as crazy love, L’AmourFou. |
CHRISTIAN BJONE
is an architect and writer living in New York City. He is a graduate of the University of Illinois Chicago and a masters from Princeton University. His book “ Art +Architecture , strategies in collaboration” has been translated into German. His book “ Philip Johnson and his Mischief” was canceled in its translation into Mandarin because of its Homosexual biographic content. |
III
Like all artists, Eva had a second job to pay the rent. Not the usual, hers was as a Dominatrix. You had to present a distinct brand identity in that crowded BDSM profession. So she devised a counter-cultural mythical character that dressed, not in the standard leather bondage and latex fetish ware, but in an elegant, whimsical and fashionable composition: black satin ball gown, black chiffon collar, matching opera gloves, delicate lace eye mask and high heels with her long hair curled into a chignon. What a heretic! What a heretic? And yes, the glossy black lipstick and nail polish looked great with her pale skin.
Eva invented a long and convoluted personal back story for this Dominatrix that came along with a withering attitude against the patriarchy and against the father figure. Whose father, I wondered? I marveled at the extreme magic of the artist in her self-creation, Pygmalion in front of her vanity mirror, creating her darker, kinkier self. The maestro as the fairy tale Snow White, imagining her symmetric, true self as the Evil Queen, reflected in the cracked Magic Mirror.
Eva greeted her guest with a fallen angel sneer and scowl, in a torture chamber painted entirely in the darkest black. No sex was involved just the verbal abuse of rich masochistic men, purchasing some cathartic suffering. Her special script, of female authority, established power divisions not of the typical “dominant” and “submissive” but, one closer to that of an avenging archangel and her supplicant in prayer. She forced her spiritual beggar, not patient, not slave, not client, not john and not victim, to lie down prostrate on the floor, kissing the cold concrete. Then she would circle him taunting and screaming customized obscenities. “Hopeless impotent failure, godless empty soul, pathetic and foolish little man” she condemns.
At the climax of this sad comedy routine (S&C), she slowly and with great calculation, steps on each of his fingers with her heels: glorious, poisoned pleasure. Yelps and moans were the soundtrack to this performance, with more squishy sounds than cracking bones. “Tell me, tell me, I am yours” he begs. Many of the men uncontrollably wet their pants or orgasmically exploded. Accounting for the dark sperm stains on the dungeon’s concrete floor. “You are filthy, you are disgusting, there is nothing here for you now, you have never understood me or my art, you are such a fucking disappointment to me” Eva attacks. Her supplicants all had blackened fingernails from this drama filled operation, which they saw as a delirious badge of honor.
I was confused, was all of this depravity and shame or percipience and truth, maybe both? Was the Dominatrix a feminist cosplay character for her darkest fantasy of violent revenge or the angry annihilation of her emaciated heart, maybe both?
In the sex dungeon’s office, on East 53rd Street, Eva wanted her website, porn star, stage name to be “The Masked Madame Recamier,” but everyone called her that “Too Tall Givenchy Bitch.” And if you must know, I didn’t participate or mess around with her dark, crazy town, alter ego in that very soigné, seductive costume.
This was a presentation of her combative, shape-shifting, Performance Art for the audience in a single seat. All of it produced at the Hall of Mirrors, in self-reflection, with the final applause of one hand clapping. The smart acting is to be seen on the stage of the Grand Guignol, with hope dripping into puddles, instead of blood. The pricey admission ticket was engaging the come-hither look in her soft, fawn brown eyes. Truly, she was my one and only, beguiling, confusing and glorious love.
Eva invented a long and convoluted personal back story for this Dominatrix that came along with a withering attitude against the patriarchy and against the father figure. Whose father, I wondered? I marveled at the extreme magic of the artist in her self-creation, Pygmalion in front of her vanity mirror, creating her darker, kinkier self. The maestro as the fairy tale Snow White, imagining her symmetric, true self as the Evil Queen, reflected in the cracked Magic Mirror.
