I recently met a wonderful submissive in NYC named Bob. He was a sweet man with a certain joie de vivre than made you smile. His fetish was fur and over the years collected so much it truly bordered on obsession.
He wasn’t overtly sexual but loved the feeling of fur being run across his skin and the pleasure it brought him. I think he also loved the fact that I never judged his life or loves and would always have a wonderful conversation afterwards. As a older gentlemen with decreasing mobility I would even walk up the street with him and his bags of furs, stopping at the coffee shop next to apartment.
I didn’t know Bob well but do believe I left an indelible mark on his life and soul. I was more than the dominatrix that created his scenery but I was also the kind ear that would listen to him and never judge who he was. He loaned me fur from time to time, and I even wore one to Lincoln Center last year. It’s really my only connection to him now.
Bob passed away.
Some dominatrices completely separate their lives from their jobs and personas. I tend not to. I love the quirks and stories and passion and heartaches and joys that these people share with me. I can morph from strict bitch to caring therapist (no, I’m not a licensed therapist) in the same session. I do invest emotional capital.
I didn’t know Bob well and only played with him a few times but it was always a joy to see him on my trips to NYC, even if it was just to grab a cup of coffee and laugh.
I miss Bob. I hope I brought him happiness.