What's in a Name?

My name story is on my mind for a few reasons. There's a thread on MaxFisch right now where a scene professional found someone else using her name commercially. I'd weigh in but, well, I ain't the only "Troy" in New York. In fact, I remember meeting my first ProDomme at The Nutcracker Suite-- Mistress Marina Montague, PhD. -- when I went in for an informational interview.

That's how non-scene I was. All my friends were at Columbia Business School. I wanted to know what the chick did, I didn't want to actually DO it. When Marina handed me an application, I looked at her like she had two heads.

"What's your name?" she asked me.

"Uh, Mistress Troy?" I said, having decided on the name the night before during a frenzied IM with the friend who'd arranged this introduction.

Marina dropped her pen and rolled her eyes at me. Clearly I was sporting a second head of my own now.

"You DO realize that only THE most well-known Black Domme in New York is named Mistress Troy, don't you? And there's another blonde Mistress Troy as well," she huffed in her crisp English accent. "You'll have to change your name."

"Oh, it's okay," I assured her. "I just picked the name for today. I'm not going to actually USE it for anything. I'm not really trying to BE a domme."

Uhhh.... sorry, Marina. I meant it at the time. I swear I did.

So the other reason I'm thinking about my name is that yesterday I met up with .... let's call him Bond. He's the guy who introduced me to Marina and he was the one on the other end of that AIM window who, as I flipped through character names in my Pelican Shakespeare and typed, "Helen? No." He replied, "You mean 'of Troy'?" and I said, "Yeah. Actually, I like 'Troy.' That could work." We've managed to keep in touch over the years. He likes to tell people that he named me and that I wouldn't be here were it not for him. I roll my eyes at this but I don't disagree. Bond was the first "scene" guy I ever met. He'd briefly dated a mutual friend who, when I told her I'd decided that now that I'd turned 30 I was only going to wear good lingerie and garters and stockings and stilettos she replied, "Oh! I know a guy who'd do pretty much anything you want if you were wearing garters and stockings!"

Turned out that wasn't true, but Bond was the very first guy I officially played with, if you could call it that. I was housesitting for a friend over the Christmas holidays and, using my best domme voice, I invited him over to teach me some stuff. I remember kneeling as he showed me how to tie a rope body harness and marveling at the way the rope pattern looked on my skin in the candlelight. When he untied me, I tried to put some keychain/vibrator in his ass. I felt so thrilled and yet so fumblingly awkward. I couldn't wait to do it again. But better.

Bond told me stories about all the ProDommes he knew -- well enough to know their real names, too, he was sure to point out -- and I was curious. Other than a couple of strippers, I'd never met any sex workers. What did they DO? How did they start? Did they LIKE it?

He said his friend Marina was a manager of one of the best houses in New York. I was still freelance writing at the time. I started fantasizing about getting inside the world of professional domination and writing some big investigative feature story for the Sunday Times Magazine. Or Esquire. Not that either'd ever published me. But this mightcould be the story that would get me noticed.

And that was part of the truth.

Part of the reason I wanted to meet a prodomme was .... well, I just didn't live a lifestyle where I had occasion to meet a real, live, actual sex worker. I mean, not that would tell me. I wanted to know if ... I dunno. Did sex workers smell different? Could I look at them and see it in them once I knew it was there? Did they all wear Manolos and carry little purses with lipstick, breath mints and ball gags instead of condoms? Did they sit in a dungeon all wearing shiny black clothing and speaking in German accents and idly tapping their whip on the heel of their thigh high stiletto boot? Was there a pimp? Or underage girls? Or wads of cash and coke everywhere?

(Answer: There is as much of that as there is none of that in this business. Just depends on where you're looking.)

So I met Marina and I met some of the Nutcracker girls and part of me was utterly grossed out: Why were all the girls walking around in cheap, sleazy looking lingerie? How they talked to each other! How young they were! What do you mean strange men pay you to lick your feet?

And part of me was titillated, fascinated, and so hungry for more. There was one Mistress who came in while I was still talking with Marina. She was in a fitted wife beater, jacket, and jeans. Her deli lunch was in a bag. She looked like an Ivory girl. Twenty minutes later she was in a modest leather bra, shorts and beautiful black pumps. She looked like a Domme.

