Samantha in the Red Dress?

If I don’t try, I’ll never know. And that’d be a fate far worse than whatever humiliation might potentially await me. I want to be dominated, and so few women are able to rise to the occasion. Do I really have to wear a slinky red dress in order to find a top? Or am I clinging to antiquated notions of dominant/submissive roles? As I color my lips matte red, I wonder how much makeup is appropriate for a kink club. I also wonder when I became more androgynous than feminine. When was the last time I wore a dress? What exactly am I getting myself into? Do I really want to enter a kink club as a submissive? More importantly, should I wear fishnets or silk thigh highs? Silk stockings, I decide. I stand and admire myself in the vanity mirror. Gender performance is tricky, but I have to admit: I look hot as femme presenting. Heads are definitely going to turn. Hopefully, they won’t roll.

The patrons of the club are fairly well vetted. Potentials have to be referred by current members. Your name has to be on the list and, if you show up alone, you have to arrive before 10. I’m not exactly sure why, but suspect it has to do with their limited consumption policy. The later it gets, the more likely people are to turn up intoxicated. I call a car that arrives too quickly, so hurriedly hit the bong and knock back a xanax with some gin before racing downstairs. I try to let go of expectations; it's just another game of cat and mouse. Besides, expectations are invitations to disappointments.

I don’t give the driver the exact address, rather I have him drop me off at the gas station around the corner. In all likelihood he knows the score, especially given my attire. Fortunately, he’s either oblivious or disinterested. The night air is crisp and the city sounds farther away than I’d imagined. I should have worn the chunkier heels, I think as I attempt to make my way up the graveled drive. Stiletto boots? What was I thinking? Maybe I’ll find a top with a shoe fetish. Who knows? I realize I’m game for just about anything. But, seriously, who gravels a driveway? So annoying!

I pause to pull a rock from my shoe and briefly contemplate abandoning the entire mission, but the doorguy spots me. Somehow, now that I’ve been made, the gig is up. It’s real. It’s go time. I straighten my silk stockings with careful consideration. I don’t want the doorguy to detect my apprehension. Also, there’s something inexpressibly confident about a woman who stops to straighten her stockings. Call me crazy, but it’s true.

I stiletto shimmy my way into the club to the dulcet tones of Thrill Kill Kult’s Waiting for Mommie. The bartender is a self-ascribed leather dyke and ready to take me home if I don't find what I’m looking for. I’ll consider it. I have no genuine interest in her, but there doesn’t appear to be much else going on. I look around. The decor lacks cohesion overall, but isn’t combative: a light blue, oversized chair here, a chartreuse loveseat there. It could be garish, yet somehow manages an understated elegance.

There are two people sitting at the far end of the room on a beige sofa; a binary-appearing dominant/submissive couple. The dom is clad in a leather vest and pants. He’s sporting a handlebar mustache, and I’m not sure where the hair on his chest ends and the open vest begins. If he were wearing a leather biker cap, he’d be a dead ringer for that one Village Person. The submissive is so effeminate I do a double take. They’re probably trans or non-binary but, for a hot minute, I wonder if they’re a cis-gendered woman. Their long blonde hair cascades over a powder blue, ostrich feather boa and translucent white tank top. It’s all a little on the nose for my taste, but werk it gurl! I shrug.

I sit on one of the chartreuse loveseats adjacent to the couple in order to eavesdrop. I'm fairly certain their convo is playing out like a cheesy 80’s porn, so can’t help myself. Also, it’s a great vantage point; I can see the entire club. I sip my gin and tonic and wince. The bartender must have poured a solid three fingers of Beefeater. I’m trying to catch snippets of the couple’s convo but it’s all grunting and lisping, so I turn my attention to the other three dom, male-presenting people in the opposite corner. They’re fanning themselves with handheld fans and decided nonchalance. They must have rock-paper-scissored for who got dibs on the pretty blonde. Guess the bear in the hair vest threw the winning rock.

