I Want To Live In America

Foreigners always have my sympathy. I have a weakness for them. Maybe it is the false innocence that they seem to project because they don't know what the hell is going on or what anyone is saying. They remind me of kindergarten children who have been dropped off for their first day of school.

Although I know legions of them have light eyes, I always think of foreigners as having large, liquid brown eyes, like pleading dogs at the tables edge. I admire their courage and I know these humans have worked harder on any given day than I ever have. I am embarrassed when my own people rebuke them for not understanding English, when they themselves hardly have a passing acquaintance with their own language. I'm describing those who are practically straight off the boat. I just don't like the ones who work three times harder and take all our jobs. If it were not for these people our fine and eminent colleges halls would be almost shrouded in silence.

Some of these strangers in a strange land, have way more dough than I do and they are ready to spend it on the splendors that we call entertainment. Sometimes I am that entertainment and I am flattered to be so. These men actually budget me into their lives. I am their luxury item and I do my best to return full value.

My seventh client came from some forgettable village in India. He was an engineer (gasp)and had made his way to my schizophrenic country through sheer intelligence, relentless diligence and more than a dollop of luck. His name was Bansi. Later he told me the name meant flute, an irony that was lost on him and was to subtle for me to explain. Humor does not always translate.

Bansi was another virgin ( I'm not sure why but I seem to attract the newbies, the foreigners and the freakishly intelligent as clients. I'm not complaining. Its just an observation.)and a absolute powder keg of repressed sexual energy. He could have supplied electricity to his village if it was properly harnessed. When I first met him I saw that he fairly glowed with horniness. Not a bad looking guy but he was still wearing sandals in the middle of November. He had been here for merely 6 months and already he had found his way to me. Like a salmon swimming upstream. I was touched.

Bansi was tormented by his fetish which seemed fairly innocuous to me. While he touched himself he wanted me to hold a pillow over his face. He also wanted me to wear a dress ( a black velvet Donna Karan wrap dress)
and white cotton panties. He insisted on this point.

Although many of my foreign clients are well off, Bansi was not. He was truly a simple village boy with a pocket full of hard earned cash, filled with confusion and guilt and a determined ram rod. He was a man with a dream and while he was in America, the land of frivolous choice, he would explore the terrain of his dark impulses. I would to be his guide, leading him out of the wilderness. I was happy to do so, as the only color that really registers with me is green. I am an equal opportunity Domina, capitalist and American to my very core.

After to many e-mails, a halting phone conversation where I had to cajole, jolly- bully and tease Bansi's smothering fantasy out of him, we set the time and place. He shared an apartment with a roommate who was away for the weekend. As the conversation wound down we
shared this puzzling exchange.

"You will be able to tell that I am a virgin when you are with me." said Bansi hesitantly. I was alarmed thinking he still hadn't grasped the nature of what I do.

"You realize that I am NOT a prostitute, right? I told you that in my e-mail. That includes receiving or giving oral" In my circles this was referred to as "body worship", a coy euphemism. Like pigs at the trough.

"Oh no Miss no! I realize this. I simply wish to be muffled with a pillow while..I touch myself. And to see up your skirt." I did not find this request to be all that taxing so I was glad to see that we understood each other.

"Then why do you think I will notice your inexperience?" I was taking notes as he spoke. Details are important.

"Well Miss, you can tell when you see my penis"

"What are you talking about? And by the way, address me as Mistress. Not Miss."

"Sorry Mistress. You know...my penis" he emphasized the word penis urgently. I ended the call impatiently
after making the appointment. No I didn't know but I suppose I would find out soon enough.

It seemed that men were the same all over. They really thought that their penis was the maypole of the universe and all the muses in their various guises, be it Dominatrix, whore-Madonna and the like, lived to dance in eager attendance around it.

Well thank the universe that they do.