Nightstand Necessities: Chuck Bass

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Chuck Bass, of the long-gone masterful TV drama Gossip Girl, is an ethical mess of a character. He’s a rapist, for one thing, and arguably emotionally abusive. He’s a cutthroat businessman who sometimes makes cruel decisions to keep his bottom line afloat, he’s rude to his parents and step-parents, and he usually doesn’t even treat his closest friends with consideration or love.

None of this is excusable. But sexual fantasy exists beyond the plane of ethics. So, admittedly, Chuck Bass is one of my favorite fictional characters to fantasize about, read fanfic about, and make sexual speculations about. Here are some of my headcanons for what’s lurking in Chuck’s sex toy collection…

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90bacba99cc7382090344fd25458c19bLike Christian Grey, Chuck Bass has a “playroom,” though he would never be so churlish as to call it that: it’s his boudoir. It’s kitted out with a Liberator Esse chaise, which he uses in a wide variety of imaginative ways. However, despite his Grey-esque proclivities, he thinks Fifty Shades of Grey is pathetic trash, an opiate of the suburban kink-curious masses. The day he catches you reading it is the day you discover what it feels like to get repeatedly and aggressively spanked with a trade paperback.

He keeps an Njoy Eleven displayed elegantly on a sideboard in his bedroom, atop a charcoal-grey velvet Throe. When you’ve been very, very good, he has you fetch both for him, and he makes you squirt with deft, almost businesslike precision. Afterwards, he leaves both items outside his bedroom door for the maid to wash. She does this quickly and without asking questions.

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6fb3e739d60d97cedb668f5e9cb52b3dHe’s obsessed with gold-plated bedroom accoutrements, because he’s always got scads of cash burning a hole in his silk-lined pockets. He keeps a gold Eroscillator near the bed for use on beautiful visitors. Occasionally he mentions an interest in forced orgasm play – sometimes it’s a threat, sometimes a promise. One day he actually follows through, blindfolding you, then tying you to a rococo chair and the Eroscillator to you with black silk rope. He turns it to the top setting and sits back in his leather recliner with his fingers steepled, watching with quiet mirth as you squirm and scream.

He owns a gold-plated Lelo Earl prostate massager (he would never be so crass as to call it a “butt plug”). It was a celebratory gift he bought for himself when an important merger went through. You’ve come to know that when he wears the accompanying gold cufflinks out to dinner with you, it means he’s feeling libidinous. But he never lets you fuck him. You never dare to ask.

Nightstand Necessities: Rosa Diaz

BROOKLYN NINE-NINE -- "Operation Broken Feather" Episode 116 -- Pictured: Stephanie Beatriz as Rosa Diaz -- (Photo by: Eddy Chen/NBC/NBCU Photo Bank via Getty Images)
BROOKLYN NINE-NINE — “Operation Broken Feather” Episode 116 — Pictured: Stephanie Beatriz as Rosa Diaz — (Photo by: Eddy Chen/NBC/NBCU Photo Bank via Getty Images)

Y’all know how much I love Brooklyn Nine-Nine, FOX’s goofy, racially diverse, and arguably quite feminist cop comedy. I unreservedly adore every single character on this damn show, but I must admit I have a favorite: Rosa Diaz. She’s a mystery, inside an enigma, wrapped in black leather.

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There are times when I doubt my sexual identity. I date and fuck men so predominantly that sometimes I wonder if my queer days are behind me. But then I watch Stephanie Beatriz dominate the screen as Rosa Diaz, and I think: Nope. Definitely still queer.

Nightstand Necessities is a new feature I’m launching here at Girly Juice, all about what I imagine is hiding in my favorite fictional characters’ bedside tables (or purses or pockets or sex toy chests, as the case may be). I could think of no better way to kick off this series than by writing about Rosa. My headcanons for her are plentiful and searing hot. Let’s get into it…

