Tuesday, September 18, 2018

The $200 Question

  A Marxist mistress on the economics of kink.


“Do you like to be spoiled?” he sexted, one of the first sexts he’d sent, this bisexual dominant dude. He predicated his seduction in part on his hotness, in part on his intelligence, in part on my desire to crawl in worship to his impressive cock, and in no small part on his disposable income. This particular exchange came to nothing but many texts, a lot of masturbation, and a mother lode of empty promises, but his question is standard in BDSM seduction, at least as far as my experience shows.
The simple answer to this question? I do.
In sex as in language, I like to avail myself of a full fucking means of expression; thus I have dabbled in kink for about a decade. Stacking my experience up against that of people I know and/or love, I’m still a bit of a dilettante; however, my ass has been beaten to a blackberry mass of bruises, and I’ve proudly displayed it. I’ve been tied up, played with, tortured exquisitely, and I’ve done the same to others. I am, as they say, a switch, a dilettante switch, but an agile one.
Ten years ago, there was this improbably hot Dom. He looked like a Calvin Klein model; he strained credulity. I was in grad school and fearsomely broke. This man and I talked for about two weeks before meeting, and I mentioned my finances. He asked me if $200 would help. I told him it would, tremendously. He came to my Chelsea ex-tenement door looking like his profile photo, holding two cups of wretched deli coffee; it was, if memory serves, macadamia flavored. We chatted. We probably kissed. He grabbed my ponytail in his hand, wrapped it around his fist and pulled me to my knees. He unbuttoned his jeans, took out his cock, and I sucked it until he came, shuddering, in my throat. Before he left, he deposited four $50 bills on my end table.
I am a luxury object. You are my luxury subject. We never met.
You can’t uncouple money from kink. Things——commodities——cost money. In pure Marxist terms, commodity fetish masks the labor that people put into making the object with the object itself. You don’t see the hands of the factory people who work eight or more hours a day sewing those Agent Provocateur knickers; you see the knickers, and you want them. You want them fiercely. And when you don those knickers, when you slide them up your shaven legs and let them swaddle your waxed pussy in their $200 bits and bobs of lace, you don’t just want the object: you become it. If there is one thing that puts the “fetish” in commodity fetish, it’s kink.
About a month ago, I began texting with a man who wanted to be my slut, or so he said. “Do you like being taken care of?” He asked. He talked a big game. I listened and got grand fantasies of ball gags and other sundry methods to shut him up. He PayPalled me $200 the first night we started chatting ($200, for whatever reason, seems to be the going rate). I spent it all on lingerie, thereby feeding the commodity fetish maw. I am a luxury object. You are my luxury subject. We never met like this.
I have been the Marxist mistress to a man who is, like me, a switch. The first time we met, I undressed him and laid him over a body pillow, his rosy schoolboy’s ass in the air. Forty minutes later, five of my fingers were cleaved together in his rectum, stroking a prostate that had swollen from the size of an aggie marble to the size of a tennis ball. Three days later, he gave me four $50 bills to buy fetish gear; he called it a “reward.” I duly purchased baby’s first set of restraints and spanking items. I’d be denying my own somatic reactions if I said that this shopping didn’t make my panties wet.
Shortly before Christmas, I dallied with a man who was blond and wispy and looked like nothing in his suggestively tight jeans and the button-down shirt of a banker on holiday, but was perhaps the most genuine Dominant article I’ve had the problematic pleasure of knowing. He had an almost preternatural sense of rhythm and cadence, slapping me silly and fucking me breathless with a casual disregard. Like a fictional character, like Eloise or Royal Tenenbaum, he lived in a hotel. Would I have been sent as far into subspace if this man lived, as I do, in a rundown, overstuffed classic Manhattan apartment? It’s hard to say. His sheen of money wrapped him; it fit him like a latex opera glove. His crop is ever so much nicer than mine. My clit twitches in contemplation of the smell of its expensive black leather.
There’s the genital rub, this conflict between cash and sex, an erotic frisson that runs right up my cunt. 
So, how to tie this up. There’s the genital rub, this conflict between cash and sex, an erotic frisson that runs right up my cunt. There’s a long, baroque history of sadistic romance between men of means and a woman of meaning, and there’s my giving it a side-eye even as my labia rub slick with want; I have submitted to this narrative. There’s the freak flag I fly and my  love of the luxe, and there’s the joy I take in the former with the shame I have for the latter. There’s the fetish and the commodity and my love of having both, and then there's a neat stack of four $50 bills and the burgeoning list of things to buy.

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The $200 Question

  A Marxist mistress on the economics of kink. “Do you like to be spoiled?” he sexted, one of the first sexts he’d sent, this bisexua...