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where I felt halfway pretty, and I also like to tell about some of my wisecracks.
But those first few agonizing weeks.. .like, for example, the
very first time I actually went to his house after all the fittings
and appointments. I was on my knees, trembling with fear and
excitement, tethered to a hook in the wall near the fireplace,
waiting for him. What would he say, I kept wondering, and
what would it really be like to fuck him? I even wondered - I'm
embarrassed to admit - if he'd like the haircut. I waited there
for about ten minutes, until finally he came in, looked me over
impassively, and asked, "How do you greet me?"
    Trick question. Of course I didn't know, but I thought
of porn novels I'd read, so I put my head down and kissed his
shoe. And got my new crimson lipstick, that he'd bought for me to wear, all over the toe. He thwacked me hard with the
riding crop he was carrying (I'd never seen a riding crop, but
I recognized it from my porn reading) and told me to lick the
lipstick off his shoe. And then he said curtly that of course I
didn't know how to greet him, because he hadn't told me yet,
and that the first thing I should learn was that I shouldn't pretend to know anything I didn't, and to please spare him the
benefit of all my damn adolescent jerkoff reading.

    The thwack from the riding crop was a shock, but it was
his cold and contemptuous tone of voice that really got to me,
that first time and in the weeks after it. I knew that it was ridiculous to feel this way, but he'd fucking hurt my feelings. Not
that he'd been exactly affectionate in our first conversations,
but he'd been forthcoming and appreciative. I knew that in the
two weeks before I'd begun coming to his house, I'd caught
myself replaying bits and snatches of those conversations in
my head, and yes, his compliments "you're pretty" and "you're
smart" - and even "that beautiful butt" -were among my favorite selections. Pretty soon into the training process, though, I
resigned myself to never hearing stuff like that again.
    Because that's what it was, training. And even though a
big porn reader like me should have known exactly what to
expect, I was shocked and insulted. Somehow I'd imagined
that of course I'd immediately know how to give him everything he wanted-hell, I thought he'd take care of all that,
maybe with mirrors, I don't know. Somehow, when it was
me and not 0 or Jamie or others of my beloved literary bottoms, I'd shifted gears, or genres, in my imagination, thinking
it would be more like one of those pseudorape scenes from a
novel you buy on a rack in the supermarket -you know, "He
held her in his granite-hard grasp, his hungry desire making her swoon." I think I'd expected to do a lot of swooning, while
his "hungry desire" did all the work. Wrong.

    He did know what he wanted, though-what, when,
where, and how. I was amazed, and oddly comforted, that he
knew so exactly. I hadn't known that was possible. Nobody
I'd ever slept with had known, I thought, considering my last
few years of boyfriends. Or if they'd known, they certainly
hadn't let me in on it. Even Eric, who had been the major love
of my life -we'd played at living together for a few months
during my junior year-he hadn't known. We'd been really
proud of ourselves, Eric and I-lots of loud sex all the time
and everywhere-we'd thought the shower was especially
cool. And we'd been considerate, going down on each other as
often as we thought the other guy wanted it, though we'd been
guessing, really, because we'd both been shy about asking.
    Well, forget shy. Jonathan wasn't shy, and he also
sure didn't ask. He used precise, grammatical sentences to
demand exactly what he wanted, and the operative word
was "exactly." And I began to wonder how people ever knew
what each other really wanted, without, you know, somebody demanding it. Well, maybe people who'd been married
a million years and had hit it by trial and error, but that