A business client bought me a copy of Sun Tzu, Master of War, a Confucian guide to battle tactics updated for today’s business berks. Fat, bald men in suits who like to see themselves as wild warriors. (The same Horsemen of the Apocalypse who usually want ‘a bare-bottomed spanking, please. And then I want to suck your nipples.’ ) I flick through this timeless text and find out that it’s not a good idea to attack uphill. Who knew?
Maybe I should write my own man-taming text. I am Su-Sie, Mistress of Men – as hard as taking sweets off children. And involves the same amount of whining and whingeing. As some tiresome telly bitch recently said, mastering men is usually the same as training dogs. Why don’t I just try these techniques on My Man Max. Why am I pretending life is a Mills and Boon novel?
They’re men. All too aware that, these days, they’re on the losing side. I suppose I could stoop to that. But why can’t any relationship be an equal exchange? I’m a pro-Domme harlot. Surely I’m not being naive? Am I?