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Rosa definitely straps on. (A fanfic I wrote says so, so it must be true.) Her whole aesthetic is based around black leather, and of course that’s true of her boudoir accoutrements as well. She rocks a black Aslan Leather Jaguar harness, worn in to buttery perfection. You’ve come to associate the sound of metal buckles sliding against leather straps with the imminent hope of getting fucked, and the smell of leather reminds you of being face-down and throat-deep on her silicone cock. Naturally, this Pavlovian conditioning enables her to turn you on in public any time she wants, by getting close to you in one of her many leather jackets, zipping it tight, idly fondling the chrome hardware. She knows exactly what she’s doing, but when you call her out on it, she just sneers, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Her sharp-tongued bossiness extends to the bedroom. She calls you her dirty slut, her fucktoy, hers. She spanks you with her bare hands, leaving stingy welts from the wallops. She thinks impact implements are for wimps who don’t know how to hit – but she’ll occasionally whip out her hardcover copy of Howl and leave book-shaped bruises on your ass. You know she’s feeling especially mean when she slips her leather vampire gloves on and says, “Bend over. Now.” If you get too bratty, she puts a black glass ballgag in your mouth until she’s done with you – but she always checks in, softly muttering “Is that okay?” and waiting for your nod before she pushes you back down onto the bed.

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She bought you a Crave leather cuff bracelet and likes for you to always wear it when you’re going to be seeing her. (She’d like for you to wear it all the time – as a symbol of her owning you – but she hasn’t quite felt brave enough to have that conversation with you yet. One of her core beliefs is that emotions are sappy and dumb, so she’s not sure how to parse the imperious affection she feels for you.) The bracelet can be converted into bondage cuffs at a moment’s notice. She’s bought you beautiful jewelry, books, and other treasures, but the leather cuff is your favorite present she’s given you – because you know what it means, even if she doesn’t feel ready to tell you yet.

BROOKLYN NINE-NINE: Stephanie Beatriz. ©2014 Fox Broadcasting Co. CR: Scott Schafer/FOX
BROOKLYN NINE-NINE: Stephanie Beatriz. ©2014 Fox Broadcasting Co. CR: Scott Schafer/FOX

In bed, she’s normally stone, preferring to direct her energies onto your body rather than lie back and receive. But on the rare nights when she’s achy and exhausted from a long day at the precinct, she lets you use her favorite toys on her. You smear Sliquid Silver lube all over her red Fucking Sculptures Corkscrew dildo and slowly slide it into her, so careful and kind. She holds her black Doxy Die Cast to her clit with one hand, and with the other, strokes your hair and arms and face with a tenderness you rarely see in her. She looks so beautiful with her black curls fanned out against the pillow. “Faster,” she barks. “Harder.” You do your best to angle the Corkscrew against her G-spot, and she grunts the way she does when she’s tackling a perp in an alley. If you fuck her just right, hard and quick for as long as she needs, she comes with a resonant roar and squirts triumphantly on your hands, your arms, your face.

She watches as you slip the dildo out of her and into your mouth. You so rarely get to taste her; it’s a treat. The warmth in her face is rare, too, you reflect as she pets your hair and purrs, “You were so good for me, baby.”

“Every Feminist’s Ideal Boyfriend…”

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During the shitstorm of anti-feminist trolls I faced after the publication of my Establishment article, the funniest criticism I received was this: “Every feminist’s ideal boyfriend is a Hitachi Magic Wand.”

A conservative blogger had written about me and my degenerate sex toy collection, and I clicked the link while at a party with a bunch of friends. When a concerned pal saw what I was reading, he cooed, “Aw, don’t look at that,” and tried to take my phone from me so it wouldn’t ruin my night. But I wasn’t sad or angry; I was giggling my ass off.

It struck me (and still strikes me) as so funny that these anti-feminist, anti-woman, anti-pleasure curmudgeons think sex toys are incompatible with the presence of a real-life partner. These people honestly believe that by sheer virtue of owning dozens of vibrators and dildos, I am scaring away anyone who might want to bang me. This couldn’t be further from the truth.


I’m throwing clothes and toiletries into a backpack, getting ready for a weekend at my boyfriend’s place. It’s a rarity: he has the house to himself, with his family being out of town. We are going to fuck on every available surface.

My eyes land on my sex toy drawers and I realize some important decisions need to be made. “What toys should I bring?” I text my love. While waiting for him to respond, I idly graze my fingers over my Tango, Orchid, and Wahl.

The reply comes back: “Your Eroscillator. Duh.”

I should have known. He loves how hard that toy makes me come, while his cock is deep inside me or his fingers probe my G-spot. Sometimes he even hands it to me during sex without me needing to ask – a non-verbal assertion that, yes, he values my pleasure, it’s important to him, it turns him on, and he can’t wait to feel me clenching around him.

