This is a continuation of a previous post.
Trying to live a double life while being married and dating women left me desperately unhappy and contributed to sending me down a path of self-destruction. I decided that I was going to be straight, no matter what the cost, and took the one job that – to me – seemed to be the absolute straightest profession. I started stripping.
The club I worked at wasn’t nice. It was a seedy little place beside the highway that was raided regularly by the police for prostitution. The owner of the club wasn’t nice either. There wasn’t much she didn’t offer there and most anything and anyone was for sale. I hated it, but loved the money I made. I hated my husband for not stopping me from working there and hated myself even more for going back each day. Drugs were plentiful so I numbed everything as much as possible.
This club offered varying private sessions that could be bought, one of which was domination/submission. I found that I was good at that, very good. After realizing that, I left the club to move to an even smaller location that specialized in BDSM. I also found a love for the kink lifestyle in my personal life and met a group of people who were kind and wonderful and probably my only saving grace during this period of my life. They were very accepting of everyone on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum as well and I started dating again within the kink community.
Once I had a small following of clients at the new club, I decided to build my own dungeon and make this my profession. I loved it at first. My own hours, my own money, picking my own clients. I was very choosy about who I took on and what my limits were. Some of my clients were quite hardcore and into extreme bondage and sensory deprivation, and some had much simpler needs. One just wanted to brush my hair.
When one is practicing kink, there is an exchange – each person feeds the needs of the other. That’s why it works. What I didn’t realize for a long time doing it professionally was that none of my needs were being met. I didn’t realize that I would be so emotionally and psychologically depleted that I had nothing left for myself.
I ended up completely empty. I wanted to run away from everything that I had become. I hated myself and everyone around me. I shut it down, my business, my friends, my relationships and pushed everything that might have helped far away. I tried to fill that emptiness with anything at all – sex, material things I couldn’t afford, food, drugs. Anything to fill that void.
After taking a handful of pills, I ended up in the psyche ward of my local hospital. I remember none of what happened, just woke up there. I remember being terrified, not knowing how I got there and not knowing if they were going to let me out. I was there for a week and in out-patient treatment for six weeks. It was the best thing that ever happened to me as I was forced to look at all the stripped down parts of myself I never wanted to look at. They also diagnosed me as bipolar and I was put on meds.
This was 16 years ago. I divorced as soon as possible upon leaving the hospital and moved across the country for a new start. I started coming out to people a little bit at a time and am now out in all aspects of my life. I’m with a loving partner and we celebrate ten years together next month. I regained a sense of self and of self-worth.
Today I’m happy.