Why Are People Into That? by Tina Horn

Author:Tina Horn [HORN, TINA]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hachette Books
Published: 2024-06-04T00:00:00+00:00

Many sex work clients want to think about money as little as possible. They want a “girlfriend experience,” in which case part of the job is helping them believe they could get what they’re paying for without having to pay for it. But some people want to bring cash from the subtext to the text.

One of my first BDSM clients, years before findom became popular on social media, was a Québécois who went by the name Jean the Spy. He liked to hire several girls at a time to interrogate and torture him for “information.”

The first time I saw Jean, my coworker explained to me that we wouldn’t get our tribute until after the session. I objected to the game at first: as a rule, I want the money upfront, the topic out of the way. I don’t take kindly to the suggestion that if I botch the game, I don’t get paid. It’s the same reason I don’t like clients who ask me to “think about being mad at my boyfriend” while I’m kicking them in the balls: it’s an invasion of my motivations. I’m great at upselling more hours, more cameos, more extras from the menu, but I don’t like to haggle on the price of my time. I want to know how much I’m making for what service and dig in from there. The value is the value; how much you want or have got to spend is up to you. But Jean had a genial enough attitude that I agreed to make an exception.

Sessions with Jean turned out to be comfortingly formulaic. We would leave him alone in the dungeon room for five minutes while he squirreled away “intelligence documents,” like an uncle hiding the afikomen during Passover. Then we would barge through the door, screaming at him to surrender the location of the “information.” We’d tie him to a chair, sensually seducing what we wanted out of him.

After fifteen minutes, he’d sigh, “Okay, okay, you got me.” The documents were under a cushion in the human-sized cage. One of us would stomp over to the cage to find… half of the session fee in crisp twenty-dollar bills.

“This is only part of what we require! It’s useless without the rest of it!” I’d allow the rage to rise in my voice. The plot thickened, and so did Jean’s cock. We’d electrocute his nipples, hold a knife to his throat.

“Stop, please, I’ll tell you!” Jean gasped. “It’s in the medical device drawer.”

And yet, right there next to the clamps and weights and chastity devices and Wartenberg wheels were only a few more bills. This is when I started to get into it. The session fee was the scene’s MacGuffin, a plot device. In that moment, I could appreciate that Jean was absolutely right: it was more fun that the sex game’s prop was imbued with the metacontext of reality.

The torture would then increase. We threatened him with waterboarding, with mutilation, revealing we knew where his loved ones lived.

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