Mia,
Legally, I was completely sober. Indeed, I never drink anything harder than black tea or cappucino. I wasn't under any chemical influences, but I was posessed of a sheer bloody-minded stubborn refusal to go home until I had satisfied my urge. I had purchased the feathers, hit the ATM for $120 (enough for double my regular number of couch dances at the strip club), and if I couldn't see the lady I had waited a month to see, then by Odin's beard I was determined to see somebody in her place.
I didn't need to be drunk to be pressured into the session. My natural inclination to do as I'm told was enough to do it. When a woman tells me I should do something, it takes monumental will on my part to put my own needs first, because I'm deathly afraid of upsetting her or appearing rude. It started out much as I was used to, as we exchanged small talk whilst I massaged her feet, but later when she suggested that I remove my shirt, and then my trousers several minutes later, my ingrained response was that I wasn't sure I wanted to, but that it would be impolite to refuse. The secondary backup head in my shorts may have made the decision to enter the place and indulge some curiosity for a taboo experience, but the primary head above my neck made the decision to stay out of fear of disapproval if I turned her offer down. Quoth Master Yoda, "Fear is the path to the Dark Side..."
Oddly enough, afterwards I had gone to a coffeeshop I frequent in order to clear my head of the unpleasantness I had just brought upon myself, and I did something strangely resonant with the previous hour's events. I ordered a glass of what the menu called "Smoky Tarry Lapsang Souchong Tea" on ice. I had never had Lapsang Souchong before, but had heard that it was brilliant, so I decided to experiment. It was atrocious. Still, I kept sipping it, hoping that it might improve with the next swallow, but it never did. I wasn't going to complain, however, since I had already paid and I didn't want to be a bother to the waitress. Eventually, she came over to ask if everything was all right, and I hesitantly admitted that it wasn't quite what I was expecting. She gladly took it away and brought me an Earl Grey (my favorite), agreeing that the Lapsang Souchong tasted like a liquid pork roast. I trust you all paid enough attention in English Lit class to recognize the symbolism and allegory at work there.
And yes, I hope I get back to a routine I enjoy as well. One where $30 purchases are for my new stack of comics every week or another squad of miniatures for my wargames army; not 5-minute simulations of a woman's affection. Where my Saturday nights are spent at the home of my best buddy gaming and working on my script; not in a smoke-filled bar waiting for someone calling herself "Shayna" to stop hitting up the drunken high-rollers for couch dances and notice me.
I often ask the dancers at the strip club if they go home to somebody who loves them. They almost always say yes, even if it's only their dog. I always tell them, "Good. Cherish that, because not everybody can say the same. If I could, I wouldn't be here."
No matter how professional the Domme or Sub may be elsewhere, I still think I 've learned that it's something I souldn't be wanting. The time, effort, and resources are better spent pursuing a genuine relationship with somebody who really might care about me than in repeatedly renting an illusion.
Incidentally, this is my 300th post.