"You make sense to me," I thought to myself, eying at her admiringly.

"Hey, I'm Tess, " she said, introducing herself.

I grinned and held out my hand to her. "Hi, my name's Troy."

Good Boy

Humiliation is not a scene I do very often. I like to play in the light so it's a little hard for me to dig into that headspace, which can be awfully dark.

But not with the Athlete.

(Funny, I mentioned him the other day and Voila! he calls. He happened to be in town this week.)

He's not dark. I kinda get where he's coming from with his kink. He seeks balance. I can dig it.

So when we play, "balance" is the intention I bring. Creating desire in and then denying someone who's told "yes" all the time. Desecrating that body he puts so much time into perfecting. Giving him the opportunity to do something right: neither he nor his team are performing well, but he can perform for me. Loathsome and difficult as the jobs are I give him to do, he can do them well.

Halfway into the scene, he asked for permission to use the bathroom. Number one, he said. I gave him a container and rested my head on his shoulder to watch. When he was done, I slid the three-prong speculum into his asshole, cranked it open, and funneled his own hot piss into his ass.

Reduce, reuse, recycle.

I clamped the nose leash to his face and dragged him to the bathroom. It occurred to me as I watched him shit out his own piss with me still holding the leash on his nose that he's like my dog, pissing on the sidewalk while I watch and wait. I tell him this.

Good boy.

Leaving Money on the Table: A Rant

Since my tetchy computer has me all cranky and anti-email at the moment (posting blogs is much easier) a word to the wise:

When you visit a professional domina(trix) -- any one, not just me -- and you present your Tribute, please have it in an envelope. If you do not have access to an envelope prior to your appointment, make sure to place it in a Tribute box, if one is provided. If your Domina does not have a specific place for you to place your Tribute, you should, at the very least, have the correct amount counted out in advance to hand to her with your apologies for not having "wrapped" your gift appropriately.

Few things shave weeks off my career like watching a client fumblingly count through a clutch of twenties in front of me (who are you? Bob Barker?) or seeing a wad of bills left on my cocktail table, like I'm some ... Waitress.

Drag

If you've sent me an email recently and I haven't responded, it's not because I don't want to ... My computer's been all gummed up for no obvious reason, making navigating Gmail an awkward annoyance. I get too frustrated to reply to /initiate emails past the top of my inbox. I've had compugeeks look at it, fiddled with msconfig, run assorted virus scans, removed extraneous software, defragged, blah blah blah and still pages are super slow to load, keystrokes are slow to respond, and tabbing between windows is glacial. Laptop's just turned two years old. Grrr.

So I'm going to keep trying to sort it out. Maybe it's time to buy a Mac, loath as I am to spend that money right now.

If there's something you really need from me in the meantime, please call me, even if it's not phone hours. For now, it's okay.

An Orleans Experience

We were three hours into our conversation. A good bottle of Sancerre held just a few drops; our wine glasses were cloudy with fingerprints. Mid-sentence, I stood up and kept talking as I walked across the room, grabbed a wee pad and spread it on the carpet near us.

"Stand up. Lie down," I said, interrupting my story. He is still dressed. I unbutton his shirt and pull it down, just past his shoulders.

Still talking (about what? music? what it feels like to hurt someone? a trip I'd taken? I forget.), I slide off my panties from under my dress and toss them on the chair.

I stop talking. My mouth floods with saliva. I crouch over his chest, look into his eyes, and say, "Open."

The drool flows out from my mouth to his, like water from a pitcher. He swallows, moaning a little. I shift, now kneeling high over his mouth which is hidden by the hem of my dress. Our eyes are locked.

"Open."

I flood his mouth with my piss. Under my dress, I can feel it running down my leg, splashing off his cheek. His legs kick and thrash behind me. When I'm done, I use the back of his head to dry the piss from my leg. I put my panties back on, take my place again in my chair, and pour the last bit of wine in my glass.

Just Sayin' ...

It's peony season.

I love peonies.

If you called Academy Floral at 212.222.0771 and asked them to send peonies to Troy Orleans at 2753 Broadway #103, New York, NY 10025 I would get them!

