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Every time I see a nervous sub who is worried about finding a findomme who is in it for the power, for the kink, for the fun of it—I think of Ted Lasso.

If you’ve seen the show, maybe you already know what scene I’m thinking of. (And if you haven’t seen the show, this goddess commands it. Run, don’t walk.)

In that scene, Ted has recently told off his therapist. He basically implies that she can’t care about him for real because she’s getting paid to be with him. Now, he’s back in her office after leaving their last session on that note.

She asks if she can be honest with him. And then she tells him he offended her—and she asks a fantastic question:

Would you coach football for free?

Yes, he says. The answer is yes.

Then she hits him with the kicker: “but do you?”

The conclusion is clear: just because you’re getting paid for something doesn’t mean you don’t fucking love it. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave you breathless.

Sometimes we do things just for money. Sometimes we do them because we fucking love them. Sometimes we’re lucky enough to fucking love something and make money doing it.

I’m not saying there are no people out there taking advantage of this space to just make a living or even scam people. But I am saying just because someone gets paid doesn’t mean they don’t care.

Therapists. Coaches. Findommes.

It’s not different.

Now, if you haven’t seen Ted Lasso, go do that.

One of the fantasies I’ve been daydreaming about lately starts in a bar.

It’s a regular night. I’m probably with friends. I’m dressed to kill (I’m always dressed to kill). And a man approaches me (par for the course).

Instead of engaging or sending him away, I turn to him with that sly smile that says this is about to be fun.

A game is coming.

This is not a vanilla interaction.

“I normally charge men to speak to me,” I say with eyebrows raised. “You’re cute, so I’ll give you a discount. 5 euros per sentence. Pay up front and you can ask a question.”

He pays. We talk. I calculate and hold my hand out for more each time he reaches his pre-paid threshold. He begs for my contact. I give it. He knows the drill and sends before he DMs.

It’s the beginning of a long-term engagement. It sets the tone. For teasing and short answers and mystery. So much mystery.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

Last weekend, a kitten was screaming outside my window. Crying into the night for her mother. Calling endlessly.

I (along with many neighbors) attempted to coax her out of the car undercarriage where she was hiding, terrified. But there were too many people; too many car noises.

And so I came back at 5 a.m. No people, few cars. Just me laying on the pavement with a bowl of shredded chicken and a phone loaded up with kitten noises.

She stepped gingerly down. She eventually took some chicken from my fingers. And after some patience, I caught her. Took her home. Got rid of the fleas. The car gunk. The intestinal parasites.

Each day, she attempts to suckle on the inside of my elbow, comforted by the idea that I’m her mom.

Each day, I watch her put weight onto her underfed frame and I coax her into bravery.

Each day, she borrows that courage from me, follows me to a new room, explores a new thing, and then falls asleep in my lap where she can feel safe.

I cannot help but compare our connection to my journeys into polyamory and domination.

Polyamory because just like my partners, this kitten is free. She can sleep anywhere she chooses, but she chooses my lap. And I’m happy for her when she gets the courage to choose a spot beside the dog or another lap.

I do not try to own her. I do not have to force my will. I simply offer my courage, my support, my strength, and she turns toward the comfort of it.

It’s the same way I approach D/s dynamics. I am not giving orders; my presence is the control. My courage, my strength, are what draws them in. I am an owner, a mistress, a goddess because my pets, my subs, my worshippers choose me. And they choose me daily. There are other laps. Other deities. Other mistresses. Other lovers.

And I make no effort to keep my subs, my foster kitten, my partners from those things.

You are here because you want to be here. I am here because I want to be here.

To me, that is true connection, true power. You do not stay because you have to. Because of a contract or a commitment or having only one option.

You stay because you want. To make me proud. To make me smile. To rest in my capable hands. To become better. To connect.

A sweet pet said recently the he felt so lucky to have discovered that the world was lying when they told him goddesses weren’t real. That the thing he’d been longing for for decades was real. Was here. Was now.

It made me think about how we got here. Goddess and worshiper. Both thriving.

His service was always with quiet, unassuming devotion. Never demanding. Always listening. Doing what he knew I would ask before I said the words.

It was worship. Admiration. Quiet, steady, unwavering support.

This is what I crave.

I crave to see your joy in serving. I want your devotion. I want you to know me and to do things you think will please me before I ever ask you to.

I want your creativity.

Your care.

I want you to hear me say that supporting women matters to me and then to see you out in the world offering service to the divine feminine.

I want you to see me get excited about that leather harness or a bubble tea or a fancy coffee and to quietly send.

I want to smile and laugh when I tell you to count dogs in the park and you write back to me with a number. I want to laugh and revel in my power again when I tell you to tip me every time you think of touching yourself and I see the tips slip in every few hours.

I want that kind of connection. That string pulled taut between us. My approval, my desires, my commands, your purpose.

The same sweet pet said with me he’d found his purpose.

This is what I want for all of us. To make you better. To make you stronger. To make you more confident as you serve, worship, give.