I wrap the Eroscillator’s cord carefully around its body and slide it into my bag, then skip off toward the subway station.


27 percent of the people I’ve banged have owned their own Magic Wand (to my knowledge, anyway). That’s no small number. That’s 1.3 in 5. Those odds are pretty good, compared to the world at large. I have excellent taste in partners.

Though self-pleasure is obviously an important ideal to me, I’m especially charmed by cis men who own a Magic Wand purely for the usage of the women they bone.

These are usually men to whom their partners’ pleasure matters a great deal. They’re the type of men who want you to come, but who will back the fuck off if you tell them it’s probably not gonna happen tonight and you’re okay with that. The type of men who will patiently offer up their fingers, mouths, dicks, and talented toy-wielding hands if it means they get to watch you writhe and convulse beneath them. The type of men who will never judge you for getting sweaty, red-faced, breathless, loud, and incoherent during and after your orgasm, because to them, that’s not unattractive – it’s the whole point.

When I’m flirting with someone new and sex toys come up in conversation, sometimes I learn that my flirtee owns their own Hitachi. It’s usually mentioned so casually and offhandedly, I could miss it if I zoned out for just a moment. But it’s info that perks my ears right up, because I know what it’s likely to mean.


“I bought it for an ex-girlfriend, but she didn’t want it,” he says with a shrug as he plugs it in.

“Lucky for me,” I fire back, unwrapping a condom to pull over the thing’s unwieldy, porous head.

I’m already wet from his deft fingers, so he can push them right into me again once the Hitachi is settled on my clit. I turn it on just as he finds my A-spot and have to bite down on my own hand to keep my moans at a reasonable decibel level. The deep vibrations rocking my entire clit combine with his sweetly insistent fingers, and I zoom right into “about to come” territory within seconds.

It doesn’t take much. I’m just thinking that I wish he would say something nurturing and domly to me to push me over the edge, when he leans in and mutters, “Does that feel good? Yeah? Like that?” And then I’m coming all over his fingers, sinking my teeth even deeper into my own skin. The vibrator rattles noisily against my sudden wetness and I leave it there until I can’t stand it anymore.

“Man, I love that thing,” I breathe. He laughs and says, “Yeah, I could tell.” We curl up to sleep: him spooning me, and me spooning the Hitachi.

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The way I use sex toys with partners, it’s a way they can prove to me that they trust and respect my authority over my own body.

I rarely just hand a partner a toy and let ’em go wild with it. Usually I’ll hand it to them while listing some very specific instructions. “Push it all the way into me, tilt the tip up toward my belly, and move in and out in small motions. Yeah, like that. A little bit faster, please.”

Or sometimes I’ll just hold the damn thing myself. I’ll press a vibrator against my clit or external G-spot while my partner fucks me with fingers, a toy, or his dick. Since my clit is a total princess, it’s often easier if I handle that part myself, freeing him up to do other things.

I don’t attract the type of person who’d pridefully try to control my toys against my wishes. I wouldn’t want to bang that type of person, anyway. I only want to be with people who respect my autonomy, my knowledge of my own body, my pleasure preferences. And when a partner hands me a vibe without getting butthurt about it, without sulking in disappointment, without seeming to feel devalued or unneeded, it just proves he trusts me to know what’s best for me.

It’s a feminist act, in some ways. It’s a man saying-without-saying, “Your body is yours, you’re smart and experienced, and your pleasure matters. I’d love to be a part of that, if you’ll let me. And if not, that’s fine too.”


He’s got one hand on my chest and the other inside me. My Tango is wedged against my clit, thrumming helpfully, but I’m just not quite getting there.

I see a look come over his face that I can’t decipher, and then he says, “I don’t think this is strong enough. Do you wanna switch to the Hitachi?”

My appreciation for this man, in this moment, is grander than I can translate into words. My heart melts, and so does my vagina. Far from being scared or put off by vibrators, he’s getting annoyed with the one in my hand for being too small, not strong enough, not giving me enough pleasure. He wants more for me, because my enjoyment is paramount to him. And not in some selfless, detached way: me getting off is a direct turn-on for him. And I know that’s why he shuts off my Tango, retrieves my Magic Wand from the bedside table, and places it in my hands.