Eva greeted her guest with a fallen angel sneer and scowl, in a torture chamber painted entirely in the darkest black. No sex was involved just the verbal abuse of rich masochistic men, purchasing some cathartic suffering. Her special script, of female authority, established power divisions not of the typical “dominant” and “submissive” but, one closer to that of an avenging archangel and her supplicant in prayer. She forced her spiritual beggar, not patient, not slave, not client, not john and not victim, to lie down prostrate on the floor, kissing the cold concrete. Then she would circle him taunting and screaming customized obscenities. “Hopeless impotent failure, godless empty soul, pathetic and foolish little man” she condemns.
At the climax of this sad comedy routine (S&C), she slowly and with great calculation, steps on each of his fingers with her heels: glorious, poisoned pleasure. Yelps and moans were the soundtrack to this performance, with more squishy sounds than cracking bones. “Tell me, tell me, I am yours” he begs. Many of the men uncontrollably wet their pants or orgasmically exploded. Accounting for the dark sperm stains on the dungeon’s concrete floor. “You are filthy, you are disgusting, there is nothing here for you now, you have never understood me or my art, you are such a fucking disappointment to me” Eva attacks. Her supplicants all had blackened fingernails from this drama filled operation, which they saw as a delirious badge of honor.
I was confused, was all of this depravity and shame or percipience and truth, maybe both? Was the Dominatrix a feminist cosplay character for her darkest fantasy of violent revenge or the angry annihilation of her emaciated heart, maybe both?
In the sex dungeon’s office, on East 53rd Street, Eva wanted her website, porn star, stage name to be “The Masked Madame Recamier,” but everyone called her that “Too Tall Givenchy Bitch.” And if you must know, I didn’t participate or mess around with her dark, crazy town, alter ego in that very soigné, seductive costume.
This was a presentation of her combative, shape-shifting, Performance Art for the audience in a single seat. All of it produced at the Hall of Mirrors, in self-reflection, with the final applause of one hand clapping. The smart acting is to be seen on the stage of the Grand Guignol, with hope dripping into puddles, instead of blood. The pricey admission ticket was engaging the come-hither look in her soft, fawn brown eyes. Truly, she was my one and only, beguiling, confusing and glorious love.
IV
Once, Eva called me after midnight and by the tone of her voice I could tell she was upset. “Those — Fuckers — Fired — Me!” she spat into the phone. My first fear was that she accidentally killed, manslaughtered or damaged with a deadly Louboutin a patient of hers (conjugal visits in my future?). But it appears the simple and boring reasons for her dismissal was that she was always late for an appointment (true for all trysts), disrespectful to the abused male customers (I am so sorry, how does that work?) and never participated in the office’s group activities (what could those possibly be?). “Not professional” was the conclusion (was a license actually required?). She thought it was inconsistent of the management to expect order and punctuality, when they paid her for pain and chaos.
I lent a sympathetic ear, while imaging, in mind’s eye, her doing a slow motion, sinful striptease in her forbidden costume, just for me.
I lent a sympathetic ear, while imaging, in mind’s eye, her doing a slow motion, sinful striptease in her forbidden costume, just for me.
V
Eva concluded this phase of her daring Performance Art with a blow-out party in her Brooklyn loft that had the invitations read: “Come dressed as what you desire the most!” This allowed her the last showing of her razzle-dazzle, black satin gown and all of the Domme paraphernalia. A surprising number of male participants (post-supplicants?) showed up in various S & M garb: studded dog collars, open black leather chaps and shiny vinyl bondage masks. There were lots and lots of exposed breasts and dangling dongs. It was a pagan circus, a degenerate parade and an uncensored look into her dark mind with its violent complexities and brilliant charms.
The large, high ceilinged, dimly lit, single room was decorated with dozens of glowing candles, the droning electronic music of New Order (“Blue Monday” on Saturday) and flashing red disco lights. The space has been hastily cleaned by dumping anything loose into several cardboard boxes in a pile against a wall. I leaned over and peered into one of them and I found an eclectic collection: dozens of Barbie doll heads, congealed paint brushes, unclean cooking utensils, college paperbacks, porn mags, shoes, scarves and panties (?). All of it a sorrowful time capsule of her rebellious artist’s life at that precise and forgotten moment.
