Thank you, Mistress, may I have another? Thank you, Mistress Anneka, may I please have another? Thank you, Mistress Anneka. May I please have another slice of this delightful manchengo cheese appetizer?
Dinner with a professional dominatrix? Well, it's interesting.
Anneka DeHaven. That's her name. And smackin' ass is her game.
We met at the downtown dungeon where she and several other "pro doms" rent by the hour. Mistress Anneka wore a modest black leather corset over a white button-down shirt and a long black skirt. With her bright red hair pulled back, and held with two chopsticks, she looked like anybody's high school librarian. Early 30s. Unassuming. And attractive.
Who knew?
Surprisingly, I was only a little bit nervous walking down the low, narrow stairwell, past the construction workers (who I was told were beginning work on the new "wrestling" and "medical" rooms), and into the dark confines of what I presume constitutes many men's (and women's) particular fantasy world.
Medical room?
Once I was inside, however, the needle on my "Oh Shit" meter began rising quickly. I scanned all the obvious paraphernalia (lots of black leather and metal, whips, harnesses, yadda, yadda) and zeroed right in on the chain-link cage occupying a 3-foot-by-3-foot area in one corner of the room. On the ground inside sat a large metal dog bowl.
Oh, my.
"Naughty boys and puppies, and sometimes horses, get put in there," explained Anneka.
"Um, now ... when you say dogs and horses ...?" I stuttered.
"Well, there's one client I see," she offered by way of example. "We spend half an hour just playing fetch and heeling. You know, 'Heel!' "
"Uh huh."
"Equestrian training is a little more difficult," she explained. "It's better outside. But I can move things out of the way here."
"Right," I said, as though I had very similar problems in my line of work; maybe too many pencils on the desk.
As she continued, describing the strapping on of bridles and headgear, I strolled around looking at some of the more unusual "play toys": slings, racks, paddles, blindfolds, collars, masks, and wrist restraints -- which Anneka kindly explained "are to keep men from playing with themselves."
The rusting pair of sheep shears, she assured me, are merely for "psychological torture." The variety of clamps and weights are used for what is apparently called C/B. "That stands for cock and ball torture," elaborated Anneka. "A lot of men are into that."
Yes. This was enough dungeon for me.
Next door, we took a brief look in the "soft room," a small space dressed up to look like Grandma's guest room with daybed, dressing table, and a modest assortment of play toys.
"This is for 'scenes' that aren't really appropriate in a dungeon setting," explained Anneka. "You know, maybe somebody who would rather have June Cleaver come after them with a hairbrush."
In the armoire was a full supply of cross-dressing attire. Like high heel shoes -- in a men's size 14.
As we passed the construction on our way out, I noticed something peculiar leaning against one of the walls: a toilet seat built into a giant plank of wood.
I could not, would not, did not ask.
Making our way back upstairs and out to my car, Anneka and I headed for the center of the Mission, where she lives in a modest studio.
Artwork of her own design lines most of the walls and aside from a few neatly arranged whips and one scary leather mask, the apartment looks like, well, a librarian could live here. As I took a seat at the small table in the kitchen, Mistress Anneka asked me to help undo her corset. She stood with her back to me, and I awkwardly pulled at the long line of crisscrossing strings.
Just then an elaborate fantasy hit me:
Mistress Anneka and I have met on an underground train (the J Church, I think). She coyly invites me back to her place under some flattering pretense. I naively oblige. Once inside, however, she deftly flips me over onto the bed, ties my hands to the posts, and proceeds, using only her teeth, to pluck the hairs from my back, one by one.
Ow!
As I finished loosening her corset, Anneka turned around and snuffed that fantasy out just in time. I made the S/M equivalent of small talk while she set out several cold appetizers and began preparing the main meal.
From the fridge she took a pitcher of homemade gazpacho, her Spanish mother's recipe, and poured me a mug. "A lot of people dress up tomato soup and call it gazpacho," she told me. "But you're going to have the real deal."
Her secret, she explained, is to soak a piece of stale French bread in water, then add it to the blender. This results in the authentic grainy consistency.
It was good.
I asked Anneka about her rate structure. "Two hundred dollars an hour," she said. "There are pro doms that probably charge a little less. But I'm not interested in the bargain shopper. It's a luxury thing. And every time the holidays roll around or the stock market goes down it really impacts us. When the economy sucks, our business sucks."
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