Nothing is real in the dungeon. We call each other names that aren’t ours. We produce fantasies. We pretend to be friends and acquaintances and trusted saviors from the conventional. But in all reality, we’re just a bunch of women trying to make money. By lying. That’s what the sex industry is: a bunch of smoke and mirrors. If we’re good at what we do, then you see what we want you to see.
Maybe that’s why, as a safety precaution, most of us say little about who we are outside of the dungeon, and the stuff we do say is probably fake. There is no union. No united guild. No Better Business Bureau or office of anti-discrimination. At the turn of a dime, you can get fired. All it takes is a bad word, some doubt, and an itchy resolve – all of which are in abundance at the dungeon. Comradery – and the appearance of it – is what helps you get by and excel at this business.
However, as any junior high school student will let you know, you don’t make friends by being yourself; you make friends by fitting in. And fitting in takes lying, or at the very least, finagling the truth. When your livelihood is at stake, it’s better to be in control of peoples’ perceptions of you than be at their whim.
See the red-haired girl at the kitchen corner, typing away on her Mac laptop? She’s sweet as pie. Can’t raise her voice past a squeak. A Barnard senior who loves kink in her personal life. In her spare time, she likes appeasing her dom boyfriend and planning her escape to Ireland, where she’ll live after her Ivy League graduation.
The goth girl wearing all purple? Her mother used to lock her up in the basement. Her mother’s boyfriends were allowed to tie her up to chairs to make sure that she was quiet and stayed in one place. That’s why she’s so accustomed to the rigors of our job. Now she’s a pill-head and a beauty school graduate.
The short, black girl wearing the dress? She’s a dancer and dance instructor who’s shopping around the pilot of her new reality TV show. If it all pans out, MTV or VH1 will pick it up in the Fall line-up and she can leave behind domming – something she’d love to do, since it contradicts her Christian beliefs.
The voluptuous and busty blonde with dirty feet? She’s a Pratt graduate and former stripper from Rhode Island. Her mom can bake you the most excellent ginger bread. She’s currently homeless and feeling down on her luck. Any second now, she’s sure, she’s going to get fired (again) from our job.
The tall black girl with the lazy eye? She’s a native New Jerseyian who’s been tried for prostitution – but of course she didn’t do anything! It was all the cops’ fault. They handled the case wrong. They set her up. They were the defendants at the trial – not her. She knows politicians, judges, and other officials.
The dark-haired beauty with the thigh-high boots? She’s got a bitch streak that runs the span of the Rio Grande. But don’t let that fool you – she’s really a sweetheart. A whore with a heart of gold, as the cliche goes. Despite her overtly domineering ways, you’ll love her by the time your time at the dungeon is up.
The Hispanic girl with auburn hair? She’s quiet, I know. Spends most of her time in front of the TV in the common area. Reads books sometimes. Has bags under her eyes that are deep as the Grand Canyon. She’s an army brat who used to work at a peep show. She married a guy in the military just for the benefits.
And me? I’m the busty Asian girl who, when not in the dungeon, works a 9 to 5. I’m the overachiever who’s prone to manic-depression. I take zyprexa to help stabilize my mood. Otherwise, I’m liable to kill a client. Since I’m on my medication, I’m the nicest dom you’ll ever meet. Everybody at the dungeon loves me.
There are other girls. Dozens of us that get hired, then fired or quit with an air of indignation or give up on making money or simply never come back.
In the course of a year, it’s not uncommon for 70 girls to get hired, even though no more than 20 will be working at any given time. The dungeon elevator is a revolving door of employment.
How much of the above is true? How much is conjecture? How much is pure bullshit? I guess I’ll never know. And that’s the way it should be. There’s a mystique and an allure about us: we are actors who relish sexiness and like to dole out pain. We’re the kinky freaks whose cum you smell from our panties as you slap our asses with your bare hands. We love to look at your cocks, love to tease and humiliate you, love to wrack your brain.
At least, that’s who we are some of the time.
Like I said, it’s all smoke and mirrors, honey. I wouldn’t be doing my job right if you didn’t believe all of that. And let’s face it, you want to believe it, don’t you?
You want full disclosure?
That’s never gonna happen.
But I’ll say this much: I’m an honest person, and none of what’s known about me is true.