Whore Next Door: Queen to Queen

Our eyes met across a crowded hallway, my hand raised high in the air and wielding a leather paddle with with the word “slut” emblazoned on it in silver studs. With a stranger bent over in front of me, I, in my Dr. Frank-N- Furter-inspired domintatrix gear — complete with a leather jacket to protect me from the arctic AC — hawked spankings at the kink.com booth at the Adult Entertainment Expo in Las Vegas. I was spreading the gospel of #GiveYourMoneyToWomen with my fellow Divine Bitches when I first saw her.

Our booth was conveniently located right next to the women's restroom, which made the sometimes-obnoxious crowd of passing fans tolerable, as the babe-watching was top notch.

She was something out of an old Hollywood black-and-white classic. I've always been a little sad that I'll never truly understand how breathtaking Jayne Mansfield was in person, as she'd been resting peacefully in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery for more than a decade by the time I was born. But the latex-clad blonde bombshell I saw making her way back from the ladies' room looked like she'd walked straight out of a 1950s Cineplex and into of the Hard Rock Hotel.

She winked at me, mouthing “Hi” as my hand came down and smartly smacked the ass of the stranger who had just given me $20. I felt a hungry smile spread across my face.

“Hi,” I mouthed back.

I didn't see her again for several months, but I found her Instagram account and periodically scrolled through it late at night, before bed.

Then, last month, I ran into her again.

I was instantly self-conscious that I wasn't wearing more makeup. Peacocking for another femme means you have to bring your A-game — but at least I'd worn heels.

I tried to temper my excitement, as she wasn't alone. A cute little brunette that I recognized from her social media was on her arm.

They approached me. I tried to play it cool, but our eyes locked like they had in Vegas and we said hello, back and forth, an unnecessary amount of times.

Eventually she introduced the brunette as her submissive, and we went outside to smoke. As we attempted to make conversation through our starry eyes, her submissive eagerly provided ash service, letting us flick our respective combustibles into her soft pink palms.

Though this BDSM bombshell was very clearly in a serious D/s relationship, she wasn't courting me to add to her ranks of submissive sluts. She was approaching me as an equal — queen to queen.

She runs with a tough crowd — a close-knit community of lesbian lifestyle kinksters who not only make their living as larger-than-life fem-dom characters, but who also extend their kink expertise into their personal lives and relationships.

Though my boyfriend is a trained submissive, he's in service to his other partner, a much more serious fem dom. (I just play one on TV.)

Still, lifestyle BDSM is near and dear to my heart, and it became more apparent by the minute that this girl was the Barbie-doll prom queen in a vampire coven of Sapphic-witch Pink Ladies. I had to convince her I could hang.

On our first official date — brunch with a side of bookstore — her submissive also accompanied us, fetching beverages, opening doors, and generally doing everything she could to make our date go smoothly.

Then, on our second date, we were finally on our own at yet another industry event — but before we could finish our first cocktail, a submissive from the community offered his service to us for the evening. We sat close to each other as he brought us plate after plate of food from the fancy buffet. We picked at them like princesses, feeding each other cake pops and honey comb, kissing as he refilled our coffee cups before we even realized they needed refilling.

“What are we going to do on our third date if there's no one around to wait on us?” she scoffed as we finished our last plate of lamb, playing footsie under the table with our matching d'Orsay heels.

“I'll bring my boyfriend!” I replied, neglecting to mention that I'd definitely need to ask his Mistress' permission first, and feeling instantly like a teenager hoping to borrow my mom's car.

I may be good at acting the part, but I have a long way to go before I can say I'm a true card-carrying member of the Dominatrix Empire.

Luckily, her slave was available to cook us dinner for date No. 3.

Phew.

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