How Being a Bisexual Pro-Domme made me Gayer... and helped me heal with men.
On patriarchy and power...a journey through time.
Image from kinkinthecure on Pixabay
March 2026
“Can I touch your feet, Mistress?” he blurted.
Desperate after a scolding for bad behavior.
“Absolutely not.” I barked.
Confident that I had no desire to let this man touch any part of me ever again. Even if it was for my pleasure.
“On your hands and knees,” I commanded.
He obeyed, ass bare, arm muscles straining under his own weight.
“Is commenting on your Mistress’s appearance appropriate in this dungeon?” I asked quietly, sultrily but sternly over his ear, as I grazed his ass with my nails.
“No, Mistress.” he replied softly, shamefully.
“And why not?”
“Because a woman’s body is not a topic open for discussion. The patriarchy is not my fault but is my responsibility.”
“Good boy… count for me.”
Thwack.
“One…”
Thwack.
“Two…”
Thwack.
“Three…”
Five years as a Pro-Domme and having control over men had become my second language. Boundaries rigid and non-penetrable, paid dominance became the curtain of liberation protecting my womanly form. But these skills were certainly not taught in school, in fact, the exact opposite was conditioned.
21 years earlier…
Eighth grade (1st semester), Age 13
My ass and breasts were burgeoning, and the boys were noticing.
I got to hear about it on the bus ride home.
“I heard about your bow tie” Brandon remarked casually as he slid into the hot brown leather seat beside me.
“My what?” I asked, mildly mortified because I knew exactly what he was talking about.
“Your g-string has a bow on the top. All the guys were talking about it in the locker room today.”
It was true. My friend Kylie and I had bought our first thongs in the mall on our percussion trip to Savannah not too long before. It felt mature to be wearing thongs, but it also was expected so as not to have panty lines in our jeans.
“Oh, really?” I replied with a nervous giggle, unsure if I was supposed to feel humiliated or excited about this information. Nevertheless, my stomach tightened.
A remembrance floated back to me from earlier in the day.
I was kneeling at my bottom locker when I heard a stirring around me before a teacher called out, “Get to class everyone!” I had felt some sort of energy around me, but by the time I turned around, everyone was gone. Apparently a small group of boys had formed to take in the site of my “bow tie” sticking out of my pants.
As Brandon boasted this news to me, a newly familiar understanding sank in. This is how it felt to be desired by men.
It felt oppressive, it felt invasive, it felt mildly exciting.
It felt like my growing parts gave me status into their locker room conversations. Into their minds and thoughts. I wasn’t necessarily one of the popular kids, but puberty had given me a way to be noticed by them.
With increasing frequency, I would feel a slight brush on my ass in the hallways and turn to see one of them behind me, looking away.
For them, it was a successful quest with a gem of pride to bring back to the others in the locker room.
For me, it was confusing and violating, yet it came with a new status:
The status of their desire.
Eighth grade (2nd semester), Age 14
“Wanna meet?” my flip phone buzzed. It was Austin.
We had been flirting on AIM lately talking about the potential of skipping class to meet up. The idea was exciting, thrilling even, but I didn’t know what would actually happen when we got there.
I imagined us tucking away into a bathroom, flirting, and maybe kissing in a stall. Our timing had been off the past few times he texted, me in my favorite class, Spanish, which was not a class I was willing to skip for a boy! But this time, I was sitting in the back of band class, and he was out at PE.
“Okay, I’ll head over in five.” I replied, feeling my newly forming inner rebel shining through.
I sweetly asked my percussion teacher to be excused to the bathroom, hall pass in hand. He signed with a slight question in his eye, and I pushed open the heavy door.
Freedom spoke in the quiet white halls. My footsteps echoed as I turned the corner.
Austin was already there, leaning against the wall, still wearing his capture-the-flag belt around his waist. His bronzed mixed skin still glistening with sweat from the heat.
“Hey,” I said as I approached, butterflies fluttering inside.
“Hey,” he smiled, extending his arms open for a hug.
“How’d you get out of PE?” I asked casually, as I slid my body into his.