The unusually spacious bathroom was most amenable for nasty, kinky and expedient sex with neon colored condoms that were placed in a green glass bowl at the sink, as party favors. Strange sounds of heavy breathing, loud slapping and clinking of chains, dribbled and leaked out from the bathroom. A strange, sensuous quotation of Rimbaud’s inhaling deeply from the locked latrines of his sadistic and sad Paris.
The surprising temperate drugs of choice, for the evening, were Percocet (Chill Pills, Pec’s, Greenies) and Codeine (Cody’s, little C’s, Coughers). Almost all the folks had dark dilated pupils and a slumped loose posture. Whatever dancing that did occur, looked more like a dreamy, slow motion, collective groping of narcoleptic, sleepwalkers in a crowded subway car.
I arrived late and in my disguise as an urbane misanthrope. Which consisted of my regular, black street clothes along with a kid’s orange and white cut felt, Halloween mask of a fox’s face (supply your interpretations here). I walked up to Eva and said, “Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful, Madame Recamier.” Then I added in the lingo of Brooklyn: “Eva, your look is so very cunt, its sick.” Her response was with her faraway stare and cryptic smile. “What in the world, am I going to do with you, my sad, lost boy?” she said. “I don’t remember sending you an invite, but you can stay, nonetheless.” The story turned a little cold and confused, she proceeded to turn, walk away and ignore me for the rest of my time there. Now I was worried. The soundtrack pounded out the lyrics; And I still find it so hard, to say what I need to say, but I’m quite sure that you’ll tell me, just how I shall feel today.
At the party’s evening end, she stood in the center of the space, in her black flowing gown, as Shakespeare’s beloved, Faerie Queen Titania and surveyed her S & M fantasy kingdom; the leather bestial pixies and drug addled goblin characters, one last time before Apollo’s bright, breaking dawn.
“It’s Goddamn Sunday morning, the party is over, everyone here, get the fuck out!” Eva commanded.
The large, high ceilinged, dimly lit, single room was decorated with dozens of glowing candles, the droning electronic music of New Order (“Blue Monday” on Saturday) and flashing red disco lights. The space has been hastily cleaned by dumping anything loose into several cardboard boxes in a pile against a wall. I leaned over and peered into one of them and I found an eclectic collection: dozens of Barbie doll heads, congealed paint brushes, unclean cooking utensils, college paperbacks, porn mags, shoes, scarves and panties (?). All of it a sorrowful time capsule of her rebellious artist’s life at that precise and forgotten moment.
The unusually spacious bathroom was most amenable for nasty, kinky and expedient sex with neon colored condoms that were placed in a green glass bowl at the sink, as party favors. Strange sounds of heavy breathing, loud slapping and clinking of chains, dribbled and leaked out from the bathroom. A strange, sensuous quotation of Rimbaud’s inhaling deeply from the locked latrines of his sadistic and sad Paris.
The surprising temperate drugs of choice, for the evening, were Percocet (Chill Pills, Pec’s, Greenies) and Codeine (Cody’s, little C’s, Coughers). Almost all the folks had dark dilated pupils and a slumped loose posture. Whatever dancing that did occur, looked more like a dreamy, slow motion, collective groping of narcoleptic, sleepwalkers in a crowded subway car.
I arrived late and in my disguise as an urbane misanthrope. Which consisted of my regular, black street clothes along with a kid’s orange and white cut felt, Halloween mask of a fox’s face (supply your interpretations here). I walked up to Eva and said, “Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful, Madame Recamier.” Then I added in the lingo of Brooklyn: “Eva, your look is so very cunt, its sick.” Her response was with her faraway stare and cryptic smile. “What in the world, am I going to do with you, my sad, lost boy?” she said. “I don’t remember sending you an invite, but you can stay, nonetheless.” The story turned a little cold and confused, she proceeded to turn, walk away and ignore me for the rest of my time there. Now I was worried. The soundtrack pounded out the lyrics; And I still find it so hard, to say what I need to say, but I’m quite sure that you’ll tell me, just how I shall feel today.
At the party’s evening end, she stood in the center of the space, in her black flowing gown, as Shakespeare’s beloved, Faerie Queen Titania and surveyed her S & M fantasy kingdom; the leather bestial pixies and drug addled goblin characters, one last time before Apollo’s bright, breaking dawn.
