So this one time I turn up for a trick, nursing 2 broken ribs—willingly accrued & resplendent—for a “straight couple” in Rozelle, Sydney. & yes, that splatterfukk adultmatchmaker.com does at times come through with the curious (though I won’t say adventurous) hets, & here we have a florist & a game designer in their happy sandstone & frangipani home, plus your Hilariously Erudite authorial guide, for some femme domme/sissification humiliation.
Their dog ‘Arto’—though I’m sure ‘he’ prefers the spelling ‘Artaud’—is a huge white Boxer that has its own couch & whom I’ve been eyeing none-too-stealthily since I arrived & received its wet-nose marks on my crotch (vide infra). They got Artaud from some animal rescue place, and Artaud had been “trained to make sex films” (evidently some mind/crotch-numbing hetero argot), his porn cameo calling being to “push open the door & interrupt” (i.e. fukk & knot poor wifey) when it hears them “making love” (again, the baragouin). Naturally, they feel really bad for Artaud, but have necessarily established numerous strategies to delimit & contain such “behaviour”.
So, there would seem to be (some number of) websites offering behaviour modification regimes specific to post-porno pooches (oh don’t we smell a thesis grant there ppl! An under-theorized genre, no doubt!), and they have introduced a regimen that amounts to attempts to:
- a) play porn around lil Artaud to get it used to the sound of fukking,
- b) maintain ye olde locked door,
- c) enact firm disciplinary reactions re. any transgression, with the implicit addendums:
- d) pretend they aren’t into it, &
- e) not mention it at dinner parties. (Evidently the reason they’re so willing to follow my obtuse & time-consuming questioning on the matter.)
Now, whilst I’m conversant with the history of Ethology, Socio-Biology (& their ever so cleaner-newer sister, Evolutionary Psychology), & thus find no small measure of humour in the models of Mind underlying their strategies, being in the room with such a hot mess of trained sentience has me Quite Simmering. And what with the attendant fantasies of those old Nazis Konrad Lorenz & Von Holst (necessarily in cardigans) nodding over this hot experiment in ‘Degraded Stimulus Phenomena’—namely, Artaud interrupting our tawdry scene to fukk me—I can barely keep up with the long-winded confessions of the two proprietary bipeds.
Perhaps it is more to the point to say that I spent a significant portion of my “formative years” getting eaten out by the family dogs out in the shed, trying to get other people’s dogs to fuck me, & developing lengthy & complicated fantasies involving circus and laboratory scenarios populated by larger carnivores, and/or Scythian horsemen & their bleeding, expiring mounts. Which is to say, my Father-surrogate. As such, I’m somewhat more interested in Artaud than these two nervous pre-verts. Though if he’d live up to his namesake & could sprout some new organs (viz. To Have Done with the Judgment of God (1947))—say, opposable thumbs with which to flick through a healthy stack of $100 notes—I’d liquidate these two & move right in (Freud’s analytic caninophilia be damned).
Insofar as we are still waiting on a bored biotech-magnate to finance ‘“The Island of Dr. Haraway”’, or indeed engineer Bulgakov’s famously dissolute Citizen-Canine (Heart of a Dog (1925)), I must at pains return to more droll concerns. Mr. Gameboy has talked her into letting him be “dominated by a shemale,”, & wants her to watch as I degrade & torture him. & honey, I’ll facilitate this petit-bourgeois boredom until their unicorns come home to roost. While I usually avoid The Forced Feminization / Sissy Humiliation shtick (& indeed have a template essay-manifesto reply for such requests), getting paid for my lazy Shibari, some half-hearted degradation, & seeing him in my clothes whilst internally grooming the relevant transfeminist rant will have to do.PULL QUOTE:
As hubby’s getting into it, & ostensibly ringing Pavlov’s bell, Artaud starts clawing the door like crazy (viz. Voyage to Tarahumaras (1936)), & it sounds like he’ll actually break it in. Slurp. All I want is Art’s weight & smell on me, the knot-shock, & to simultaneously start breathily addressing the aforementioned rant at these two Homo Sap-iens (viz. ‘Theatre of Cruelty’ (1958)). Imagining the this particular tableau reflected in their chrome & glass “It actually featured in Better Homes & Gardens” kitchen, it all seems quite the Wishful Archetypal Moment.
While they offer embarrassed excuses & rush to placate a frantic Artaud, I realize that anything less than such a dreamy outcome that unfolds after this will be Miss Muchly Insufferable, so I feign a sudden sickness, & inasmuch as they misread this as a courteous signal that their shameful marital ordeal can be over, my fee is fully extant & appreciatively parted with. Upon leaving, I survey the nature of their property barriers, & make an indelible note of their address in the Mind in my theory of Mind.
This piece appears as one of several amazing outcall whore stories from Regrette Etcetera in The Lifted Brow #29 — grab a your copy or subscribe and we’ll post you a copy immediately. You can also read the piece online in full as part of the digital version of our magazine.
Regrette Etcetera is decribed as “Kathy Acker’s X-Files or Alfred Jarry as a Cockette” and is a Sydney-based performer, writer, activist, costumier, DJ (Meta Etc.), & whore, with a very marketable set of identity descriptors.