A few diligent minutes later, I come so hard that I’m babbling, sweating, lost in rumbly reverie. I’m vaguely aware that he takes the vibe from me once I’m totally done coming, and I hear him set it on the table before climbing back into bed with me.

Maybe it’s the orgasmic neurotransmitters talking, but I’ve rarely felt so cared for, respected, safe, and seen during sex as I do now. He knew what I needed and delivered it not with complaints but with extreme enthusiasm. It wasn’t even a big deal to him. He wanted me to come, so, duh, he made sure there was a suitable vibrator in my hands. It was the obvious thing to do, and he did it because he cares about me.

I drift off to sleep in his arms. His hands still smell like me.

What’s in a Name?

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“What do you want?”

He’s got me backed up against a fence, in one of the many residential alleys that crisscross through the Annex. The fence is painted bright turquoise, and it must make a beautiful backdrop for this foreground: a pale and blushing babe in a blue dress. Me.

His hand is on my ass. He knows what I want, but he’s still gonna make me say it. “I want you to spank me, sir,” I choke out, his lips so close to mine that he must feel my words as much as he hears them.

He chuckles. I can tell he likes it when I call him that. “I don’t have a name for you yet,” he replies, like this only just occurred to him.

I am more than prepared for this eventuality. “I like to be ‘princess,’ or ‘little one,’ or ‘babygirl,'” I list off. These names are well-traversed in my life, but they still feel fresh and important. They’re heavy on my tongue and hot in my ears.

“Okay, princess,” he says with a dark smile. “You gonna be a good girl for me?”


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“Princess” was my first kink honorific, the first name I remember loving being called. A dominant fuckbuddy casually mentioned it one day while we were discussing my burgeoning DD/lg kink. It felt right to me when he said it, in the same way it felt right when I discovered other words that describe me, like “femme,” “queer,” and “submissive.” I sexually identify as a princess.

Not a literal princess, you understand. I don’t have a kingdom to rule over, royal subjects, a family of other monarchs. I am a princess in the way that Veruca Salt and Angelica Pickles are princesses: a treasured and perhaps slightly spoiled little girl whose daddy unflinchingly loves her and dotes on her. A dainty little thing, with a bratty streak that comes out when provoked or challenged. A precious but ultimately powerless little gem of a person, revered but not really respected. I’m that kind of princess.

Though I’m enamored with the “Daddy Dom/little girl” dynamic, I almost never call partners “daddy.” It feels wrong to me, and not just because it’s taboo. I’ve never used that word with my actual dad either; it feels babyish and saccharine in a way I don’t particularly enjoy. I don’t say that to shame anybody’s kinks; if you like that word, that’s fine and good for you! But for myself, I gravitate more toward “sir.” It communicates what I want it to, without making me cringe. And, if I’m honest, calling partners that makes me suuuuuper wet.

“Little one” was introduced to me by the aforementioned dom fuckbuddy, too. He dropped it into our dialogue mid-fuck one day and my reaction far surpassed what I could have predicted. He was the exact same height as me, probably even weighed less than me, and yet, with those two simple words, he made me feel inescapably smaller than him. Diminutive and defenseless. A mere insect under his boot heel.

My relationship with this title is fraught with guilt, because I worry it’s related to patriarchal size-shaming. I’m a chubby lady so maybe it makes me feel better – sexier – to be literally told that I am small. But I don’t think that’s the whole story. Smallness is associated with traditional femininity, sure, but it’s also connected to powerlessness, a state of being that I eroticize deeply. When someone calls me “little one” and I get wetter and hotter, I think it’s more about the condescension and coddling than the physical littleness being evoked.

“Babygirl” is more ambiguous. Vanilla partners call me “baby” sometimes; it’s a common epithet, in this world of Biebers and Backstreet Boys. But there’s patriarchy baked right into it: this name infantilizes its subject in the most literal sense. My inner feminist struggles to accept my affinity for being called patronizing names. My inner sex-positive feminist, however, knows it’s okay for me to like whatever I like, as long as I don’t replicate those power injustices in my actual life.

Names, labels, identities: these things are important, regardless of what the “Labels don’t matter!” crowd says. Labels help us organize ourselves, understand ourselves, understand who we’re attracted to and what we want. Not to mention, they can be really fucking hot.

