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March 23, 2010
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She was a straight-A student, a child prodigy attending Harvard Extension courses, on her own at age 16 in Cambridge, Mass., in 1997. Her father, Port Townsend resident Bob Febos, couldn’t have …
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It wasn’t easy for Bob Febos to read “Whip Smart,” written by his daughter Melissa Febos. Now he’s just grateful her story didn’t end with her death.
She was a straight-A student, a child prodigy attending Harvard Extension courses, on her own at age 16 in Cambridge, Mass., in 1997. Her father, Port Townsend resident Bob Febos, couldn’t have been any prouder.
Bob Febos is still immeasurably proud of his daughter. You can see it in his face. But he worries that others will judge her. And that they will judge him as a parent.
Today, Melissa Febos, 29, is the author of the just-released memoir “Whip Smart” (St. Martin’s Press), in which she tells the story of her addiction to heroin and cocaine and her four years working as a dominatrix in a New York City midtown “dungeon.”
It’s a situation a lot of parents face, though perhaps not to this extreme: Learning that your child has done something you never imagined she had the capacity to do. Learning that she has suffered without your knowledge.
Febos discovered Melissa’s untoward private life on two separate occasions. The first revelation came on a day of celebration – Melissa’s 2003 summa cum laude graduation from The New School, a progressive university centered in Greenwich Village in New York City. As a large group of family and friends strolled down the sidewalk headed for a celebratory dinner, Melissa’s brother handed her a card.
The card was an original created by him; he already knew what his sister was up to. On it, he’d drawn a picture of her in a cap and gown holding a whip.
“She opened it up, and closed it really quickly,” said Bob. “I saw a glimpse of a whip and said, ‘What’s this all about?'
“She said, ‘Dad, I have something to tell you.’”
In awkward whispers, Melissa revealed where her income had been coming from. Up until then, Bob had been told she worked in the catering business.
Bob Febos wasn’t completely naive. He had, by coincidence, known a woman who had also been a dominatrix, and he’d run his friend through a host of questions. Febos already knew that dominatrices do not engage in sex with their clients, and he also knew what they did do – everything from role-playing to acts of borderline torture.
Melissa Febos, who had told her mother what she was up to before graduation day, said she wasn’t purposely keeping this information from her dad, a sea captain with the Merchant Marine. At the time, she said, she didn’t see him very often.
“I largely avoided the topic with both of my parents. I didn’t want to invite the opportunity to object to it.
“Also, he’s my father. I really didn’t know how he would react. I knew it could go one of two ways, so I was sort of stalling telling him.”
Did he ask her why she would want to be a dominatrix?
“She’s always been a bit of an explorer,” he said. “I guess my first reaction was, ‘There she is again, always having to push the edge, looking at all sides of life.’”
Neither Febos nor his former wife and good friend, Nancy, learned of Melissa’s drug addiction until the book was in the proofing stage. Shortly before Father’s Day 2009, Melissa sent galley copies to each parent with an email that said there was a lot she hadn’t told them, and that it would be hard for them. Melissa told them to take all the time they needed, and she would understand if they weren’t able to talk to her for a while.
“I read [the book], and I thought, that can’t be true. I was shocked by what I found. I was truly a wreck for three weeks,” said Bob, who flew to New York and talked to Melissa for nine hours straight.
“I told her about how my heart was broken. First of all, my image of myself as a father was completely turned upside down. To find out my daughter was in so much trouble – deep trouble – and I didn’t even know about it. How could I have missed this?
“It’s heartbreaking to find out that you let your children down. That’s how I took it. I think I’m a little beyond that now, but I really felt that at the time.
“I also believed that we had a different relationship. I had no idea there was so much secrecy. I thought we were close – that we had a nice father-daughter relationship – and that was blown out of the water as well."
As a parent, Bob Febos had discussed drugs and sex with his kids; his own father was an abusive and violent alcoholic. He warned Melissa that marijuana took away ambition in developmental years and that she might be genetically predisposed toward addiction with other drugs.
“It was so important to me to live my life differently, to show my kids a much better way, so to then have addiction come back and hit me in the face through my [daughter] – it was stunning,” he said.
Melissa began doing drugs while going to Harvard, and it was a boyfriend who introduced her to intravenous drug use. That same boyfriend appeared uninvited at the book-release party on March 14 in New York City, a “total wreck.”
“That was a surreal experience,” said Melissa. “Intense. And sad.”
