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The Peculiar Political Economics of Pro-Domming

lumpenproletariat meme 1“So, I figured out what happened to Jane,” the dungeon manager said.

“Oh?”

“My friend ran into her the other day. She’s a cop now.”

“I guess that makes some kind of sense ,” I said.

“Mmhhmm. She can beat-up people legally now.”

That’s the punchline. Do you get it? Let me take all the humor out of it by explaining: in most U.S. jurisdictions, professional dommes are criminalized under prostitution laws 1, and police can de facto brutalize whoever they want, especially if that person is Black like the dungeon manager is. Her joke isn’t funny-ha-ha; it’s ironic. It’s also funny-strange: why would a fascist like Jane spend years working as a petty criminal?

I’m going to hazard a guess and say that Jane bought the popular line about pro-dommes. It seems we’ve confused dressing up in Slutty Cop Halloween costumes and consensually slapping men’s scrotums with having real power. And when I say “we,” I don’t just mean Jane and other BDSM pros. I mean everyone. I mean, look at this recent example of how the media covers professional domination:

“The new group Dommes for Bernie placed an ad on Manhattan’s Backpage.com classifieds on Friday, calling for Wall Street workers to step up for punishment worthy of the Bernie Sanders presidential platform,” Mary Emily O’Hara writes at The Daily Dot. Both O’Hara and the DfB present ad copy as testament to a reality in which pro-dommes really do discipline our clients. “We think it’s poetic justice to dominate men who benefit from capitalism, and then donate their tributes to a candidate who stands up for those most harmed by it,” O’Hara quotes one of the dommes as saying. I fail to see the poetry or the justice of a man quite happily paying a woman for a highly gendered form of labor, and the woman taking her money and doing with it as she sees fit—in this case, donating to a center-left candidate for the presidency of a neocolonial empire that stands on stolen land.

But then, I also don’t see how a half dozen or so fin-dommes have transformed “fuck you, pay me” dirty talk into a semi-coherent rhetoric of wealth redistribution on certain strains of social justice Twitter. It seems obvious to me that gamely paying $20 in Amazon gift cards for a carefully calibrated performance of sexualized bitchiness is not full communism. Where did everyone else get it twisted?

Tiny Tuesdays: Part Fetish Night, Part Keep Portland Weird

This week I stopped by Tiny Tuesday at Lucky Devil Lounge (633 SE Powell). The ad boasted that all dancers would stand under five feet, there’s a three and half foot tall host, mini bottle service, a free drink for any customer under five feet, and “customers under 4 feet drink free all night!”

I was surprised by the amount of male customers taking advantage of the free drinks thing. When a friend asked what it had been like, I said that there were kind of a lot of little people in attendance, “Well, there were three dudes at one table…”

“Was it Mini Kiss? Are they in town?”

Talking Dirty with Tonya Jone Miller


I was flipping through BUST magazine last month when I came across a story about a Portland-based phone sex operator who makes all sorts of cash talking about food fetishes. Impressed and intrigued, the first thing that came to my mind was my all-time favorite South Park episode where Stan’s dad gets caught jerking off while watching the Food Network late at night. After his wife blocks the channel, he starts calling the Food Network hotline and talks to a sultry-voiced woman about deglazing and how moist the pan roasted chicken is. So when I heard about Tonya Jone Miller, I was beyond thrilled to think that conversations like this really happen in the non-animated world, and that a real live woman might be getting rich bringing foodie fantasies to life.
To my disappointment, Tonya tells me that the food fetish thing isn’t super-common but was a fun angle for the story, which appeared in BUST’s food issue. She is, however, a successful, full-time indie phone sex operator with plenty to say about her business.

Nothing To Sneeze At

From what I can tell, a sneeze fetish is more about the journey than the destination. While you may consider face covering an action that stops the spreading of germs, to a fetishist you’re hiding all the subtle intricacies of pre-sneeze face. I don’t completely relate, but I do enjoy a good sneeze as much as the next person. Or rather, I get filled with rage when I’m about to sneeze and some jerkoff thinks it’s funny to yell “bananas!” and sabotage me. (I imagine that’s the closest I’ll ever come to understanding the phenomenon that is “blue balls.”)

If you can think of it, there is a fetish for it: Centaur Fetish

“I’m a…crab!” The girl who is always drunk was dying at her own joke.

“Well I’m half-person half-horse!” Ah, dressing room astrology-talk.

“You’re a centaur.”

“What the fuck is a sen tar?” It seemed like she couldn’t decide if it was rude of me to call her a sen tar.

“A mythical horse man thingy. I’m pretty sure it’s the same as a Sagittarius.” It sounded weird coming out of my mouth. Yeah, what the fuck is a centaur? Am I thinking of a satyr?

“A CENTAUR! You never watch Xena?! Shiiit.” Well, at least someone knew what a centaur was.