One night I was at a party, and several people were sporting tiaras. A domly friend of mine made a paper crown for Bex, since their gender identity isn’t always tiara-friendly. “How is the king?” he asked Bex later, when their makeshift crown was atop their head. And then, looking at me: “And the queen?”

“She’s not a queen, she’s a princess,” Bex retorted, before I could even respond. And they were right.

I’m a Good Girl

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Sometime in 1995. I’m a good girl. An exceptional, clever little girl. I know I am. I’m three years old and I’m reading aloud from the TV Guide to my mom. “Set in an apartment building in New York City, I Love Lucy centers on Lucy Ricardo (Lucille Ball) and her singer/bandleader husband Ricky Ricardo (Desi Arnaz), along with their best friends and landlords…”

“Okay, wait, wait,” my mom says, laughing. “You’re not really reading that. You just know Lucy ’cause we’ve watched it so many times.” She slides the small magazine from my hands, flips it to a page about some nature documentary or political drama, and hands it back to me.

I read it to her. Barely stumble on any words. And then look up at her with wide eyes, knowing (and awaiting) what’s coming.

“Oh my god,” she deadpans. “You can read now?” I nod. An addiction to educational CD-Roms will do that to a person. She gulps. “What a good, smart girl you are!” Yeah, mom. I know.

Winter 2010. I’m a good, smart, studious girl. I’m waiting for my 9AM high school philosophy class to start, and I’ve got my nose buried in some snappy, captivating tome – Alain de Botton, maybe, or Mary Roach.

My philosophy teacher walks in, toting his literature-stuffed messenger bag, thermos of cafeteria coffee, and signature charisma. “Good morning, plebes!” he crows. “Ready to talk about existential dread?!” He’s my favorite teacher, and I’ve had so many good ones. Nerdy, witty, and unflaggingly enthusiastic, he’s like if Adam Brody and Jimmy Fallon had a (breathtakingly handsome) lovechild.

My classmates continue to buzz and chatter like nothing has happened. While he waits for the slide projector to power up, he sidles over to me. “Hey, bookworm! I’ve noticed you share my love of the written word,” he comments, gesturing at the book I’m clutching. “What is it this time?”

I tell him. The details of my answer are inconsequential. I don’t remember what book I was reading, or what I said to him. What sticks with me is his reply. “Ohhh,” he coos, raising his eyebrows like I’ve just said the most fascinating thing in the world. “Good girl!”

I have no idea how to respond to this or what I am feeling – the hot burst of blood rushing to my cheeks, the flood of carnal butterflies migrating southward – so I just giggle and get back to my book. He strides to the front of the room and starts a lecture on Sisyphus. Or Sartre. Or something.

September 2015. I’m a good girl – usually. Good, polite, conscientious girls don’t sext when their friends are around. Unless, of course, their friends are cool with it. Mine are. I’m lucky.

“He said he wants to see how deep I can get him in my mouth,” I call out to the room at large. I’m in Bex‘s office on the air mattress serving as my bed this trip. Bex, Penny and Lilly are in the next room, watching TV or playing video games or… I don’t know, actually. I’m pretty absorbed in my phone. “What should I say?”

“‘Yes, sir, I promise I’ll do my best,'” Bex supplies. They’re way better at this than I am. I type the words into my phone unquestioningly and hit “send.”

I do that thing you do when you’re sexting with someone you really like and they’re a little slow to answer. I pick up my laptop, then my journal, then the pajamas I laid out to change into twenty minutes ago, but none of them holds my attention because right now I have zero brainpower for anything that isn’t the domly dude on the other side of that phone.

It buzzes. I lunge at it. “Good girl,” the illuminated screen tells me.

Before I even know what’s happening, I’ve screamed and thrown my phone halfway across the room.

“What?!” Bex cries, running in to see me. “What happened?” They look at my phone, lying face-down on their hardwood floor (both phone and floor thankfully unharmed).

“He good-girl’ed me,” I say, helplessly. I really don’t know why I threw my phone, or screamed, or had the breath knocked out of me. I’ve never responded that way to a sext before, not even a really, really dirty one. I’m stunned.

