Drifting in and out of such comfortable slumber, my blurry vision adjusts to the wilting pink peonies on the coffee table in front of me. Blinking awake, I push my glasses onto my face and check my phone.
10:37 AM. And a message from the Dominatrix.
I had quite a night! Can we meet at 11:45 instead? Sorry!
I’m forever grateful when plans are pushed back - I’m chronically late but I have good intentions.
I set a timer for 10 more minutes and pull the blanket over my head.
45 minutes later I watch an American family come to the realization the patriarch of the group had been pickpocketed on the metro - an almost theatrical scene of confusion erupting into anger, effusing into resignation to their phoneless fate.
Poor guy.
I’m greeted by a mist of rain at the Blanche station exit, where I am to meet the Dominatrix. Almost immediately, I see her. A flash of red, almost orange hair atop an emerald green wool coat. She smiles warmly and wraps an arm around my shoulders before greeting me with two cheek kisses.
Come this way - you’re about to meet the cutest waiter in the whole wold
A bold claim considering the size of Paris, much less the whole world. After last summer, I’m quite wary of Parisian waiters anyway.
She guides me through Montmartre, weaving us through throngs of tourists and those that make a living off them. 20 years she’s lived in Paris, (she’s 44 - to my surprise) and she loves Montmartre the most. I can’t blame her, despite the souvenir shops and gimmicky cafes, the neighborhood feels like Paris as it once was.
We enter a corner cafe that felt eerily familiar to me - pink walls, quirky art deco inspired fixtures -
It’s the Amelie cafe, you know it?
Of course I know it, I’m a product of early 2000’s movies centered around odd female protagonists. I find it strange this force of a woman, a staunch Parisian, chose this as our office for the morning. Maybe she thinks I’ll be amused by the choice - I am.
Striding up to a bar seat she confidently settles in, tossing her hair over her shoulder like a cape. As she shimmies her green coat off I catch a glimpse of her outfit - clad only in black, she wears tights under a silk skirt, and a cardigan delicately draped over a mesh shirt. Under her mesh shirt she wears gold pasties with crosses hanging from them - her own design. She carries herself with such poise and confidence, the look doesn’t wear her. She owns it.
I feel dowdy next to her, in my mother’s oversized 90’s sweater and baggy blue jeans - my washed out red hair is a tangled nest hidden under a scarf, and I’ve failed to hide my lack of sleep by rubbing a dash of lipstick on my cheeks.
She orders a cafe au lait, a ham and butter sandwich with cornichons, and a big glass of red wine. I stick to an espresso and sandwich, which I can’t bring myself to finish because my stomach is so unsettled with nerves. I have a performance tonight and I’m far from prepared.
Her kohl lined eyes study my face as I answer her pointed questions with hesitation, I’m never like this. I can talk to anyone! But the whole ordeal is making me anxious, and I feel as if I’ve reverted to a younger, much less confident version of myself. I don’t think she likes me - at all.
There he is - the cutest waiter in the world.
She motions to my right as she sucks on her vape. My sight lands on a tall, thin waiter - with deep set panic stricken eyes that scan the dining room, intentionally ignoring the intensely heated gaze from The Dominatrix.
He’s an actor. I offered to help him but he won’t accept. Either he doesn’t care about his craft or his girlfriend is insecure,
It could be both but I assure her - it’s the latter.
And there it is - the crack in our uncomfortable conversation. It opens up and we dive into the complexities of sexuality and religion, and how no one (not even her) can get a proper text back. She tells me she’s entered into an era of celibacy - no men have been exciting to her as of late - an epidemic which has crossed international borders.
Through a cloud of vapor she says
Now I will take you around the real Montmartre and then to my atelier - which is really just my apartment.
As we leave, the Cutest Waiter in The World squeaks out a farewell and scurries away. It’s really raining now but my new friend pops open an umbrella and takes me by the arm. We weave through crowds once again, somehow staying completely dry under this umbrella, and end up on a quiet street behind the Sacré-Cœur, where tourists have no reason to venture.
As she checks her mail I finally catch her name - ‘Dominique’ - printed neatly on her mailbox. Her apartment is a canvas. The living room is the atelier - pizza boxes containing carefully laid out nipple pasty collections line the floor, the fireplace is adorned with beautifully crafted leather whips and dried flowers, and before an image of Mother Mary stands a mannequin wearing bondage gear next to an issue of Charlie Hebdo.
A little cat with a funny face assumes position precariously perched atop my knee, and purrs affectionately. Dominique enters the room with a glass bowl full of pink candy and places it on the coffee table in front of me. She pulls out her latest whip designs, braided hair pieces that have names to match their personalities and demonstrates their characters.
She’s a designer - an artist - not a dominatrix as I thought - outfitting the BDSM and Drag communities of Paris with her bespoke pieces. Each piece is beautiful and thoughtful, requiring days of devotion to craft.
Before I leave she gifts me with my very own set of gold pasties, with giant gold hoops hanging from them. I’m touched by this and laugh at myself for feeling so insecure at the cafe. She explains how to wear them - high on the nipple, obviously - and gives me a fist full of wig tape.
I’m inspired by her warmth, confidence, and artistry - and while I may lack the confidence to wear gold pasties to breakfast, I am sent off carrying a newfound confidence to wear in Paris, thanks to Dominique.