In retrospect, of course, Bob Febos questions if he made the right decisions. Sure, it was a little early for a kid to leave home – in Falmouth, Mass. – when they let her go at 16, but Melissa Febos wasn’t just any kid. She wrote her first book at age 8, starred as a solo puppeteer emcee for television at 12, and never gave him or his ex-wife cause to worry beyond normal pre-teen rebellion.
Besides, they might not have been able to hold her back if they’d tried.
“I never asked them what they thought,” said Melissa Febos. “It wasn’t really up for discussion. I had always sort of been that way. Make a big decision and then inform them of it.
“I think my parents did an amazing job, and I can’t think of anything they could have done differently that could have changed my experience.
“I regret the pain I caused them. It was through no fault of theirs."
Bob Febos is still coming to terms with his daughter’s story, yet he is pleased with the reaction thus far to her book. Melissa was recently interviewed by Terry Gross on NPR and is engaged in a multi-city book tour.
He’s also thankful and wants other parents to make note of his experience.
“When your child is excelling, you’re not looking for trouble. But don’t make assumptions.
"While I’m sitting here fretting over what the world may think of my daughter or of myself as a parent, I could just as easily be visiting her grave.
“That could be my reality right now, and I don’t want that to be anyone else’s reality. That’s why I’m doing the interview. I was lucky.”
And so was Melissa. Less than 10 percent of heroin addicts find recovery. Soon, Melissa will celebrate seven years of being clean and sober.

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Style | The Houseboy Wanted to Serve Me. I Tried to Oblige.
The Houseboy Wanted to Serve Me. I Tried to Oblige.
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The Houseboy first messaged me six months ago on the online dating site OKCupid.
“Hi,” his message said. “I am a houseboy. I will clean your house, or anything else you want me to do. I expect nothing in return. I like serving strong, confident women. I also like women who smoke.”
I have always loved the absurd, and this scenario seemed too strange to pass up. I wanted to meet this man with a housecleaning fetish. And, frankly, I wanted a clean apartment.
I had joked with friends about how great it would be to have a manservant, someone who would clean, do my dishes and laundry and all the other things I hate doing. I’ll happily degrade him, I’d say. I’ll throw olive pits at him. Whatever turns him on.
“I’m a strong, confident woman,” I wrote. “I need my apartment cleaned. When can you come over?”
We started messaging and then texting. Although most of our interactions were fetish-related, there were moments of intimacy. Sometimes, at night, he’d ask me how I was doing.
“I’m O.K.,” I’d say. “Kind of lonely.”
I had been single for nearly four years, and it was easy to confide in this stranger who already had made himself so vulnerable to me. Although our exchanges didn’t always make me feel better, it was still nice to know someone was rooting for me.
Even so, I told him not to tell me his name. I thought he would like it better if I just referred to him as the Houseboy. After all, I wanted him to get something out of the situation, too. If his fetish was to serve a woman who would boss him around and make him feel worthless, I would try to play the role. His fantasy didn’t work if I didn’t play along, and I wanted to hold up my end of the bargain.
We set up a date for him to come over and clean. But at the last minute, he backed out.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m broke. I don’t even have subway fare. I could ask my dad for it, but I don’t think he’ll give it to me.”
A friend said, laughing, “He needs to get a real job as a houseboy to support his houseboy fetish.”
I tried twice more, and both times fell through. I didn’t hear from him again until I started my YouTube series.
“Ladies of Leisure” was something silly I thought up when I was drunk. It was a simple premise: I would sit in my bathtub, drink martinis and sing karaoke. Sometimes I would smoke cigarettes.
I posted a few videos on YouTube. My friends thought they were funny. I thought they were funny. That was all I thought would happen.
And then, I got a text from the Houseboy.
“Your videos are really good,” he said. “I bet they would go over well in the smoking fetish community.”
Over the next few days, people started following my YouTube channel. They had names like “AshtraySlaveNY” and “SmokingFetishVids.” I had gone viral. Except the people watching my videos were people who got turned on by watching me smoke.
“Are you right- or left-handed?” the Houseboy texted me.
“Sometimes you smoke with your left hand. You’d look more comfortable if you smoked with your right. It would be hotter.”
“That’s not really the point of the videos,” I replied.
I started to lose interest, but he kept texting me.
“Do you need a chauffeur tonight?” he would ask.
Or, “When are you going to put out a new video?”
Or:, “I want you to use me as an ashtray. Let me be your pig-slave.”
And then, I needed a lamp. And some wineglasses. And Ikea is in Red Hook, which is a hassle to get to. So I texted the Houseboy.