My friends make noises of sympathy that are hard to translate into written words. Hnnng. Unf. YESSSS. They understand. I feel less silly than I did in the moment when I thought I’d broken my phone, or Bex’s floor. But my body and mind still feel thoroughly unhinged, and when I awkwardly ask the group if it’d be okay if I jerked off, they don’t seem remotely surprised. They say yes, and I do, and it’s good.

October 2015. I’m a good girl, scribbling notes furiously while my psychology professor talks. My grade in this class has consistently surpassed all my other grades this semester. I tell myself it’s because the subject matter captures my attention more, or the late-afternoon class time works better for my sleepy brain. That’s not why, though. I’m doing well because my professor is appallingly attractive and gives me heart feelings and vag feelings and daddy-kink feelings. I’ve nicknamed him “Professor Hot Dad,” taken to calling him “PhD” as shorthand when I tell my friends about him, and they know it doesn’t stand for Doctor of Philosophy.

Today’s lecture is about developmental psychology, and I’m dying. “Some theorists say reinforcement and punishment are most of how we learn,” he explains, raking a hand through his sandy blonde hair and changing the slide. “Like, you know, ‘Be a good girl for daddy, princess, and maybe he’ll get you an ice cream cone.’ That kind of thing.”

I let out an involuntary sigh so loud that people turn to look at me. I grab my bag, get up, and leave the class for a minute, ostensibly to get a drink of water or use the bathroom. But instead of doing either of those things, I just stand outside the classroom, tweet, and try to breathe.

December 2015. I’m a good girl, waiting at Bex’s house all day for them to get home from work so we can drink wine, watch Magic Mike XXL and maybe spank each other on Periscope for funsies. But even good girls get bored sometimes when they’re cooped up inside. So maybe they send taunting texts to their domly fuckbuddies back home in Toronto.

Our digital flirting starts light, then gets heavier. And then he tells me to go get my toys and come for him. “Why should I?” I demand, full of sass and spunk.

“Because you’re a good little girl,” he replies. Um. Yup. Yes I am. I hunt for my Tango and Double Trouble in my suitcase and make excellent use of them, immediately, so I can tell him I did. He’ll be so proud.

February 2016. I’m a good girl, cheeks still glowing pink from a guiltily recent blowjob. We’re out for dinner at the brew pub and no one in this place can even tell what we were up to twenty minutes ago. Well, probably not, anyway.

Sipping a pint and nibbling my chicken club sandwich, I can’t get my eyes off my clever, handsome friend as he tells me funny stories, slips in and out of silly voices to make me laugh, gets all puffed up from the pleasure of sharing a jovial meal with someone who’s just blown you.

We’re talking about kinks. This is a frequent topic of conversation for us, two dyed-in-the-wool sex nerds, though we come at it from pretty disparate perspectives: I’m a burgeoning little kinkster, and he’s a self-described vanilla dude. “One of my exes used to call me ‘daddy,’ and liked me to call her ‘princess,'” he recounts, casually digging into his curry like he didn’t just drop a bomb on me.

I laugh a little too loud. “Well! I’m having feelings about you saying those words,” I tell him honestly, which I probably wouldn’t if I was just a little sober-er. “At least you didn’t say ‘good girl.’ Then we’d really be in trouble.”

He stares at me blankly. Vanilla people always do.

March 2016. I’m a good girl. I’m a good girl. That’s what my boyfriend keeps telling me as he roughly rubs his fingers in and out of me, scoring my A-spot with ecstatic stripes. “That’s your sweet spot, huh, babygirl? You’re getting so wet for daddy,” he murmurs against my thigh, speeding up his thrusts. “You gonna be a good girl and come for me?” I do. Immediately. What can I say – he’s got a way with words.

It takes me long minutes to catch my breath and slow my heart. He holds me while I recover from rapture. When I’m well enough to speak, I tell him, “Holy shit. You are really good at dirty talk.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. I’m pretty good at knowing what people want to hear.” And though I don’t say so, I’m crushed. Those words aren’t hot because I want to hear them; they’re hot because I thought he wanted to say them. I thought he was getting off on being my domineering daddy, same as I got off on being his good little girl.

