An unemployed friend cruising Craigslist forwarded me a posting for an entry-level dominatrix position, probably as a joke. I thought, “I’ll show him!” and applied, pictures attached. I got an email back the next day asking when I could come in for an interview.

“What about morals and stuff?” you might ask. My thought process: I feel like if no genitals are touched, no one can really be said to be a hooker. Being a dominatrix seems more like being a super bossy masseuse than a prostitute, in my mind. I figured if a client ever got all “I want a happy ending,” I’d have a whip or club or something and he’d be in restraints so nothing would get too scary. I’d be in control, after all. Lastly, the ad said it was possible to make $80/hour, and you know what? There’s a recession on.

I was instructed to go to an intersection and then call for them to tell me the address because they didn’t want to email their exact location. I went in the building specified and encountered two friendly-looking youngish girls on their way out, who asked me if I was looking for the nursing school. Apparently there was also a nursing school in the building. I panicked. Were these girls sent out to vet applicants by trying to trick them into spilling the beans about a secret dungeon in the building? I never found out. Probably looking really shifty-eyed, I said “no” and got in the elevator without saying another word. The elevator went to the second floor, where things turned maze-like to guard against intruders. The back door of the elevator opened instead of the main door, and I had to be buzzed in before navigating a series of even more doors.

Here’s what the employee’s entrance to a dominatrix dungeon looks like: Bare, with darkly painted walls and young girls in tank tops and hoodies sitting around on the floor. That’s all I really remember, because I was trying to play it cool like sure, I’m in and out of dungeons all the time, no biggie. I forget the night manager’s name, but she was a bigger, really brusque woman (duh) who brusquely told me to follow her to the manager’s office, where I filled out a form with my name, height, weight, race, hair color and checked a lot of “no” boxes about experience with paddling, whips, slapping, caning, trampling, etc.

Then the night manager asked me some questions. It could have gone better. I hadn’t actually prepared for the interview at all because, aside from just smacking people around with paddles, I wasn’t sure how? That and I get really nervous for job interviews. At the end of it all she very abruptly said, “Are you squeamish about semen, blood or shit?”

I paused here for longer than was a good idea, but I felt like I needed to think that over. Semen? We’re all grown-ups here. Poop: Yikes. But thinking it over, as long as I wasn’t also on cleaning duty, I could deal with a good amount of grossness for a lot of money an hour. Maybe clients just got really excited or scared and pooped a little during sessions sometimes. I could see how that might happen, there’s a lot of stressful stuff going on. Blood, though. Why would that be happening? Who would be bleeding, and dear God, why? Finally I answered, “Maybe blood…”

The interview ended shortly after that. I still work in an office.

– “Ladonga Ladonga” is a psudonym.