It All Began with Popcorn

During my recent trip to the Southern Virginia town I grew up in, I ended up spending the night at the home of myveryfirstboyfriend (and his wife and twin sons). I had a very early flight and he lives close to the airport. We munched on fine North Carolina barbecue and the boys showed me their video games and tick bites. The wife put the kids to bed and excused herself as well, saying she was exhausted after two nights of partying.

So it was just me and Adam, sitting on the porch. He was sipping some vodka concoction, I cradled a cup of chamomile tea.

One of the things I've loved about our relationship is that, well, we still have one. We don't talk every day, but we IM here and there to keep up on the important stuff. We still have a love for each other and even though he did grow up to be a Republican computer geek, we still have lots of stuff in common. Including kink.

Except when we were kids, we didn't call it kinky. We were just teenagers having our first kiss at a screening of "The Breakfast Club" (with my cousin as chaperone). I wanted to eat my popcorn but I didn't want to stop kissing him. So I put the popcorn in my mouth and pushed it into his with my tongue. I asked if he wanted a drink and I whistled my Coke into his mouth, too.

Once we started having sex, I wasn't tying him up. I just couldn't wait until he was completely out of his clothes before jumping on him, his pants pooled around his ankles, his arms caught in his shirt sleeves. He'd come in my mouth and I'd spit it back in his not to humiliate him but so he could taste what I tasted.

"You sucked my big toe one time," he told me on the porch.

"No WAY!" I protested. "Really?" And then I remembered just loving him so much then the way you can only really do when you're a teenager and just wanting to devour every bit of him all the time. Even his toes.

"Yeah, and you used to give me ice cube blow jobs and bite my nipples with ice in your mouth, too."

*****

People ask me all the time if I could have a vanilla relationship and I always say, "Of course." This is why. Because a "vanilla" relationship looks pretty much like a "kink" one to me. I mean, as long as the root of whatever we're doing is love and desire for each other, what's the difference if I'm taking him with a strap-on or wrapping my legs around him in missionary or keeping him in a chastity cage for a week or drenching his back with butterfly kisses? It's all part of the continuum of mature intimacy, no?

If I hadn't become a professional dominant, I probably wouldn't have ever graduated to putting my lover in thousands of dollars worth of bondage gear. Or sticking steel rods down his urethra. Or electrocuting his balls. Instead maybe we'd have one of those "fun drawers" next to the bed with stuff like wrist/ankle restraints, a paddle, a few vibrators/dildos, a blindfold.

But I am a Prodom. Now, I've got the gear, the space, the inclination, and the education. So my sex life's gotten a little more elaborate. Some times.

******

Back on the porch, Adam tells me he's getting more and more into chastity and cuckolding. His wife is slowly coming around to accommodating his desires (her "partying" was a continuation of a recent seduction of a 26 year old guy from the neighborhood that Adam is achingly excited by). I asked him if he thought his cuckold interest was a sublimation of his bisexuality. (Uh, yeah. That was a surprise.) He thought no. "If I want to suck cock, I do," he said.

Turns out, I might be responsible for his cuckolding thing too. My next boyfriend after Adam was, shall we say, a little close to home. (Hey, it was a small town and I was a busy teen. I just grabbed what was handy.)

******

I know a lot of Dommes who like to play the "kinkier than thou" game. "Oh, I've been beating up boys since preschool!" I can look back and find plenty of examples of me being "dominant" or "sexually aggressive" or "freaky" or "kinky" .... but at the time, I wasn't putting labels on my behavior. I mean, I remember playing "Atom Smashers" in Kindergarten. This was a game where I'd order the boys to sit with their legs spread on the floor and then try to mash their penises between colored PlaySkool blocks (the red rectangle and yellow triangle were particularly effective, as I recall). I just never thought of this behavior as anything other than precocious until I became a Domme and was trying to figure out where all this was coming from "out of nowhere" at age 33.

I guess my point is that in some ways, I have no idea where this all started or why. It's not like I can point to some seminal moment, such as hiding under a desk and seeing my teacher's shoes and stockings and being excited. But, like, talking to Adam it's clear that my "kink," if that's what you want to call it, has always been with me. Maybe it's nice to have a label for it now. "Oh, okay. I'm 'kinky.'" But, ya know, ironically enough, even saying I'm "outside the norm" just feels kinda limiting.