We’re only together a couple more weeks after that, and one of the reasons is: I can’t trust someone who only tells me what I want to hear. I can’t go deep into my dark, taboo, intimate kink with someone who’s standing on the outside of it, performing the ritualistic rites without actually being part of the club. It’s a sharp, staggering betrayal that he thinks “good girl” is a character I’m playing, a mask I’m wearing. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t see what I am.

Early April 2016. I’m a good girl, dutifully working on my last assignment of the semester, when I get a message from a domly pothead acquaintance who wants to take me to my first marijuana dispensary.

“I can’t,” I explain. “My deadline’s soon and I still have so much work to do. I can only go if I get a ton done tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you’re the highly responsible type,” he tells me. “Work really hard all day tomorrow. Let weed serve as a motivator. Agreed?”

He should not be allowed to talk to me this way when I have so much to do and need to focus. “Are you getting kinda dom-y with me right now?” I ask, and add a “haha” so I’ll seem cool and nonchalant, although I am utterly not.

“Just friendly advice,” he says. “Read into it whatever you’d like.”

I bite my pen and stare at his message for a few moments before answering. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll work extra hard tomorrow.”

“Good girl,” he says. Dammit. Now I have to actually get my work done so he can take me to the freaking dispensary.

Late April 2016. I am a good, brave, capable girl. That’s what Bex tells me, sitting in their car in the parking lot of a Minneapolis pizzeria where I’m about to go on a Tinder date with a total stranger. “You can totally do this,” they assure me. “It’ll be fine.”

I’m still anxious. What if Tinder Dude doesn’t find me attractive IRL? What if I don’t find him attractive? What if he’s boring and insufferable? What if he thinks I’m boring and insufferable? “What if he’s a serial killer?” I ask Bex, because that seems like a more reasonable concern than all of the smaller worries puncturing my resolve.

“He won’t be,” my best friend promises. “But just incase: I expect you to text me within 15 minutes, to tell me all’s well. If I don’t hear from you by 7:30, I’ll come back with a Double Trouble in each hand.”

I laugh. “Okay, dad,” I sneer, leaning in to hug them goodnight. “I’ll text you.”

“Good girl,” Bex says, and I get out of the car with renewed grit and mettle. Whatever happens, happens. I can do it because Bex said I could. I’ll be good and go on this goddamn Tinder date.

Later that night, when dude is inside me, I reach down to touch my clit to try to get myself off. “Oh, you’re touching your pussy for me, huh?” he jeers. “Good girl.” I laugh in his face, because I’m amazed that I feel absolutely nothing in response to his words. No rush of arousal, no dutiful call to action, no swell of pride. Maybe this particular loaded compliment – like sex in general – only stirs emotions in me when I’m emotionally invested.

This stranger from the internet who I’ll never see again after tonight? He’s nice, and fun enough to spend an evening with. But I don’t care about him enough to try to impress him. I don’t care if he thinks I’m a good girl.

May 2016. I’m a good, talented, gutsy girl. I mount the stairs onto the stage of the 519 ballroom. Me and my ukulele get a warm welcome from the boisterous Smut in the 6ix crowd. “I’m gonna play you a song I wrote when I was just coming into my identity as a submissive person,” I purr into the mic. “It’s called Good Girl, because, uh… that is a phrase that gives me a lot of feelings.”

I strum the opening Cminor7 chord and go into my sweet, kinky little waltz. “Tie me to the bedposts, kiss my wristbones, leave bruises on my arms,” I sing. “Do it really nice, though – gentle and slow. Don’t leave me lasting harm.” I can remember the mythical dream dom partner I vividly envisioned when I wrote those words – someone I knew hadn’t entered my life yet but was drifting around the periphery, waiting to arrive for me when I least expect it.

As I come to the last line of the song – “I’ll show you that I’m a good girl” – the room bursts into applause, and I glow from the attention. The act before me was a beautiful burlesque performer who shamelessly stripped on stage, and that image lingers in my mind and emboldens me. “Is it okay if I take off my skirt?” I ask the audience, and they holler their jubilant yeses.

I shimmy out of my pencil skirt til it falls to the floor, and I’m just wearing my figure-hugging gold lamé bodysuit. I have one terrifying moment of self-consciousness – does the lamé make my belly look fat? Are my thighs too pale? Is my cellulite showing? – before someone near the front shouts, “Good girl!

Everything’s okay. I grin. I play my second song.