Oh, The Fun She Had.
I heard about Nikki the way we hear about anything these days. In fragments. A message. A screenshot. A scroll that suddenly stops moving.
Bratty Nikki. A pioneer of financial domination. Co-founder of iWantClips. One of the women who helped build the road the rest of us now walk on, often without knowing whose hands laid it. I never knew her personally, but I understood what she contributed to our industry, and I sat with the news of her passing longer than I expected.
What I sat with even longer was what came after.
There were tributes. Women remembering her kindness, her friendship, her business acumen, and the opportunities she helped create for other women. People speaking warmly about someone whose life had intersected with theirs in meaningful ways. And threaded among those memories were strangers deciding that a woman who dominated men for a living had somehow earned less tenderness in her passing. That her profession was a deduction from her humanity, itemized in public by people who had never known her. Some even called her death karma because she made a living bullying men. Apparently, the distinction between consensual humiliation and actual cruelty escapes them. Never mind that many men actively seek out, and willingly pay for, precisely that experience.
But that’s an entirely different blog post.
A life reduced to a job description. A career mistaken for a character.
As though a professional persona could possibly contain an entire woman. As though any of us could be summed up by what we do between nine and five, or, in my case, between ten and whenever the fuck I decide we’re finished.
I was talking about all of this with my dear friend and fellow Dominatrix, Princess RayRay (or simply Princess, as she’s always been to me), when I admitted something that was only half a joke.
“I hope when I die, people will say nice things. Some of the shit I’ve read today is awful.”
Her reply caught me off guard. “I would say the best things about you, and I know so many who would.”
Well, isn’t that a lovely thing for someone to say?
And yet, instead of simply accepting the compliment and carrying on with my evening, I found myself wondering what, exactly, I would want those things to be. What would I hope people remembered? What would I want them to say about the woman they’d known, beyond the photographs, the voice, the title, and the occasional outrageous things that came out of her mouth?
I wrote her a message. It came surprisingly easily.
I hope people would say that I supported my friends, appreciated the women who helped me find my way, and tried to pay that generosity forward. That I collaborated beautifully and adored my long-term clients. That I had a remarkable ability to make people feel seen, wanted, appreciated, and understood. That I left people a little happier, and perhaps a little more comfortable with who they really were.
That I understood the universal ache of mankind, and deeply enjoyed pouring love, pleasure, and a little mind-fuckery into the Universe.
And, perhaps most importantly, “OHhhhh, THE FUN SHE HAD!”
I laughed when I read that last part back. Because of course I would want that included. If we’re going to spend our lives being complicated, contradictory, occasionally ridiculous human beings, surely we ought to enjoy ourselves along the way.
But something else occurred to me as I looked at what I’d written. I hadn’t mentioned money. Or accomplishments. Or the things I’d accumulated. My first instinct had been to describe how I hoped people experienced me, how I made them feel, and perhaps more importantly, how they experienced themselves in my company.
And that made me think about the men I’ve spent so much of my life getting to know.
I’ve had the pleasure of knowing some truly remarkable men over the years. Men who are exceptionally good at being needed. They run businesses, support families, make difficult decisions, solve problems, and carry responsibilities that would exhaust most people. They’re dependable, capable, accomplished, and often so accustomed to being the person everyone turns to that they’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to turn toward someone themselves.
They will have plenty to show for their lives. Careers. Homes. Families. Contributions. A long list of things they made possible for other people.
All worthwhile things, certainly. But I’ve often wondered how many other people ever really get to know the man beneath all of that.
Who is he when he doesn’t have to be competent? When nobody needs an answer, a solution, or a cheque? What makes him laugh until he can barely breathe? What does he secretly wish someone would notice? What does he want when there’s absolutely nothing left to prove?
That’s the part of men the world rarely gets to meet.
I do.
I’ve spent years listening to the confessions, the fantasies, the jokes, the grief, and the strange, beautiful things people ache for but rarely say aloud. I’ve known men who could confidently command a boardroom, lead a congregation, conduct a complex surgery… yet struggled to articulate something as simple as wanting to be held. Men who spent decades believing a particular desire made them somehow less worthy of affection, only to discover that sharing it with someone who understood could feel like setting down a weight they hadn’t realized they were carrying.
I’ve watched a man’s expression change when he realized that something he’d guarded so carefully could be met with curiosity, warmth, and perhaps a little mischievous enthusiasm. I’ve heard the laughter that follows a confession when the thing he expected to be terribly serious turns out to be something we can delight in together.
There is something extraordinary about watching a man become comfortable being himself.
Of course, I enjoy the power exchange. I enjoy the control, the anticipation, the delicious possibilities that unfold when someone places their trust in my hands. I enjoy being compensated for my time and expertise, and I have never felt the slightest need to pretend otherwise. But I also enjoy the man attached to all of that. His humour, his intelligence, his peculiarities, the stories he tells, and the little things I’ve come to recognize about him that someone meeting him for the first time would never know.
