I have always been interested in being a dominatrix. Maybe it's the power of giving pain and dominating minions into submission. Maybe it's wearing those hot outfits to the "office" every day; maybe I just didn't get enough love in my childhood. Personally, I think strong women are almost like dominatrices because they stand their ground and don't take shit from the people in their lives. Strong women are very intimidating in any caliber, with a whip and a corset or a pair of slinky jeans and a martini in hand, strong women rule.

In my days in New York City, I had a slave. He was everything you would expect. He actually found me. I was writing e-mails on AOL and a chat comes up from this guy, Iggy. I don't know this man. He starts to ask me strange questions. "Does your laundry pile up?” "Do you let the dishes go too long?" "How many times a month do you change your sheets?" Who the hell is this guy? Is he peering into my apartment at this moment? Then I sat back to I ponder these questions for a moment. I looked at the sheets on my bed that have not been changed, the old pizza boxes on the floor, the cat litter that smelled. You know what I realized? I'm a total slob. I let the dishes go and the laundry become a meteor-sized ball in my bedroom. I hate cleaning all together. The man offered to come clean my apartment and I accepted. The catch was that he would clean naked and I would treat him like a dog. I thought it was a joke. A stranger would come to my house and clean? I looked up submissive online. It read that it's about someone taking control of them and having power. They wouldn't hurt you, they are getting off on the exquisite pain you offer them. No, I can't do this, I thought and as I was about to close the chat box and block Iggy, I looked under my chair at a rotten banana peel and decided to do it. What's the harm? I needed a maid and I could not afford one. Also, to top it off he would pay me.

The first thing I noticed about this man was that when he entered my apartment his face changed. He seemed normal enough and then his face became cowardly and almost child like. It was surreal how he looked perfectly normal and in less then thirty seconds, he turned to a pathetic disgrace of a human being. He would not look me in the eye. He cleaned naked and he wore a device on his penis that I still can't figure out what it was. Made out of Popsicle sticks and duct tape, the only way I can describe it is a MacGyver contraption for perverts. I'm sure the faint of heart would have kicked him out. This would be too much for so many. A seemingly harmless man became my slave to clean all my dirty skivvies and pots and pans. He also ate my cigarette butts, was a human footstool and organized my entire closet color coordinated and by season and style. He offered to eat my cat litter but I declined that. I'm not taking my slave to the hospital. What would the EMT think when they arrived? I called him my pet rock. I would empty out his wallet and make him buy me dinner, booze and cigarettes.

The last time my pet rock came over I invited over a friend to watch the action. I cleaned out his wallet and ordered some take out while he scrubbed my tub. I gave my friend a broom handle and told him to go over to the pet rock and beat him on the back. My friend was hesitant and reserved, "I can't." I told him not to be scared and that he actually enjoyed it. My friend did it, dropped the broom and freaked out. "How can you do this, Nikki?" He would shiver as he spoke. "This man has deep psychological problems." I put my finger to my chin and pondered that. Then I sigh and said, "Hey, at least my kitchen looks amazing" That was the night the pet rock gave me the best back massage I have ever received in my life. It would make Burke Williams look like a rub and tug. He left that night and I never heard from him again. I remember watching him cross 72ed Street with a backpack on his back and a skip in his step. I looked at all the passerby’s on the street and thought how none of them had any idea what I just had done to that man. Who else was being tortured at that very moment and loving it?

Years have passed and thinking about the pet rock, I have no idea what ever happened to him. Maybe he found a new master; maybe he found God or hopefully, a therapist. Some people have asked me if I feel bad at the way I treated him and I say no. If not me, then someone else.

This is a part one of a two-part column. I will tell you about my experience in a Los Angeles fetish bar in two weeks. Until then may your days be spent hung-over and your nights forgotten. Ta Los Angeles.