The Dom: Beware the most innocuous invitations

Most of the people in my department eat lunch together in the lovely cafeteria our building offers. We’re joined daily by various employees from other departments within the company who, I suppose, find agreeable the humor and ramblings of the other IT representatives. I’m still amazed by their willing presence, but I digress.

One of said employees, henceforth to be known as The Dom, is a loud, fairly jovial, and somewhat domineering character who joins the crew only on occasion. For several months, I didn’t even know her name. But it happened on a few occasions that she and I found ourselves on the same train in the morning or afternoon, and thus struck up the kind of acquaintanceship that occurs when you only encounter one another during the most brain-dead parts of the day. For the most part, we discussed inane matters with a liberal dash of absurdity.

One evening on our way home, I mentioned my recent foray into online dating. She, apparently, was seasoned in the whole business. She mentioned several sites I’d never heard of, CollarMe, among them, and told me she’d met her current lover through an ad she’d placed outlining her dominant desires. According to The Dom, he’s submissive and married; his wife supposedly knows about the arrangement and takes no issue.

A couple weeks after our little discussion, The Dom came up to my cube one Friday and asked if I wanted to meet up for drinks the next day. I was surprised by the invitation, but a little break from the norm would do me good, I thought. We agreed to meet around noon (“It’s more fun to get drunk during the day,” I said.) and exchanged numbers. The next morning, I was dealing with a rather substantial hangover, but I managed to rally myself in time to call her before the appointed time. She was running late, which was fine by me as it gave me time to wash away the stale smoke and alcohol vapors lingering from the night before.

After meeting up, we went to some Mexican joint for a few (really) strong margaritas (and, of course, the standard chips and salsa, which turned out to be the only fare I consumed all day). By the time we left, all traces of my hangover had vanished, and I had a substantial buzz. So much so that I thought little of it when she leaned across the table to peak down my shirt, trailing her finger briefly on my chest. “What do you have holding those things up?!?” she’d inquired of my strapless bra. It was a sign of things to come, but I hadn’t the wherewithal to notice or care.

We headed toward Adams Morgan, where she also happens to reside, and to a great little dive with only one other patron and non-functional jukeboxes on the tables. We got into deep discussions about a good many things, most of which I cannot remember and the rest of which I choose not to divulge here. We consumed a great many beers and, after our near-solitude was disturbed by a rowdy bunch, found ourselves stumbling onto the street in the red-orange sun of the late afternoon.

Next stop: liquor store. No more than half a block after leaving the bodega with a huge bottle of cheap-ass wine, The Dom tripped on the curb and fell face first on the sidewalk, shattering the Rosé we’d just acquired. After making sure she and her appendages were fully functional, it was back to the shop for another bottle.

Finally we made it safely to her house (which I wouldn’t be able to find again if you paid me). On entering, I was ushered into her bedroom and immediately noticed her pipe lying on a table. Of course, she said when I mentioned it, that was the purpose of us coming there. Being that I’m very interested in all things green, and despite that sober Belle knows drunken Belle should not partake, I was quite happy that we’d be smoking. I hadn’t found a hookup since moving to D.C. and was relying solely on chance encounters with the glorious sticky. Anyhow, alcohol and marijuana, my dear friends, are not the most compatible intoxicants, and I was soon pretty out of my head.

I’m not sure exactly what talk lead to her pulling out her collection of dildos and demonstrating (in the air!!!) how she used them on her submissive bedfellow. Or how I came to hold the largest of those dildos and comment on its weight and length and girth. And I’m even less sure what lead to me letting her kiss me. (I’ve kissed women before. In the grand scheme of things, it’s no biggie.)

What I am sure of is that she began trying to plan a ménage a trios involving me, her, and (of course) her submissive and married screw pal. Even in my highly inebriated state, I found this proposition disagreeable on several levels.

1. There was The Resolution to consider (which I tried to explain to her in my drunken rambling, but I’m pretty sure she dismissed it in her drunken ranting).
2. The idea of a submissive guy didn’t appeal to me. Nor did a submissive guy who is married and has kids (which is why, supposedly, he’s still married) and who lets The Dom strap it on and take him in public parks and such during their lunch hours.
3. If I ever have any sort of lesbian experience, I’d like to at least find the woman attractive. I could not say this about The Dom.
4. Jumping back into a sex life with a threesome of any sort, much less my first, (even if the other partners were more appealing) was not an attractive proposition.
5. The inevitable awkwardness that would follow such an encounter is not something I’d want to deal with at work. Who knows what this woman tells the people she works with on a daily basis? After all, she revealed her kinks to me even though I was a relative stranger.

(I could probably go on, but I think I’ve given sufficient reason for my unwillingness to participate.)

Sometime in the midst of all the presenting of dildos, making out, and propositioning, I got a call from a friend inviting me to game night that evening. I accepted the invitation and fully intended to get back to Dupont in time to meet up with the friends and join in their games. Immediately when I hung up, The Dom asked to tag along. I explained that the friend had expressly said only our Core group of friends was to be there (she had) and that meant no outsiders (it did). The Dom would have nothing of it. When I left her apartment, she came with me. I found myself on a D.C. Metro bus for the first time, drunk, and with a co-worker demanding sexual favors at my side. I knew I couldn’t impose her on The Core, so I directed our steps toward my apartment. When she realized we weren’t going to meet my friends, she was, of course, offended.

Somehow while we were at my place, The Dom ended up painting my toes and literally begging (on her hands and knees, no less) me to participate in the aforementioned threesome. If it weren’t for the timely return of my wonderful roommate, I have no idea what I would’ve done to get her out of the house. As it happened, when he returned, he quickly perceived that I was ready to be rid of my company and offered to escort us to her bus stop. She demanded that I walk with her alone. I refused, telling her I don’t go anywhere at night alone in the District because I’ve promised the parental units as much (I have). She took offense to this, too, and set out on her own.

At that point, I was just glad to be rid of her. By the following Monday, I was mortified that I’d gotten so drunk and allowed so much to happen with a woman I’ll likely encounter at least weekly for the remainder of my stint at this company. So I did what all people with a burgeoning shame do; I avoided her for the next week solid.

Slowly, over time, I got to the point where I don’t feel myself burning red when she enters the lunchroom. And the other day, I even managed to exchange a bit of small talk with her without throwing up in my mouth at all.