The dom and their toy get up to head toward the playrooms and, as they pass, I notice the submissive toy is boasting an impressive bulge in their impossibly tight booty shorts. Whether trans or non-binary, they definitely possess male anatomy. Dang, gurl, I don’t need to know your religion, I almost blurt. I check myself and look away, wondering if this is really where I want to be. But the music is good, so I figure I’ll hang out long enough to down my nuclear gin and tonic. Maybe once I finish my drink I’ll reconsider the bartender’s offer.

I'm thinking about how I could definitely go for an indica weed gummy to calm my nerves when it happens: She walks in. To say that she commands attention is a massive understatement. Fuck, even the fanboys in the corner gasp and turn head. She’s. Stunning. She’s six feet tall if she’s an inch, never mind the four inch heels. She’s wearing a suit so finely tailored mannequins world wide would be envious. The French cuffs and collar of her silk shirt pop bright white against the charcoal gray of the blazer. The flared lapels and snatched waistline are impeccable. I find myself wondering if my curvaceousness is somehow indiscrete. She’s lithe and taught, leaving me fraught, wondering if I ought not. But we both know I will.

Every move she makes is as calculated as it is unguarded. She glances at me before moving purposefully to the bar. I know if she approaches - when she approaches - I need to follow protocol to the letter, or I’ll spend the rest of my days as tightly swathed in regret as she is in that pinstriped suit. When she turns and winks at me, angels sing in heavenly choir and Jesus weeps, last temptation style. I tell myself I got this, despite the fanboys punctuating my anxiety with sharp inhalations. Thanks, guys. I really want my first experience as a sub in a kink club scored by exaggerated gasps and synchronized fan thwapping.

She Takes. Her. Time. Saddling up to the bar. She orders a whiskey, neat. Whiskey drinking women both arouse and intimidate me, so that checks out. Suddenly, my gin and tonic, no matter how stiffly poured, seems gauche and sorority girl. May as well have ordered a vodka redbull, I chastise myself. The woman leans over and whispers something in the bartender's ear, causing her to nod and plop a cherry into the glass of whiskey. Sharp inhalations and rapid fan work from the boys. I glance over. They are literally clutching one another in anticipation. I cue up quickly. It’s on. She’s coming for me.

When she turns and makes eye contact, I'm not the only other person in the bar: I am the only other person in the universe. I’ve been prepping tirelessly for the past week with the friend who referred me. Make eye contact, then look down demurely. Play it cool and coy, dumbass. But she’s so stunning; the quintessential study of androgyny as female presenting. Her severe blue-black bob is as carefully curated and tailored as that damn suit. It should seem conspicuously overworked, yet there is something about her that’s surprisingly disarming.

Even if I’m the hundredth victim to fall prey, I am willingly sacrificial. She sits next to me and the energy exchanged is white hot. She downs half the whiskey, then offers me the remainder, cup extended between elegant, tapered fingers. The cherry is somehow significant. It takes me a beat to realize it’s the acknowledgment of consent. It’s so obvious I nearly laugh: She wants me to offer her my cherry. I knock back the drink with more aplomb than I feel. The whiskey burns a warm path down my eager throat as I push the cherry, stem forward, with my tongue. I place the cool, round body of the cherry between my lips, stem protruding, while maintaining my downward gaze. Demurely, damnit.

She places a hand under my chin, pushing it upward. Novice I am, I immediately break protocol and make eye contact. She traps my gaze. Her neck is exquisitely outstretched; blue veins pulsating with desire under pale white skin, cheekbones accentuated by clenched jaw. With her teeth, she pulls the cherry from my mouth in slow motion, allowing it to sway between parted lips. The sharp inhalations and aggressive fan thwapping abruptly cease. The entire universe is holding its breath.

Instinctively, I realize what I am meant to do. I drop from the loveseat to my knees. She nods in subtle approval. She bends at the waist, offering the cherry. I bite the fruit, allowing its juice to trickle down my chin and throat unchecked. Her tongue moves in one deft motion as she laps the juice from the hollow of my neck to my lips. With this, I know my fate is sealed. She’ll be the end of me. Strange, how naturally I embrace annihilation.