“Ms. Evans loves me,” he smirked, squeezing me tight.
As I went to pull away, his arms lingered, tightening around my waist as he tilted his head down towards my lips. It was faster than I had expected, but I went with it. This was what we were here to do after all, right?
At first, there was a sweep of passion. Our lips moved, his hands groped my back under my shirt. This is what it’s supposed to feel like, I thought, comparing this to the few less passionate make-outs I had had in my young life.
But then he slipped his tongue in, wet and unskillful, breath hot, and suddenly I wasn’t enjoying it as much. I realized we were in the hallway, and anyone could walk by and see. We hadn’t tucked into the bathroom like in my fantasy. Though of course, I hadn’t thought out the details of which gendered bathroom we would have entered in my fantasy.
I tried to pull away to reassess, but his grip tightened. Before I could protest, he used his force to turn us and push me up against the wall, using his body weight to keep me there as his lips continued pressing into mine. I pulled my mouth away, “Austin, let’s meet up this weekend instead, I don’t want to be in the hallway, someone could see.”
No release.
“Austin, please” I retorted as I tried pushing his strong body off of mine.
No release.
Our lips kept fumbling together as I felt my panic rising.
“Hey, stop, I don’t want to do this anymore.”
He didn’t seem to be listening.
Finally, footsteps sounded in our periphery, and he stepped back enough for me to break free. I rushed past him and back down the hall as fast as I could, telling him I’d text him later… My people pleasing tendencies still in high gear through my fear.
As I re-entered the band room, I felt defeated. I felt embarrassed. I felt violated, and I felt like it was my fault. I had chosen to go out and meet him after all, hadn’t I?
My friend Devon turned to me from his snare drum, “What took you so long? Were you pooping?” he smirked playfully.
“No,” I replied with too much seriousness in my voice.
Another friend, David, offered some concern, but I couldn’t talk about it. What was I supposed to say?
People were giggling and joyous as we packed up our things to leave. I felt like I was in another world. Hollow and void, yet full of too much emotion. I swallowed it down, but a lump in my throat remained.
I wished I had just stayed in band with all these happy, normal people and had a wholesome time pretending I knew how to read music for the Xylophone or switching off with one of the wooden shakers.
I got my things together and headed out to the bus. As we headed home, I gave my friend, Carrie, a vague lecture on why she shouldn’t let boys take advantage of her… I guess it was the closest I could get to sharing what had just happened to me. The rest was for me to sit with silently, insides slowly contorting.
Summer after Freshman year of college, Age 19
“Five, Six, Seven, Eight!” I counted off as my eight and nine year old campers broke into their routine, the one that I had choreographed for the talent show that coming weekend.
“You guys are gonna do so great,” I rejoiced proudly as they finished. “I’m going on my day off, but I’ll come back early to see you perform! I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Yay!” they all squealed.
Payton, a cutie I had gone to camp with as a kid was now a handsome college man and fellow camp counselor that I had been fooling around with that summer. He had offered to take me with him to UGA for the weekend to party on our day off. I agreed excitedly, but told him I just needed a ride back early before the talent show. He said he could make that happen.
After a night of drinking, we were back in his small dorm room bunk bed making out. We were starting to get hot and heavy when I felt his hand on my head trying to push it down. I resisted for a few moments, pretending not to notice, until he started to persist.
“Would you just put your mouth on it?” he pressed.
“No, sorry” I stammered, “I don’t want to.”
“What the hell? Have you not done it before?”
“I have, I just… don’t do it with everyone.”
“Well, do you want to have sex then?”
“Um, no, heh, I don’t want to do that either.” I managed.
“Seriously? Are you a virgin?” he groaned, annoyed.
“No, but I kind of only do that with people I… love… or have a relationship with?” I retaliated, trying to sound kind even though he was being a jerk.
“Hmphhh, whatever” he groaned again, drunk and apparently appalled.
“We could do other stuff?” I tried.
But he had already rolled over to go to sleep.
When I woke up, he was gone, and I was left stranded. He didn’t give me a ride back early for the talent show, and my kids performed without me there.