“It’s your lucky week,” I wrote. “I need a ride to Ikea.”
“I want to,” he replied, “but I don’t have money for gas. I know it’s not very slavelike to ask for gas money. But I’m broke.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Cheaper than a cab.”
We made a date for a Friday at 2 p.m. Two o’clock passed, and then 3. I called him, trying my best to be domineering.
“I’m on my way,” he said. “There’s really bad traffic.”
Twenty minutes later, I called again. “Where are you?”
“Close. Ocean Avenue and Parkside.”
Finally he showed up, around 3:45. I walked outside to meet him, and saw a man waving at me from a red Toyota.
Perhaps I should have been scared, but I wasn’t. I was looking forward to seeing what this man, this Houseboy I had been talking to for months, would be like in person. I felt I already knew him. I walked over to his car and opened the door. The Houseboy was overweight and had long dark hair with streaks of gray. As I had already known, he was in his early 40s.
“Do you know how to get there?” I asked, trying to be cold.
“Yes,” he said. And then, “You’re really pretty. I couldn’t see your freckles in the videos.”
He started driving. Although I was trying to play the part of the cruel, confident woman, I couldn’t help but make friendly conversation.
“Yeah,” I said. “But not particularly religious.”
“What do you think about Israel and Gaza?”
I sighed. “I honestly don’t know if it can ever get better,” I said. “There are thousands of years of history there. Everyone hates each other too much. And no one is willing to compromise.”
He responded with an educated, nuanced take on the situation. I was surprised. I knew the Houseboy was kind, but I didn’t expect him to be so smart. After all, he lived with his father and couldn’t even afford subway fare.
When we got to Ikea, I told the Houseboy he could push my cart. He agreed, thanked me and went to get one. I led the way, walking two steps ahead of him through the assorted goods in the Ikea Marketplace. Occasionally I stopped, picking up bowls and wineglasses. I needed a new comforter. I needed a lamp for my room.
We checked out. I swiped my credit card, put my stuff back into the cart and walked out of the store, the Houseboy at my heels. He loaded my haul into the back seat of his car, taking care to put the fragile things on the floor where they wouldn’t break.
“You’re not going to take the B.Q.E.?” I asked, when we drove by an entrance to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
“I’m afraid we might get stuck in traffic,” he said. “And then we’d never get off.”
When we got to my neighborhood, I gave him directions back to my building. He parked across the street, and I loaded things into reusable shopping bags to carry up to my apartment. The Houseboy offered to help me take them upstairs.
“O.K.,” I said, handing him a bag. “That’s me over there.”
I opened the door to the building. We walked up two flights, and I unlocked my apartment. I put my bag down on the floor, and the Houseboy put his down, too.
“I have gas money for you,” I said. “How much do you think? Twenty?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Eight, at the most. Honestly, I’ll probably just give my dad six, and keep the rest.”
I gave him $11. We stood awkwardly, a few feet away from each other. It seemed strange to hug, but doing nothing felt uncomfortable, too.
“Thanks,” I said, and I opened the door to let him out.
“It was a pleasure serving you,” he said. “I hope you call me again.”
He started to walk out the door, but stopped and turned around.
“By the way,” he said. “You seem really nice.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, coming from a man who wanted to be abused. Maybe I should have been meaner. Maybe I should have made him take the B.Q.E. Maybe I should have lectured him on Gaza, interrupting him when he tried to give his perspective.
“I’m a little bit of a princess,” I often say.
And, “I like to get what I want when I want it.”
But the Houseboy saw through me. I wanted to give him what he was looking for: I wanted to dominate him, boss him around, make him feel bad about himself. But in the end, I couldn’t. When it comes down to it, I’m uncomfortable throwing olive pits. I’m not good at calling someone names, or ignoring his presence. I just want a friendly ride to Ikea with a smart guy who can talk intelligently about Middle East politics.
I guess I’m nice. But my apartment is still a mess.

Dominatrix Miss Foxx filmed leading man on chain around busy London station
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WATCH: BAFFLED POLICE CONFRONT DOMINATRIX DRAGGING MAN ON CHAIN AROUND BUSY WATERLOO STATION
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The older man was on his knees holding a sign declaring he was 'on probation' as he was pulled through Waterloo Station
A man was filmed as he was led around by a chain by a dominatrix through a packed railway station in London.
The unidentified man, dressed all in black and on his knees, was holding a sign by his side which appears to read "On Probation For Miss Foxx".
Miss Foxx describes herself as a purveyor of 'femdom' - female dominantion - and that the incident was 'public hu
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