“It’s Goddamn Sunday morning, the party is over, everyone here, get the fuck out!” Eva commanded.
VI
We were two stupid kids, stumbling around, in the big city. There were many times when we waited in the cold night air in a long line for an event, show or performance and I would look directly into her big brown doe eyes. Then flirtatiously wrap my arms around her saying, “I am simply crazy for you.” My hug was warm and direct, while she would silently agree and lean her thin, bony, body into it. Then, Eva would laugh, her eruptive laugh and retorted, “Yeah, you are. You’re fucking insane!”
The folk tale clearly states even a cat may kiss a Queen. While sexual curiosity may kill that same cat, ignoring the feline’s nine lives and loves. Looking at what that cat dragged in –your passion? I am always that Krazy Kat for her.
I thought the entire world revolved around us and our incomprehensible love. At that moment, we were extreme, impetuous, happiness junkies. Oh glorious, what disjointed joy!
The folk tale clearly states even a cat may kiss a Queen. While sexual curiosity may kill that same cat, ignoring the feline’s nine lives and loves. Looking at what that cat dragged in –your passion? I am always that Krazy Kat for her.
I thought the entire world revolved around us and our incomprehensible love. At that moment, we were extreme, impetuous, happiness junkies. Oh glorious, what disjointed joy!
VII
When we met for our usual Friday night dinner, at our Chinatown hangout “Vanessa’s,” Eva would be late (obviously) and frazzled (unfortunately), but still radiating her special charms and a neon, high-wattage smile. I would always ask “My dearest, what did you do last night?” She would then tell me the recent queer investigations in her art, in the internet and in scuzzy bars, all on the theme of sexual ambiguity and ambivalence.
Now Eva started her story: “First off, I put on my black, long haired ‘Cher’ wig and then slathered on a ton of makeup, finally ending with the hot pink, mini dress and black mesh stockings. Then, I went to that drag queen bar in the East Village. God, I love that place!” Then she squealed with delight, “And everyone thought I was a man!” Was this, another of her theatrical transvestite and transgressive roles in costume, another surreal animal camouflage and seductive mask to try on? Her new identity: a gendered woman disguised as a fantasy man, desirous of faux feminine charms. Will the hidden celebrity contestant come out from behind the curtain and sign in please! Yes, she’s got a big secret.
She continued her tall tale: “The place is a delightful dirty dive with pathetic Christmas tree lights strung up all year round. There was a jukebox filled with ancient R&B hits; Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke, Etta James and Aretha. The haunted faces of the clientele are hollow headed junkies. A bonkers Kathy Acker novel, come to life.” Suddenly the funny story had turned sinister, now I began to worry. “Then a very drunk guy comes up to me, who was as ugly as W.C. Fields, he introduces himself as Roberto and then puts one of his hands cupping my ass and the other pressing on my boob, he said that I was a bad girl and needed a spanking. I reacted immediately and told him in my fake, deep, Elizabeth Holmes voice that the action proposed was very expensive and he couldn’t afford it. He laughed in my face and I responded in an instant by slamming my narrow high heel into his instep, he wasn’t laughing anymore. He crumpled to his knees in quiet repressed pain, the crowd stopped talking and stared silently, while the bartender stepped one step back. I turned and sashayed away into the night.” Eva snickered. The jukebox played her anthem as she made her theatrical exit: R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
What disguise was she wearing right now, in front of me? “My dearest, you know that I love you completely and I don’t mean to ‘harsh your vibe.’ But I am a little worried that in these cross dressing adventures you are going to be picked up by some thug, as scary as Lon Chaney, and get punched in the face, when your lack of a penis is discovered” I said with a straight face and my droll wit. Eva looked at me as if I was talking in a different language or speaking in tongues.
Then the clattering of plates, tea kettle and condiment trays announced that our order had arrived. We sharply changed direction and talked of the banal necessities of life: laundry, rent, deadlines and calling mom, as if nothing violent, gender-bending and transgressive was previously said.
I made up an existential bar joke just for her and it goes like this: A witch, a warlock and a demon walk into a bar. The witch declares “I am a sad alcoholic!” the warlock states, “I am a broken drug addict!” and the demon looks them over, smirks and says, ‘You are all very welcome!” I made her show her cynical smile, just a little bit.