My shoulders hunched and my insides raged as I learned that my sexual boundaries inadvertently caused me harm and punishment.
12 years later…
January 2024, Age 31
“I thought you were gonna use it in my ass!” he exclaimed, heat rising in his face. “I cleaned for you.”
“It’s for your mouth” I said gently. taking the dildo from his hand. “I charge extra for ass play.”
“Oh, so you’re gonna nickel and dime me now?” he cried out, composure slipping. His neck already secured in a leather collar with a leash connecting him to my hand.
“No, we already discussed this. It seems we had a misunderstanding.”
I was in my first few years as a Professional Dominatrix, I was still working my way out of my people pleasing tendencies, finding my power.
“Let’s talk about it and get on the same page before we start,” I said, keeping my composure.
“So are we gonna just process the whole session?” he spit, his state of trigger finding no way back down.
“I’m not comfortable continuing while you’re dis-regulated. Let’s see if we can take some deep breaths.” I offered, trying to sooth him with some grounding soft touch.
“C’mon, Mistress! Beat me already!”
We went through this cycle for another ten minutes or so with him only calming slightly, but after the fifth time he complained, I fawned.
I feared for what he would do if I didn’t. But in my head, I thought, he’ll see. He’ll see that I was right.
After one more soft and soothing touch on his back, I kicked into full gear. I spanked his ass and demolished his balls. I gagged him with the dildo and pulled on his leash. I tapped into my rage against all the men who had hurt me. All the men that had pushed and violated. I was in control now and he had begged me to do it.
So I did.
But it didn’t feel right. I saw myself floating above the scene with each outcry.
We had both left our bodies. Me, to go through with the session when my gut was telling me no, and him, to not feel the pain of the feelings he was trying to avoid.
The physical pain was easier.
When the session came to a close, we were both unwell. I asked him how he was going to take care of himself after, and he said, “I don’t know. Pizza and a cigarette probably,” eyes hollow.
The next day, after six months of weekly healing work, he ended our professional relationship.
It was then that the narrative shifted. My sexual boundaries did still cause male chaos that could inadvertently harm me, but also, not holding them caused way more harm to everyone involved.
One year later…
March 2025 Age 33
“Now take a spin for me.” I directed, sitting in my chair and watching this sexy bi man spin in his women’s lingerie.
“Yes, Daddy,” he cooed, twirling, happy to be seen in his true desire.
“You are such a sexy good girl in those panties. Now get down and crawl for me.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
My boundaries had strengthened and I had stopped bending. I only offered what turned me on and brought me pleasure, and I dominated men (and sometimes women and queers) in the way I wanted to. I never pushed past my gut instincts again, and instead used them as my ultimate guide.
The men who showed up wanted me to be strong and on top. They were paying for the ability to let go and surrender, to be in a strong container where they couldn’t slip up. Or if they did, that they’d be punished for. They wanted to be held accountable, to know where the limits stood.
Almost no one pushed.
Touch was one way, from me to them unless I permitted them to rub my feet at the end of a session. And they were so grateful when they earned it. They wanted to please. They wanted to be good and to be told how good they were.
Patriarchy was finally flipped upside-down.
And it was healing for all parties involved.
But after a long day’s work, the last thing I wanted to do was go home and deal with another man. So it was a relief when I was dating a woman.
Sophia was a goddess. Tall, dark haired, curvy yet athletic, and as sensual as I.
My body could relax right into arousal with her, feeling my wetness pool from a single kiss. Her hands and body, soft, and non- threatening. Her desire for me, electrifying rather than oppressive. Releasing me rather than pressuring me.
“You’re sooo sexy” we would both exclaim, breathless, naked, moist and writhing on each other’s thighs.
It made sense to beat men during the day and make love to a woman at night. To feel the contrast of soft skin and lips on mine. To have space from the dynamics of power or patriarchy staring at us in the bedroom.
With women, I never had to explain what it was like to be a woman. How our bodies worked, what our cycles were like. We started on the same page, as equals. We knew the plight of the male gaze, the oppression, the assaults. We knew how to not be that for each other.