Some of the men I’ve known have made me laugh until I’ve cried. Others have shared ideas, experiences, and perspectives that have stayed with me for years. I love the unexpected directions our conversations take, the teasing that develops between people who know one another well, and the discoveries we make about each other along the way. I consider myself fortunate to have known them.
After enough years, you begin to understand that being useful, respected, and appreciated is not necessarily the same as being known.
And being remembered for what you provided is not quite the same as being remembered for who you were.
Perhaps that’s why continuity has always meant so much to me. I enjoy the familiarity that develops when two people have shared enough conversations, laughter, and discoveries to recognize one another in ways nobody else quite can. I like knowing that a man can return after a difficult week and find someone who remembers where we left off. Someone who knows when to tease him, when to challenge him, when to listen, and when he might appreciate being relieved of the burden of deciding what happens next.
And I love the thought that some part of what we’ve shared might stay with him long after our conversation ends.
Basketball has a statistic for something like this. It’s called an assist. A player makes the pass that creates the opportunity for someone else to score, and both contributions matter. I’ve always loved that idea, because so much of what we give one another in life happens in precisely that way. A little encouragement, a timely conversation, an unexpected kindness, a moment of recognition that allows someone else to do or experience something they might never otherwise have done. I like to think I embody the assist. Your seductive point guard.
You may never appear in the highlight reel of the life you helped change.
You were still the reason the shot went up.
And perhaps that’s what legacy really is. Not simply what people say about us after we’re gone, but what remains of us within the people who are still here. The kindness someone passes along because it was once extended to them. The confidence that grew from being accepted. The laughter that arrives unexpectedly, years later, because something reminded them of you.
We leave little pieces of ourselves everywhere, often without the slightest idea which moments will matter.
And that brings me to something I think we leave out of far too many conversations about legacy.
The fun.
Why do we talk so reverently about making a difference and so seldom about having a wonderful time being alive? Why must every conversation about what we leave behind sound as though we’re preparing an annual report for the great beyond?
I have every intention of making a difference. I want to be helpful, generous, thoughtful, and loving. I want the people who know me to feel fortunate that our paths crossed, just as I feel fortunate to have known so many of them.
But I also want to laugh until my stomach hurts. I want to flirt outrageously, indulge my curiosity, and occasionally do something delightfully mischievous simply because the opportunity presented itself. I want friendships full of affection, relationships full of meaning, and memories that make people grin when they probably ought to be behaving themselves.
I’ve built a career around understanding pleasure, and I don’t only mean the obvious kind, although goodness knows I enjoy that too.
There’s pleasure in recognition. In surrender. In belonging. In realizing someone remembers a tiny detail you assumed they’d forgotten. In discovering that a part of yourself you once considered embarrassing might actually be rather endearing to someone else. In being wanted, welcomed, and appreciated for the particular person you happen to be.
And there’s pleasure in making someone else happy. In knowing you helped make their day a little easier, their world a little more interesting, or their relationship with themselves a little kinder.
The world runs on duty. But the world is remembered in delight.
Think about the people who have meant the most to you. Of course you remember what they accomplished and the things they did for you. But I suspect you also remember the way they laughed. The little jokes nobody else understood. The conversations that went on far longer than either of you intended. The times you felt completely at ease in their company.
Perhaps you’re remembering someone right now. Perhaps you’re smiling.
I hope you are.
And I hope you’re making some of those memories yourself. Allowing yourself experiences you’ve been putting off, conversations you’ve been meaning to have, and pleasures you’ve been saving for some imaginary moment when all your responsibilities have finally been fulfilled.
You and I both know there will always be something else that needs doing.
There is also a life to be enjoyed.
So make the call. Take the trip. Tell someone you adore them. Flirt a little. Laugh at something ridiculous. Do something wild and kinky.
Allow yourself to be known. Give yourself something wonderful to remember.
Even if the only reason you do it is because I fucking said so.
As for me, I hope that when my time comes, the people who knew me will remember a woman who genuinely delighted in knowing them. Someone who understood a little something about the universal ache of mankind, who recognized it, welcomed it, and occasionally made it easier to carry. Someone who loved generously, laughed often, helped where she could, and took enormous pleasure in making life a little more interesting for the people whose paths crossed hers.
I hope they remember that I inspired orgasms from Minnesota to Mumbai, certainly, but also that I made people feel seen. That I made people feel cherished. That I helped them become a little more comfortable with who they really were.
And if someone happens to mention a few of the wonderfully inappropriate things we got up to along the way, I certainly hope everyone has a good laugh. And if someone leans over and whispers, “She was HOT AF, too,” well, I wouldn’t be the least bit offended. 😉
Because when all is said and done, I would dearly love for someone to smile, shake their head affectionately, and say:
And OH, the fun we had. 🖤
