Stories of Work, Part Three; Family [OMG PUBLISHED!]
"My daughter is a prostitute," my Mother announces flatly in her thick Russian accent as she enters my bedroom and sinks slowly down to the floor, glass of wine shaking in her hand.
Damn. I had hoped to avoid this; I had been working at the dungeon for a few months now as a submissive, and was about to take the test to become a switch. In a week I was to become one, one week! I was planning to tell her then. I was going to tell her I was a Mistress: she wouldn't have known the difference. I tried to salvage the situation.
"No, Mum, I'm a Dominatrix, it's different. I beat men, like with sticks and floggers."
"Oh? That is not what the website says."
Fuck. It's worse than I thought; she found my profile. It reads like a smutty novel, all full of perky nipples and firm, round bottoms. I use terms such as "writhe" and "nubile." It's the last thing I want my Father to see, but if my Mother knows, he will too, soon enough.
My Father and I used to run about in our knickers all the time, but a few years back he began to see me as his adult daughter and was uncomfortable if I so much as donned on tight pants around him. My body was no longer that of the child he used to put diapers on, but was now that of a sexual woman, who, by her blood relation to him, made him squirm and avert his eyes at the mere sight of a collarbone.
They knew, and from the way she said it, it was even worse: they knew and misunderstood.
"You are a prostitute," my Mother repeats, tears in her eyes.
Shit. I hate making Mum cry. In my twenty years, I have seen it happen half a dozen times, when our cats ran away and once after a breakup and when her father died. She never weeps.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Mum, I meant to. I'm not a prostitute, I'm a BDSM player, it's different." I speak the way one would to a distressed child.
"How? How are you not a prostitute?"
"Well," I reply, slowly, "they have sex with their clients. I do not."
She knows that I aspire to open up a brothel in Japan one day, but this is not the time to defend the World's Oldest Profession; it's time to distance myself from it as much as I can.
Why did it have to be my submissive profile? Why? I had felt my IQ drop as I was writing the stupid thing.
"It's not what it looks like," I hear myself say.
"Oh? That is not you naked on that website, with your tits for the world to see, like a prostitute?"
"It is," I concede, "but that is not what I am. I don't have sex with my clients, ever. I'm not even nude around them, I always keep my underwear on."
"It does not matter," she retorts in a sheep voice. "You are a prostitute."
I wish she'd vary the terminology. Slut, whore, skank, hooker, hussy, tramp, harlot, trollop, strumpet, tart, painted Jezebel, streetwalker, lady of the night. She doesn't, though, just keeps throwing that word at me, spitting the three syllables at me like an exorcism, a magic spell that would drive away the evil in me. Proz tee tuit. It smarts like a verbal slap, and I'm trying to explain to her the gray area I inhabit, but she speaks only in black and whites right now, and I am far from pure in her eyes.
"We have a girl who is a virgin working there! How can you be a prostitute and a virgin?" She doesn't respond, but she is far from convinced. "Look," I say, trying a different approach, "would you call a stripper a prostitute?" We hate being compared to strippers, but I am getting desperate, and I need to make my point.
"Yes!" she responds vehemently.
Crap. That approach will clearly not help. I try another.
"I like my job," I say. "What I do is legal, we have a panic button that will call the police and fire department, and we have a security guard and John takes very good care of the place--"
"John?" She cuts in. "Is that your pimp?"
"Yes," I snap. "He feeds me cocaine and beats me, Mum." I do not abide insults towards those I care about, not even from my own Mother, not when they are not around to defend themselves. I immediately regret my sarcasm: it was uncalled for, and not conducive to my attempts to pacify her. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. He's not my pimp, Mum, he's a businessman who is on good terms with the police and runs nightclubs out of the dungeon on Saturday nights." I explain to her that what I do is safe, legal, and I enjoy it. It is the best reassurance I can give her right now, and she continues shaking her head and calling me a prostitute, in that sad, dead voice, too tiered to be angry, too disappointed to believe it. She wishes me a good night and informs me that I may no longer live at her house. She will forgive the rent I owe her for this month, but I must leave.
The next day, she calls me at work and tells me that she will not understand why I choose this for myself, she will not allow me to move back in, but most importantly, I must not, under any circumstances, drop out of school. So long as I am still attending college and studying, I may do whatever I wish with my life. She and I still see each other, and she loves me, of course. Once the initial shock wore off, she could cope with it, but it will always be something between us that we cannot agree upon.