I got to feel how it felt to be on “the man’s side.” Always being in the mood, always wanting it. Feeling excited all day at the potential of a sexcapade that night. The mystery of whether rather than the knowing I could always have it. It was hot, it was powerful, and I was GAY.
“I’m going to try on lesbianism!” I exclaimed to many of my friends, determined to write off men as dating partners forever.*
But, unfortunately, even with two women together, we actually still weren’t completely free from our patriarchal conditioning. I got to see first-hand how deep the conditioning went on the other side. Some went past their no’s. Some said yes when they meant no. Some would say no, then get aroused and say yes.
Early on in my exploration, this horrified me. I never wanted to put a woman in that place that I had been put.
I never pressured anyone, but it didn’t matter. They were pressuring themselves. Internal wiring still firing subconsciously even though the situation had changed.
We had all had those experiences with un-evolved men early on, and our psyches were trying to protect us from danger before that could happen again, even if that wasn’t the case in the present moment.
Nevertheless, women excited me in a way men never had, so I was determined to move forward in a life where men only existed below me.
February 2026 Age 34
“Are you gonna leave me like this?” he asked, gesturing to his throbbing cock.
“Yes, I am.” I said confidently.
My inner-Domme guiding the show.
“Okay.” he said.
My girlfriend and I had broken up, and an adorable bisexual man had moved in down the hall of my apartment complex. So much for lesbianism…
I was conflicted.
He was gorgeous, sweet, and kept making me dinner. But this didn’t line up well with my “men only exist below me” rule.
How could I see a man as an equal partner when I had come to believe their place was at my feet?
After a lot of mental gymnastics, I decided to give it a try, telling him, I was still mostly gay, and I didn’t know if I wanted to be with a man long term.
He said no problem, and we started dating.
Early on, I panicked. I couldn’t turn my Domme off.
Was I broken?
All my conditioning that I had undone as a Domme, flooded back to me.
I worried what would happen if I didn’t want to have sex when he did. If I couldn’t match his desire? If he did things that were a turn off? Would I have to pretend? Would I have to people- please?
It was easy (enough) to have boundaries with my clients and with men in casual hookups, but being in a relationship with one after so long? Was I going to have to change?
Sexually, it was hard at first. I felt on edge for many months because I didn’t want to go into old conditioning of doing anything that didn’t feel good to me. I was guarded and still dreaming of women, the ease of arousal and physical safety they brought, but I decided I was going to stay true to myself this time from the very beginning.
I didn’t want to touch his cock every time he was hard.
So I didn’t.
I didn’t want to feel obligated to make him cum if I didn’t feel like it.
So I didn’t.
I didn’t even always want to hang out when he did.
So I didn’t.
I couldn’t turn my Domme off. But it turned out, it wasn’t a problem.
He never huffed. He never got mad. He never used it against me.
Once, when I told him with some grief and unsureness that I just didn’t want to touch his cock when I didn’t feel like touching it, he said,
“Well, frankly, I don’t want you to touch my cock when you don’t want to either.”
That wasn’t the response I had grown up with.
Why was something so simple and respectful, so novel?
Patriarchy had taught us that being in relationship with a man meant keeping the man happy. If you could keep him happy, even at your expense, he would protect you.
A woman’s sexuality was the currency for that protection. For that love.
Sacrifice was normal. And the emotional labor or potential danger that saying “no” could bring, didn’t always feel worth it.
So in past relationships, I had let it come out quietly as I endured discomfort or went past my own limits to make sure they were comfortable. Because that’s what I had been taught to do.
But as a Domme, I didn’t have to play that game.
And with the right man, it turns out I didn’t have to either.
My Domme self wasn’t keeping me from love with a man… She was keeping me whole while having it.
My Domme knew what She wanted and what She didn’t.
She knew pleasure should be centered around Her.
She knew men were happiest when they could be devotional and contained in clear boundaries.
She knew women were meant to be in their full power, to be worshiped, to be cared for just for existing.
That Her presence and attention were gifts only offered to those deserving, not something to be given freely.
