Throughout my life and career as a sex worker, I’ve had to learn how to navigate patriarchal expectations. The expectations of who I am allowed to be in and outside of work as a femme person, a queer person, and as a Black person were at first loud, restrictive and exhausting. They told me that beauty had specific rules. That “femininity” was rigid, it required softness, silence and compliance and desirability was something narrow, fragile and rarely meant for someone like me. I’ve done camming, stripping and other forms of sex work - but becoming a professional dominatrix fundamentally changed how I understood beauty, power, and myself.
Growing up in a white-supremacist, patriarchal, heterosexual culture, beauty felt limited and unattainable at times. It was presented through a slim, rigid lens.
For feminine/femme people, especially Black women, the lesson comes early: be pleasant, be small, be quiet. We are rewarded for softness, compliance, and taking up limited space. We are taught that young girls should be seen, not heard. The strength women of all races represent is only tolerated when it’s convenient to others. Confidence is often reframed as arrogance, attitude or abrasiveness.
The expectations of who I am allowed to be in and outside of work as a femme person, a queer person, and as a Black person were at first loud, restrictive and exhausting.
So how does someone unlearn this conditioning, and become a dominatrix? For a long time, I didn’t think I could. Throughout my life and into my young adulthood, I often felt invisible to desire, or paradoxically, “too much desire” for people whose expectations were painfully limited. My presence felt like something to manage to others, rather than inhabit. That contradiction turned into fear: fear of standing out, fear of being misunderstood, fear of being rejected for not fitting in neatly. That fear followed me everywhere until it met curiosity. Kink was a major turning point because it erased the fear, and also gave me language to examine it.
I found myself asking questions I never let myself ask or answer previously; “What would it mean to step fully into my authority? What is scary about being dominant? What if the things in ‘vanilla’ life that are seen as negatives are actually things that can be celebrated?” And “What did I think being dominant would say about me, as a woman, a Black person, as someone who was conditioned to shrink?” Stepping into the role of a Domme wasn’t about becoming someone else, but it was about finally meeting parts of myself that I had been taught to hide. One of the most surprising things about becoming a Pro Domme was who showed up in my space. People from all walks of life: many of whom held power, status, or control elsewhere who came to me seeking surrender, structure and permission to be vulnerable.
What I learned quickly is that strength and vulnerability are not opposites, they often coexist. When clients feel safe with me, they reveal their fears, their tenderness, their desires to be seen without judgment or shame. I get to witness how courage lives inside desire, how asking for what you want in a world that polices vulnerability is an act of bravery. Strength is intimacy. Confidence can be quiet, both for Dominants and submissives. Presence can command. These experiences continue to shape my worldview and I am very grateful for that. Power is not about force, it is about awareness.
What did I think being dominant would say about me, as a woman, a Black person, as someone who was conditioned to shrink?
Helping guide others into their truths continues to help me see myself differently. My relationship with my body has shifted since becoming a sex worker, but especially since becoming a Dominant. It isn’t something to critique or discipline, it’s an instrument of my authority and communication. My voice has changed, not in tone but in certainty. I speak with less apologies and explanations. I no longer hide what is labeled as “too intense”, “too opinionated” or “too much”. Submissives are often looking for direct, authoritative and intelligent dominants to fulfill their fantasies. They are not flaws, they are guides; guides to find the correct people interested in what you have to offer.Dominance gave me permission to inhabit myself fully, and in doing so, I realize how much energy I spent previously trying to be palatable to everyone. As a sex worker, it is easy to feel like you have to appeal to every client and every niche and I have learned that being yourself allows those who are meant for you to show themselves.
Strength looks different to me than it once did. It looks like self-possession, today. Knowing what you want, standing by it, whether as a Dominant, submissive or switch, is strength. Everyone should take up space without asking for approval. Beauty is not about shrinking to fit into fantasies, it’s about being authentic. Being so rooted in yourself makes people feel it when you enter rooms. That presence is magnetic because it’s honest; it doesn’t perform, it just exists. It just is.
It is all about the right environments. Strength is accepted and cherished in the right places. If I could speak to my younger self, and any other young dommes/sex workers, I would tell them this: you were never wrong for being strong. You aren’t too loud, too intense, or too visible. You are responding intelligently to a world that tries to limit your power.
Being a sex worker—a Pro Domme—didn’t give me strength, it showed me that it was already there.
For more articles on BDSM, see Lazy Subs Make Bad Lovers and How Clowning Made Me a Better Pro-Domme.
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