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SkatchCracka in da Heezy

September 13, 2009

“Career” can be used as a verb or a noun. Behold:

The passenger jet was careering down the runway.

The plane crashed, killing everyone on board, but my career is really taking off.

Both definitions are characterized by a sense of uncontrollable momentum. I’m terrified of careers and careering. Although maybe I’m just saying that because I have yet to choose a career path or career toward anything other than psychiatric meltdown, which is way less hilarious than it sounds. I’m trying to stay focused on the Stein in ’09 philosophy, but it’s hard. I’m barely even employed, and everywhere I look, people my age are doing actual jobs. The problem is that I don’t know how to go about getting hired for any of the jobs I really want. I have numerous talentbilities. Read on.

For years, friends, relatives, and, on one memorable occasion at my former workplace, total strangers have been telling me I’d make a great dominatrix, and they’re right, damn it. I’m decently attractive, according to the two people who have stalked me this year and the liquor store employees who eye me suspiciously as I select my weekly bottle of rum despite the fact that I am 29. I’m five or six times as sarcastic as I am attractive, and furthermore, I have the straightest face in the land. If six years as a grad student in humanities departments taught me anything, it was how to maintain a poker face irregardless of how much utter absurdity is going on in my presence. Some people’s capacity for seriousness would evaporate at the sight of a man on all fours, in a dog collar and underwear, licking toothpaste out of a cat dish. But I could stare at that shit all day and blink fewer times than Robert Goulet’s bighorn sheep. I’m desensitized. I’ve translated a poem about and/or heard a selection of conference papers on pretty much every kinky sex concept you can think of. You would not believe what was going on at parties 2500 years ago. Nihil novum sub sole, indeed.

My former boss did some online research and informed me that where he lives, a city called Vancouver, dominatrices make $200 per hour. That’s ridiculous money. It’s over eight times my most recent salary. It would be stupid not to get on board with that kind of income. In last week’s tampon refund post, I mentioned that I’m a feminist. And I can think of no better way to express my feminism than to accept huge quantities of tax-free ca$h under the table from men who for some mystifying reason are desperate to pay someone to mock them, order them around, and inflict incrementally worse pain upon them. I have no interest in doing anything even remotely resembling prostitution; I would never have sex for money. The jury’s still out as to whether I’d do it for free. But if some dude wants to empty the contents of his wallet into my wallet in exchange for the opportunity to be degraded for an hour by an enraged, more-or-less good-looking woman dressed in probably some kind of spiked leather corset with chain accents, that’s just fine with me. Girl power!

Okay, wait a minute. Business idea: translate the beyond-ingenious premise of Gladiatrix into an actual dominatrix academy (is that the right word, “academy”?) where the employees are all dressed up like fucking hot and terrifying weapon-wielding psycho killers from various ancient lands and each has an area of specialty like knife play, whip mastery, verbal humiliation, cigarette burn play, etc. so the clients have a wide range of “authentically historical” experiences to choose from. We could even encourage repeat visits by giving each patron some kind of convenient wallet-size card with all the ladies’ names on it that gets stamped or hole punched as the man makes the rounds, and when his card is fully punched/stamped he receives a gift certificate for one hour free with the dominatrix of his choice. That would be awesome. Wouldn’t it? Does anyone want to loan me some seed money? Corset prices are through the roof these days.

As a dominatrix I’d only have to work 15 or 20 hours a week, mostly in the evenings, which would leave me plenty of time during the day to pursue my other dream job: gangsta rap ghostwriting. Street cred is not my destiny, but bitch, I can write like a muthafuckin’ gangbanger. I’ll beat your face with my hard-as-fuck boasts and insults and death threats. Here’s an example:

You backwards bastards, fuck your wack words.
I make your chatter scatter like blackbirds.
Like a death adder, I subtract your life,
attack your back with a knife and shack up with your wife,
and when you dead, I’ma have sex in your bed,
turn the lights out, put your wife’s cat out and eat her pussy out…

And it goes on and on in a similar vein, describing how you get murdered and then postmortemly cuckolded in various ways, and meanwhile, your wife’s cat is never seen or heard from again. That’s reality, G. That’s street life. Get your pet licensed next time, yo. There are a lot of rappers out there who look the part and have access to great samples and recording equipment but aren’t really the shiznit in the writing skills department. I want to join forces with those people and write sick lyrics for them to spit in the studio. They can totally have credit in the liner notes. I’m not insecure; I know my writing belongs to me regardless of who’s yelling it to a killer bass-heavy remix of the chorus of “The Boys in the Bright White Sports Car.” My rates would be more than reasonable. Let’s say $40 per hour to start. Compared to what I’ll be making at my other job as a gladiatrix-impersonatrix dominatrix, that’s a bargain. Charity work, practically.

The only thing standing in my way is that I don’t know where to apply for either of my dream careers. If I knew any dominatrices I would have an in, but virtually everyone I know is either a grad student or the spouse of a grad student. And as far as gangsta ghostwriting goes, I don’t think that’s even a real thing, so I’d probably have to be freelance for a long time before the lame lyricists of the rap community began to accept me as a member of their production team. All things considered, careerwise, it probably would have been advisable to stay in my classics doctoral program. But how could I concentrate on dead languages and academic politics when I had these other pressing interests and no time to pursue them?

If you or someone you love needs help composing tight verses and/or would like to be burned with cigarettes by a woman dressed as an ancient retiaria, call me. You’d have to contact me privately for my cell number, but my work number is definitely on the internet. I know that for a fact because one of my stalkers found it and called me there numerous times earlier this year.

Word to your mother.

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. Anna permalink
    September 25, 2009 9:22 am

    One of the best ones!! Laughed the whole way!

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