Earning the Collar (A Fantasy)

It is late Friday night and Goddess Manuela and I are walking down Christopher Street in Greenwich Village, a traditionally gay neighborhood in New York City. We are looking in the windows of all the boutiques specializing in leather clothes and fetish wear. Goddess stops in front of one of these stores and points to a black leather collar in the front window of one of them. She tells me to go in. We walk in and she picks up the collar from the window display -- a thin, almost delicate leather collar with the word "SLUT" written on it in silver letters.

The Goddess holds the collar up to my neck in front of a mirror and asks me what I think of it. She whispers, "I had them custom make this collar to fit your thin neck, Velvet. And the lettering is sterling silver. What do you think of it? You want to be my slut, don't you?" I tell Goddess Manuela that it would be a privilege to wear it for her and be her slut. She can tell, by the growing bulge in my jeans, that I am very excited about the idea.

I look at the price tag -- it is $72 dollars -- and I take out my credit card to buy it. "Not so fast," Goddess says, "For you everything is just about money. I want you to earn this collar."

Goddess Manuela puts the collar back in the window and walks out of the store. I follow behind her. It is 11:45 p.m. on a Friday night. The many dance clubs and gay bars of this section of the city are crowded and just getting started for the night. There is a lot of energy out on sidewalks as the techno dance music from the nearby clubs escapes though open windows. Goddess Manuela studies a sign on the fetish boutique's door listing its business hours. The store closes at midnight and reopens at 10:00 a.m.

Goddess tells me, "I want you to come to my apartment wearing that collar by noon tomorrow."

I start to say, "No problem, Goddess," but she cuts me off quickly and makes me listen to her. She says: "First, give me your wallet, ATM card, credit cards, and all the cash in your pockets." I immediately hand these over and she places them into her purse for safe keeping. "Next," she says, "give me your apartment keys and your cell phone and, just to be careful, give me your watch also."

I obey Goddess Manuela's instructions, realizing that I am turning over all the valuables I am carrying with me, but I am not sure what the Goddess has in mind. "You'll get all these things back when you come to my apartment wearing that collar."

The Goddess puts my keys, phone and watch in her handbag and pulls out a black permanent marker, like a Sharpie. She tells me to take off my jacket and button-down shirt. I remove these, leaving only a plain white cotton t-shirt above my jeans. "This too?" I ask.

"No," Goddess says, "I plan to make use of that t-shirt." She uncaps the black marker and starts to write on the chest area of my t-shirt. I can't see what she is writing, although I am struggling to turn my head.

Goddess Manuela finishes writing and pulls a box of condoms out of her bag and hands it to me. At the same time, I am finally able to read the writing on my t-shirt, reflected in the glass of the store window. It says in big black letters, Blowjobs For $1

Goddess walks away and gets in a taxi before I even have a chance to react or complain.

I understand what Goddess has in mind for me. I gaze at the "SLUT" collar with its silver shining in the window of the boutique. And I spend the next twelve hours -- on my knees in the dirty bathrooms of gay bars, under tables in the corners of dance clubs, and in dark alleys and parking lots -- doing what it takes to earn that collar.