Ring, ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Do you have a hot tub?
Okay, call me Mistress Snap-
Judgment, but I can tell this is
not going to be a productive phone call. Maybe it’s a salesman for a
Jacuzzi company, which would be fine, because if you hang up on a
telemarketer they don’t call you right back. But people who start
out a conversation by asking me about my plumbing—either
kind—definitely will. Over and over. This is not a man who’s
going to shoo easily. Let’s see if brevity will discourage him.
Me: No.
There’s a pause while he waits for
me to say something—and
I wait for
him to hang up.
Caller: I have a fantasy about a hot
tub.
Me: Yeah, but, I’m not a hot tub.
I’m a pro domme.
Caller: But I want to be drowned. Can you drown me?
Why couldn’t this be something clever, like someone wanting a
full-immersion baptism scene? I could get into role-playing “the
unscrupulous revival minister.” And baptism is basically an exorcism
rite, so you could easily sexy it up a bit—do some laying on of
hands, call forth the demons out of people, that sort of thing.
But no. This caller’s asking for a scene where I hold his head
underwater as a form of breath-play. However, there are some things
I don’t do in scenes, and two of them are get my hair wet and
engage in breath-play.
Me: No, I don’t have a hot tub, and
besides, I don’t want to
do a drown-
ing scene.
Caller: We could go to that place
in the University District
that rents
hot tubs.
Well, back when I was an escort, I certainly did gigs at the old
Tubs—along with every other sex worker in Seattle. That place was
Grand Central Station for working girls and clients. I’m not the
squeamish type, but even I would think twice about making someone suck
in much of that water—if the bacteria didn’t get you, the
chemicals would. However, it’s a moot point.
Me: No, that place has closed down, and besides, I don’t want to
do a drowning scene.
Caller: You could rent one. There are places that will deliver a
portable hot tub to your house for a night.
Oh yeah, I have a big picture of me out in my yard in a leaky
portable hot tub, dunking Mr. Hypoxyphilia here like I’m helping him
bob for apples. My neighbors would be so charmed. This gentleman is
really not listening to me, is he? There’s only one way to
discourage someone like this: be weirder than they are.
Me: No, I don’t do drowning scenes in hot tubs. I only do them in
baptismal fonts. And only with people who’ve accepted Jesus Christ as
their personal savior.
There’s dead silence. Then—hallelujah!—he hangs up. I
believe in
miracles.