Now Eva started her story: “First off, I put on my black, long haired ‘Cher’ wig and then slathered on a ton of makeup, finally ending with the hot pink, mini dress and black mesh stockings. Then, I went to that drag queen bar in the East Village. God, I love that place!” Then she squealed with delight, “And everyone thought I was a man!” Was this, another of her theatrical transvestite and transgressive roles in costume, another surreal animal camouflage and seductive mask to try on? Her new identity: a gendered woman disguised as a fantasy man, desirous of faux feminine charms. Will the hidden celebrity contestant come out from behind the curtain and sign in please! Yes, she’s got a big secret.
She continued her tall tale: “The place is a delightful dirty dive with pathetic Christmas tree lights strung up all year round. There was a jukebox filled with ancient R&B hits; Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke, Etta James and Aretha. The haunted faces of the clientele are hollow headed junkies. A bonkers Kathy Acker novel, come to life.” Suddenly the funny story had turned sinister, now I began to worry. “Then a very drunk guy comes up to me, who was as ugly as W.C. Fields, he introduces himself as Roberto and then puts one of his hands cupping my ass and the other pressing on my boob, he said that I was a bad girl and needed a spanking. I reacted immediately and told him in my fake, deep, Elizabeth Holmes voice that the action proposed was very expensive and he couldn’t afford it. He laughed in my face and I responded in an instant by slamming my narrow high heel into his instep, he wasn’t laughing anymore. He crumpled to his knees in quiet repressed pain, the crowd stopped talking and stared silently, while the bartender stepped one step back. I turned and sashayed away into the night.” Eva snickered. The jukebox played her anthem as she made her theatrical exit: R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
What disguise was she wearing right now, in front of me? “My dearest, you know that I love you completely and I don’t mean to ‘harsh your vibe.’ But I am a little worried that in these cross dressing adventures you are going to be picked up by some thug, as scary as Lon Chaney, and get punched in the face, when your lack of a penis is discovered” I said with a straight face and my droll wit. Eva looked at me as if I was talking in a different language or speaking in tongues.
Then the clattering of plates, tea kettle and condiment trays announced that our order had arrived. We sharply changed direction and talked of the banal necessities of life: laundry, rent, deadlines and calling mom, as if nothing violent, gender-bending and transgressive was previously said.
I made up an existential bar joke just for her and it goes like this: A witch, a warlock and a demon walk into a bar. The witch declares “I am a sad alcoholic!” the warlock states, “I am a broken drug addict!” and the demon looks them over, smirks and says, ‘You are all very welcome!” I made her show her cynical smile, just a little bit.
VII
Being forever restless, Eva gave up on New York City. Like an Adderall, brain addled vagabond, she first moved to San Francesco, then to Chicago for a brief spell and finally settling in Los Angeles. She really focused and worked hard on her crypto-feminist, proto-Surrealist assemblies. The artwork improved greatly and she had several gallery shows with some positive reviews. Her vicious vandalism and punk plagiarism of art history finally paid off. Yet, I did not hear her harsh and wounded, dark husky voice again, for many years.
At one time we defiantly faced the world together and didn’t care what happened next. But then the world decided it didn’t care either. So everything abruptly ended for us, full stop.
At one time we defiantly faced the world together and didn’t care what happened next. But then the world decided it didn’t care either. So everything abruptly ended for us, full stop.
IX
I think of Eva, once in a while: with her smile and sneer, her violent complexities and brilliant charms. Dreaming in my emotional exile, I touch her face, I kiss away her tears and I lick her wound with longing and remorse. My beloved: the sad and angry, punk and puckish Dominatrix in her tattered and torn, black satin ball gown. I see her standing alone on the ravaged personal battlefield, between intimacy and emptiness.
X
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It lies not in our power to love or hate;
For will in us is overruled by fate. When two are stript, long ere the course begin, We wish that one should lose, the other win; And one especially do we affect Of two gold ingots, like in each respect: The reason no man knows, let it suffice, What we behold is censured by our eyes. Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight? — Hero and Leander by Christopher Marlowe |