Slave for Love

My wild night with a sex slave wasn't exactly what I had bargained for

Photograph by Getty Images

I was waiting patiently in the diner booth, watching the door for my date, wondering, what does a sex slave look like?

“BeverlyHillsBoy” had contacted me the previous night. Even though it was after 11 p.m., when the only guys who write are looking for instant hookups, I started IMing with him. I’d just gotten out of a long-term relationship and besides, he looked like Jude Law.

“I’d like to do everything I can to please you,” he wrote. He told me he was a sex slave.

“What’s that?” I understood the words but not the term.

“I serve you. I fulfill all your fantasies," he wrote. "I do anything you ask of me.”

I was intrigued. I’d always been a good girl. But I suspected I’d missed out on the wild nights of acrobatic sex and salivating passion that the rest of the world was now engaging in. So I’d made a date with him for the following night.

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In walked a Hollywood hipster, wearing an untucked pale blue-button down oxford, khakis and flip-flops. As he approached my table, I saw he wasn’t tall, but had light marble eyes, a sexy buzz-cut and razor-sharp cheekbones. I’d be happy to date him.

“Hey there,” BHB said, his voice husky. He made small talk, about how he was a working screenwriter in Hollywood, just finished his master’s at Yale. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?” I asked.

“Do you really want to know?” he said. I never do, not even on regular dates. But, I had to remind myself, this wasn’t a regular date.

“So, how does this, um, thing work?” I ventured.

“I’d rather not talk about it here,” BHB said, gesturing at the people. “Wanna split?” He walked out onto the deserted Santa Monica street.

“Explain to me why you’re a sex slave?” I said. “You could have any girl you want …” I don’t add: for a real relationship.

He took my hand and put it on his pants. “I’ve got a tiny member,” he said. “My happiness is being the doting boyfriend to a woman that laughs at my manhood, sleeps with other men and has me pleasure her.”

I yanked my hand back, unsure whether to laugh or run. “Interesting …” I said instead.

“When you combine it with good conversation, cooking and massage skills, it can be quite enjoyable,” he replied. “Plus other stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Whatever you like. I can clean your house — wearing only my underwear. I can cook you dinner.”

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The offer sounded tempting — massages, sex and housecleaning? My Venice bungalow is a mess.

“You interested?” he asked.

It sounded crazy. But he was so cute and sweet. And no one had ever so nakedly offered to put my needs first.

“Why not?” I said. Playing by the rules in my last relationship only got me dumped.

BHB followed me home in his car.

Nervous, I started giving him a tour of my house, like I was a real estate agent. “So, this is my place,” I said chirpily, sweeping my arm around my small 4x4 living room. He walked into my bedroom and sat on the bed, patting it for me to join him.

He pulled my feet onto his lap. “Beautiful feet for a beautiful woman,” he said, rubbing them. I relaxed into him.

“So what does a sex slave do?” I mumbled.

He laid me down on my bed. “We’ll figure out what you want and see how to work with it.” He tickled my back for a while. Then he turned me on my side and we started passionately making out. I felt like I was in high school. Until he whispered ...

“You like a man with a big penis?”

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I froze. I didn’t know if I could do humiliation.

“I like men that are good with their hands,” I said.

“Thanks for not saying ‘Size doesn’t matter,’” BHB said, playing with my hair. He leaned in to kiss my forehead. It’s a more intimate gesture than I’ve experienced from many of the men I’ve actually dated.

He unclasped his button-fly jeans.

“I’d like you to laugh at me,” he said. I looked into his earnest eyes, the long lashes almost touching his golden brows. His black boxer-briefs poked through his open zipper.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. Why did someone so beautiful want to feel bad? Why did he want me to make him feel bad?

He pulled me close and we started kissing again. Just sleep with him, I thought. You’ve come this far.

But I was afraid. Afraid of what I’d find, afraid of what kind of shrew I’d become if I did what he wanted.

I had one of those out-of-body moments that always ruined my casual sex life, me watching myself be with someone I didn’t love. As I observed the situation, I realized the irony: My sex slave said he’ll do whatever I want, but it’s really all about his needs: to be subservient, degraded, jealous and competitive, all while “pleasing” me.

But what would please me would be a man who would want to do all that for me (house cleaning with clothes on) and let me appreciate him for it. A man who would love me and let me love him in return.

I rolled off the bed. BHB got the message. He zipped his pants, put on his shoes and brushed my lips with his, coolly.

“Call me,” he said as he slipped out my front door.

I never did. It’s just not what I wanted.

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