She knew She was a Queen.
And finally,
I was being treated like one, too.
But it didn’t end there…
May 2026 Age 34
My (now) boyfriend from down the hall was topping me one night, and he called me a “good girl” while I pleasured him.
I flinched.
I didn’t want to be called a good girl for doing anything for his pleasure. It felt oppressive, held in the same system I dommed myself so carefully out of.
I only wanted to be called a good girl for things that made me feel like a good girl. Like taking care of myself. Taking a bath. Giving feedback for what felt good and what didn’t. Opening to pleasure. Relaxing. Those were things that made me feel like a “good girl.”
But I was curious about something, so I asked him to try calling me a “good boy.”
He did, and suddenly something totally shifted. As a good boy with another man, patriarchy could leave the room. The baggage of being a woman below a man left with it. I could relax and take on the roll in a whole new way. I was safe.
The imbalance of our upbringings had become majorly evident when I talked to bisexual men over the years. They spoke of their boundaries and discomforts in a completely different way than I ever had the privilege to as a woman.
“We were cuddling and then he got a boner, which I felt so invaded by,” one said.
Oh, I thought, we’re allowed to admit that that feels invasive? I thought that was just how it was.
“I’m just not into guys with facial hair,” said another.
Oh, we’re allowed to have preferences about their facial features? I thought. If I was that picky, I’d never find anyone to be with.
“I just didn’t feel safe enough to let him top me,” said yet another.
Oh, that must be nice to have a choice for when you choose to be vulnerable with men or not.
These conversations made me envious in a way that they couldn’t understand. These preferences were obvious to them because of how they were conditioned.
Being raised on top, gave them choice.
It wasn’t just their privilege that I was envious of in these situations, but of their learned sense of safety and choice around their boundaries. They weren’t taught what women were about pushing past to please, and that made me truly sad.
Of course, as so many of my submissive male clients have grieved to me, there’s a struggle being taught to exist only on top as well. To always be the big spoon, to be the sturdy one, to be the rock in heteronormative relationships. Men have plenty of their own issues, many stemming from the same system of patriarchy, but just not the same ones as women.
And this piece, is about a woman.
June 2026 Age 34
“Sorry about my weirdness of energy at the end of the night last night” my boyfriend said in a Whatsapp voice note at 8am. “I guess I was just feeling emotionally rejected because the night didn’t end sexually, and it is my conditioning to feel like that wasn’t a success. But I had such a good time with you doing everything from dinner to watching the show, so that’s just silly! I’m feeling much better now.”
I responded, “And I felt guilty for not putting out, for being a tease for turning you on and not following through. I wanted to be feeling sexual, but I was just so tired. But I’m not going to go past my boundaries, and I know you don’t want me to do that either.”
“Let’s keep talking about it, we agree. Let’s find ways to stay connected in the discomfort.”
And the next night, we came simultaneously, jovially, and whole heartedly before he left town.
Discussion
I’ve been lucky to have only experienced minor assaults (in comparison to many women), but that doesn’t feel like an award to win. Assault should not be the norm, and the few I expanded on were ones that left a strong impact, but the list of a lifetime of living in a woman’s body adds up and goes on and on.**
Patriarchy is a system where men are taught the importance of their pleasure. They are not taught about women’s pleasure. Women are not taught about women’s pleasure. Boys are taught to push for what they want and shove down their emotions, and girls are taught to be nice and endure discomfort.
For these reasons, bisexuality can’t be an equal desire that comes out the same way towards men and women (and all the other gender fluidities on the spectrum) because we don’t live in equality. We weren’t raised in equality. Loving men and loving women come with different baggage and challenges, as well as with different benefits and joys.
But both bisexuality and BDSM play can give us knowledge about what it might be like on the other side. And that is where power and healing lie. Compassion and understanding can shuffle to the forefront.
I am still queer as fuck and absolutely rejoice in being with women, but rewriting the script with men has also been liberating. There truly are some great ones out there.
I have found so much hope for us even within the patriarchy, as long as we keep playing and fucking our way out of it, one queer way at a time.