Damn. I had hoped to avoid this; I had been working at the dungeon for a few months now as a submissive, and was about to take the test to become a switch. In a week I was to become one, one week! I was planning to tell her then. I was going to tell her I was a Mistress: she wouldn't have known the difference. I tried to salvage the situation.
"No, Mum, I'm a Dominatrix, it's different. I beat men, like with sticks and floggers."
"Oh? That is not what the website says."
Fuck. It's worse than I thought; she found my profile. It reads like a smutty novel, all full of perky nipples and firm, round bottoms. I use terms such as "writhe" and "nubile." It's the last thing I want my Father to see, but if my Mother knows, he will too, soon enough.
My Father and I used to run about in our knickers all the time, but a few years back he began to see me as his adult daughter and was uncomfortable if I so much as donned on tight pants around him. My body was no longer that of the child he used to put diapers on, but was now that of a sexual woman, who, by her blood relation to him, made him squirm and avert his eyes at the mere sight of a collarbone.
They knew, and from the way she said it, it was even worse: they knew and misunderstood.
"You are a prostitute," my Mother repeats, tears in her eyes.
Shit. I hate making Mum cry. In my twenty years, I have seen it happen half a dozen times, when our cats ran away and once after a breakup and when her father died. She never weeps.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Mum, I meant to. I'm not a prostitute, I'm a BDSM player, it's different." I speak the way one would to a distressed child.
"How? How are you not a prostitute?"
"Well," I reply, slowly, "they have sex with their clients. I do not."
She knows that I aspire to open up a brothel in Japan one day, but this is not the time to defend the World's Oldest Profession; it's time to distance myself from it as much as I can.
Why did it have to be my submissive profile? Why? I had felt my IQ drop as I was writing the stupid thing.
"It's not what it looks like," I hear myself say.
"Oh? That is not you naked on that website, with your tits for the world to see, like a prostitute?"
"It is," I concede, "but that is not what I am. I don't have sex with my clients, ever. I'm not even nude around them, I always keep my underwear on."
"It does not matter," she retorts in a sheep voice. "You are a prostitute."
I wish she'd vary the terminology. Slut, whore, skank, hooker, hussy, tramp, harlot, trollop, strumpet, tart, painted Jezebel, streetwalker, lady of the night. She doesn't, though, just keeps throwing that word at me, spitting the three syllables at me like an exorcism, a magic spell that would drive away the evil in me. Proz tee tuit. It smarts like a verbal slap, and I'm trying to explain to her the gray area I inhabit, but she speaks only in black and whites right now, and I am far from pure in her eyes.
"We have a girl who is a virgin working there! How can you be a prostitute and a virgin?" She doesn't respond, but she is far from convinced. "Look," I say, trying a different approach, "would you call a stripper a prostitute?" We hate being compared to strippers, but I am getting desperate, and I need to make my point.
"Yes!" she responds vehemently.
Crap. That approach will clearly not help. I try another.
"I like my job," I say. "What I do is legal, we have a panic button that will call the police and fire department, and we have a security guard and John takes very good care of the place--"
"John?" She cuts in. "Is that your pimp?"
"Yes," I snap. "He feeds me cocaine and beats me, Mum." I do not abide insults towards those I care about, not even from my own Mother, not when they are not around to defend themselves. I immediately regret my sarcasm: it was uncalled for, and not conducive to my attempts to pacify her. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. He's not my pimp, Mum, he's a businessman who is on good terms with the police and runs nightclubs out of the dungeon on Saturday nights." I explain to her that what I do is safe, legal, and I enjoy it. It is the best reassurance I can give her right now, and she continues shaking her head and calling me a prostitute, in that sad, dead voice, too tiered to be angry, too disappointed to believe it. She wishes me a good night and informs me that I may no longer live at her house. She will forgive the rent I owe her for this month, but I must leave.
The next day, she calls me at work and tells me that she will not understand why I choose this for myself, she will not allow me to move back in, but most importantly, I must not, under any circumstances, drop out of school. So long as I am still attending college and studying, I may do whatever I wish with my life. She and I still see each other, and she loves me, of course. Once the initial shock wore off, she could cope with it, but it will always be something between us that we cannot agree upon.