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Miguel

ISSUE 2.4 (2007)

“Suck that red tuna like you’d suck my big, brown dick, bitch.” Wait—did I really just compare my penis to a tuna roll? I wonder. Oh, the things a New York City boy will do to pay rent.

Of course, working as a fetish-focused pro-domme for years, I’d found myself in peculiar situations before. But this date surprised even me. Here I was in dirty jeans and beat-up work boots at the trendy Sushi Samba, spitting kinky demands involving seafood at my trembling client.

His name was Lucas and he was the ideal trick: submissive, reliable, loaded. After chatting online for weeks, I demanded he fly down from his native Toronto to bring to life his greatest fantasy: to stare at me while I ingest copious amounts of sushi.

I explained that, once in the city, he would find me standing on East 64th Street, somewhere between Madison and Third. “But how will I know it’s you, my king?” he whimpered.

I had a simple solution, “Tape a piece of paper to your chest, and write B-I-T-C-H on it.”

“But, no, I can’t, I—” he cried. “Yes, bitch, you will.”

That night Lucas did precisely as told. I greeted him by hurling a nasty loogie on his cheek and hailed us a cab downtown to Sushi Samba. I felt out of place among the restaurant’s Park Avenue crowd, not just because of my ratty jeans and oversized football jersey, but because of the dark sunglasses I refused to remove even past midnight. (Worried I might run into an acquaintance, I always insist on shades.)

Once seated, Lucas ordered nearly everything on the menu, from yellowtail to lobster tempura. Five plates arrived and he began diligently mixing soy sauce and wasabi, preparing each morsel for me to devour. And devour I did. The more raw fish I brought to my purple lips, the hornier he got. “I’m so hard, Papi,” he cooed.

After minutes of teasing him, I gave him what he really wanted: a taste fresh off his master’s tongue. I took a big piece and inserted it into my mouth. Without masticating, I held onto the sushi with the chopsticks for a moment, removed it and tossed it onto his barren plate.

“Eat it, Pussy!” I ordered. He whimpered and fidgeted. I repeated, “Eat it, Puto!” His eyes watered. He looked scared. “Put it in your mouth, chew, and swallow, cunt.” He was in heaven. I watched, delighted, as he touched the tuna to his quivering lip, moaned, and rolled his eyes to the back of his head.

I repeated this scenario throughout the night with only slight variation. We finished dinner and I received a hefty sum for my time. I thought to myself, was dinner that much of a turn on? The monstrous bulge in his slacks showed me it was.

Our trysts continued for nearly two years before the spark sadly died. In those years, however, I visited the finest Japanese dining rooms in Manhattan, skillfully eroticizing everything from mackerel sashimi to a BBQ Chilean sea bass roll. And although I now chuckle to myself every time I think back on how aroused Lucas got by our scene, I never told him that the funnier thing was that it always got me hard too.

MIGUEL is a New Yorker with a penchant for the kinkier, more off-the-beaten-path side of sex work.