As our lips meet, I know that I will give myself to her in any manner she desires. She pulls back, eyes me curiously, and asks my name. To my chagrin, I am so rattled I forget my own name. I even forget how to breathe. I’m desperately hooked. She whispers it’s ok, it’s her first time too. I know she’s lying. but it’s oddly reassuring nonetheless. Her voice is even sexier than I imagined, a sandpaper lullaby. She smells like amber and musk. Dragon’s blood maybe. Something sensual and earthy. Her voice hits the same frequency as a cat’s purr; therapeutically hypnotic. Her eyes draw me into their depths, conspiratorially. I want to come undone.

I tell her people call me Sam. She winks and introduces herself as Naddy. There is a collective exhale from the corner boys as their fans thwap in gay panic. I pick up the vibe they’re throwing down: Naddy is no stranger to this. Duh, thanks guys; eye roll emoji. I can’t help but wonder: if they’ve witnessed her picking up countless subs, why is this interaction so riveting? Then again, there’s nothing else going on, and us gays arguably love drama. Later, the fanboys will kiki about how they saw this whole thing go down. Hot goss!

I realize I’m merely sitting, watching her mouth move as she speaks. I’m entranced by the sound of her voice, the way she wraps her lips around her words, visibly constricting her throat as she expels her words in measured tempo. The control she exudes is masterful; she is divinely withholding. I can’t make sense of the actual words, but I’m clinging to every syllable spilling from her full lips. Her voice is a rapturous vibration that emanates from her sacral chakra, shooting through her throat chakra and into the depths of me. It’s an amount of control that I’m unable to command, even on my best days. I’m quietly awed.

She asks if I want to take a ride with her. My body’s response is axiomatic. The fanboys begin their fervent thwaping before I’m even on my feet. Wherever she leads, I will follow. The club discourages patrons from leaving the premises for safety measures, but it’s not grounds for expulsion. Really, it doesn’t matter because I’m with Naddy, and she is beyond reproach. Her command of every action and reaction is probably the hottest thing I have ever witnessed. Whatever happens, I am fully given to this moment.

We stop at the bar on our way out and Naddy slides the bartender a generous tip. The bartender obediently averts her gaze as she thanks Naddy, and I get the picture. I even get the frame. On a slow night, much like tonight, the top-masculine bartender found herself on the receiving end of Naddy’s charms. Perhaps even her riding crop. We exit the bar awash with catcalls of admiration from the fanboys. Naddy is a gay icon. Legend. They yass and snap in approval as she leads me past; trophy-like, I notice. And that’s how it feels to move through the world with Naddy: strutting past a milieu of people and things inconsequential in comparison.

Yet, she doesn't give the impression that she views herself as superior to the world, rather, detached from it; an observer of it. How fantastically liberating that must be! I marvel as she leads me to her little red corvette. She’s not attached to any one or thing and, as we speed off into the nebulous unknown, neither am I. She opens the moonroof and I can make out Mars and Venus in the fathomless sky, eternally caught in their cosmic dance. I can feel the stardust, the elements from which I’m composed, swirling inside me: Ordered chaos. The cosmos within. Life happening through me. I am a part of the universe. I am my own universe. As above, so below.

And tonight, I have the distinct privilege of being below Naddy. I will submit without hesitation. All of life is an act of submission, I conclude. There’s no such thing as control, there is only surrender. I admire her profile as we soar through traffic lights, through spacetime; any sense of self I thought I had rapidly growing as distant as the kink club we’re speeding away from. Or the unknown we’re racing toward. I have never felt so blissfully empty. I have never felt so blissfully whole. Our destination is unknown, but I feel like I’m going home. I’m not even sure what that means. For me, home has always been an elusive abstraction. But here and now, with Naddy, I’ve never understood anything more, or needed to understand it less.

I don’t need to dissect it. I need to embrace it. To surrender.

I. Let. Go.

Naddy presses play and the familiar melody of All We Ever Wanted Was Everything by Bauhaus fills the car. Fills the night. I could be nervous, or even afraid, but I’m uncharacteristically calm instead. When Naddy turns and catches my gaze, a serenity unlike anything I’ve ever known envelopes me. It doesn’t matter where she’s taking me.

We’re going home.