Dear E. Jean: I’m finding myself pursued by a wealthy, proper British banker who is all but begging me to let him be my “loyal, obedient slave.” He is serious. When it comes to sex, he wants me to order him around. He wants to be my “property.” I’m a gentle, romantic woman whose heart is too soft to violently correct the male species with insults and abuse, and frankly, I’m wondering where it all may lead. I just wanted a husband, and somehow I’ve veered off the beaten path into some British Twilight Zone. —I Don’t Want to Wear the Pants
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Miss Pants, My Petunia: Please. It’s gonna kill you to give the chap an order? Heck, order him to come to my house and clean out my basement. Why not find out “where it all may lead”? After all, you can’t play the “gentle, romantic” lady night in, night out, with the same underlit, soul-killing softness and the same brain-coddling endearments, because soon it becomes so boring that you stop caring altogether. When you were a kid, didn’t you play hide-and-seek? Then double dare, dress-up, tag, doctor, Barbies? Well, that’s what the best sex is. And as in all great games, changing tactics ignites the sacred fires. And the sparks are what made the stars, Miss Pants. So: Order him to paint your toenails.
This letter is from the E. Jean archive.