A Rather Different Coming Out Story, and a Few Dating Tips for the Relationship Challenged

by Rajkhet Dirzhud-Rashid
photo by Taylor Maxwell photography www.imaxwell.net
Model: Jacqueline Hyde

As I’ve been mentally preparing myself to move to Tacoma – my first major move since I left the Windy City, Chicago and moved to Seattle in ‘87 – and realizing that yes, there are things I’ll miss about Seattle, a few things occurred to me.  One, that this is Pride month, so coming out stories are appropriate and that some of my more ‘eccentric’ behavior probably will need to be toned down a bit in more conservative, family-oriented Tacoma.

So, at first I thought, “Let’s write about my wildest sexual adventures,” but the whole Pride thing, being a Bi girl hung on my head like a little, winged figure, frowning, giving me guilt aplenty.  How could I not write a “coming out” story, but how could I write one that I haven’t already written before?  Voila, I’m standing at the bus stop, waiting for the evening floor show that is the late night Sunday number ten bus (I do my best thinking at bus stops), and the idea hits me like a bolt of lightning.  Share with you, my dear readers, my little, sordid history of coming out in leather.  Or how I went from trying to figure out why the 50s ideal of hubby/two and a half children/and a house or apartment wasn’t working for me, to being one of the fiercest and happiest tops in this little town, and having hella confidence to boot.

I guess I knew something was wired different in my wee little head when I had this dream at the mild age of, say five or seven, which featured not one, but three women, and one was wearing a dominatrix outfit.  I think I might have been tied to the four-poster, very femmy looking bed, but who remembers these things, eh?  All I know is there was some sexy stuff going on and I woke up feeling like my body was on fire.  I also knew something wasn’t okay about this dream and my feelings about it, so I buried it deep in my subconscious, with a promise to take it out and see what the deal was, someday.

Someday came when I went to my first dungeon party at the nascent Wet Spot, which was then located in the bottom of the first incarnation of Edge of The Circle (now on a changing Pike Street) and I hit my first bottom with the brush he provided.  Somehow, the fact that he was everyone’s bitch in the room, and I was still not sure where I fit in this world, dampened my enthusiasm a bit. 

Still, I filed it all, and when I went to another party, in a much edgier and more formal setting during Leather Pride Days (back in the sweet mid-nineties, when Seattle was still looking for who it would be), my heart thumpa-thumped a bit more, closer to that dream. 

The smell of leather, the sight of naked women getting all sorts of things done to them, and the huge crush I had on one of the major tops back then all added to my initial excitement at what was then called The Boxing Club (now some other “problem club” on a rapidly changing Capitol Hill).  I allowed myself to be topped, not really sure what I was doing, only liking some of it and sort of having a couple of orgasms while being spanked, but something still wasn’t clicking for me, even as I knew this was along the right path.

So, fast forward past the painful and impromptu afternoon of S&M and photography staged by a former co-worker and dyke top, who worked with another top I had a crush on –I went to the gym later covered in bruises, very quiet and a little nonplussed by the whole experience – to my introduction to The Wet Spot. 

Accompanying a male friend whom I’d met at some art event earlier, I was immediately asked to join this amazing male top (who I still consider the best top in this town to this day) torturing this succulent, young woman who was laid out, ass to us, on a gurney table and restrained.  With the first whack on her plush rump, and her little squeal of pain (I was using a plastic baseball bat), something finally clicked.  I felt like a chorus of leather-clad angels were singing hallelujah in my head and clicking their high-heeled boots in joy. 

I was at last home, at last out in leather. And in that moment, I also knew why I didn’t enjoy the bottoming I’d done in The Boxing Club.  I’m a top, thank you very much, and though I can switch and bottom on occasion, I’m happier holding the whip, paddle or flogger and knowing my victim is squirming in anticipation of the next, harder lick, all the while inwardly pleading for more. 

I am a sadist, in that hurting people turns me on, gets  me wet and frees me in a way that nothing else does.  And yes, I love the scenes in movies when things get out of control and the hero/heroine goes over that thin line and does something really dark to the bad guy.  Exploding things turn me on, fire turns me on, people in leather turn me on, the look in someone’s eyes of challenge when I’m either under them in bed, or about to beat the crap out them on a St. Andrew’s Cross (my favorite device of choice to do my thing), the cop behind his dark glasses straddling a motorcycle.  All some of my favorite things, as is the sound of a whip hitting skin and the scream of pain after. 

Now I can have real orgasms from getting spanked, but only if the right person is doing the spanking and yes, I faked a couple when I was getting cropped by some really hot tops in the early days of my learning.  Also, as far as I know, the first thing women look at isn’t shoes, so guys if that’s what you think, pity on you.  And if a guy is offering you food, take it. Men are fragile creatures and need to know they can win you in this simple way. So let them.  He’ll be yours forever. This, I shamelessly tell you. 

(This column is dedicated to the memory of Cookie Hunt, dynamite Dyke top and fearless friend).