His name was Dominique.
For more than four years, I have avoided saying his name publicly - which, if you know anything about me, is quite a feat. He mattered that much to me. I protected him just that hard. Even as he lied, cheated, manipulated. He was the consummate narcissist. Maybe a sociopath. I was the frog, slowly boiled to death, thinking it was a warm bath. His greatest fear is that people will know his name, because he lies to everyone about who he is, who he's with, what he's doing with whom. Most of all, he lies to his family, because they would be forced by their religion to cast him out if they knew who he really was. This post is his greatest fear. I no longer care to enable his abuses, double-lives, destruction of others. This has not just been his life; it has been mine, too. And he has nearly destroyed me. I am taking back my power from a consummate abuser. I am saying his name.
Dominique. Dominique Mazire.
Many women in New Mexico already know him. He has slept with hundreds of them. He will slide into your DMs. He will find you on set, where he's a production assistant with a reputation for being a "set slut." He'll say the reputation is just jealousy from the other dudes, and you'll believe it, because he's just that hot, just that smart, just that charming, just that sweet - until he's not. He will flatter and flirt and say what he knows you need to hear, because he has been studying you. Turns out, Dominique Mazire has no actual emotions, but he is excellent at faking them to get what he wants. And he will want you, for a while. At least it will seem that way; in truth, he wants you to make him feel like he exists. That is his only use for you, for her, for all of us. We are mirrors to his empty soul. We are how he tells himself he's alive, he matters. He collects us, notches on the demon's belt. There are never enough of us to fill the void, because Dominique Mazire is pure void. He is a bottomless pit of unchecked id. The less sophisticated among us will accuse him of egomania, but it is not ego that feeds him. It is id. Pure impulse, zero concern.
Dominique Mazire is the man who stole my joy, and I want it back. I suspect he is a demon. He wants to be a famous filmmaker. This will be hard for a man who can only approximate human emotion. He crafts pretty images on a screen, but they say nothing. Dominique Mazire has nothing to say, except "me." This makes for terrible storytelling.
I first met him through Facebook, where we had mutual friends in the local film community. We chatted about screenwriting. I met him for a coffee, to read his script, and found him unusually talented with words. He's a gifted writer, Dominique Mazire. I saw that right away. I also saw that he was handsome. He had been a body double for Taylor Lautner, once. He looks a bit like that actor, too. Prettier, actually. He has a boyishness to him. His babyface is disarming. He wields it like a weapon, because it is a weapon. It is hard to believe charming men with babyfaces are liars. Especially when they smile and ask about your family. He will do this. Don't be fooled. It is pure theater.
He said he was in love with me. Said I was the most amazing woman he'd ever met. Superlatives. But always, he triangulated. He'd find ways to mention his perfect phantom ex, or maybe let you know that when he did finally find the woman he wanted to marry, she'd be different from you in some small regard, so that you might tip off balance, trying to fix that one small thing. This was all deliberate. He comes with the addictiveness of a slot machine. You lose most of the time, but when he lets you win, you marvel at the coins cascading through your lucky fingers. You forget how much you had to lose to get them.
These manipulations, in truth, are his actual vocation. The screenwriting and film thing is just an excuse to hang out at the brewery, looking for chicks to blow him in the bathroom. He will send you video of these escapades, or photos, when he's angry with you, to hurt you. He will compare you to her. If you run too far in your teary rage, he will apologize. There will be a compelling excuse that plays upon your sympathies. She will mean nothing, he will tell you. She was meaningless, crazy, worthless, a hookup, a slut. This is what he says about all of us. You included. Me, included. He pits us one against the other, to see how hard we'll fight to make him love us. This amuses him. It gives him power. That's all he wants. He does not have any use for love. He cannot feel that emotion. The closest he comes is need. He needs you to listen to the songs he sends you links for, because those songs, he tells you, are about him. Usually, it is Mudvayne. Or some other miserable thing. Anger is his only true emotion. It is what inspires him towards revenges big and small. He fantasizes about murdering people. He needs to have an audience, a witness to his anger. That's what you are. That's what passes for love, for him.
It was strange with Dominique Mazire. We always met at my place. Sex was very one-sided. His sided. I gave, he took. In all things, but nowhere more obvious than in bed. He lived with his sister and brother-in-law for a time, and then, with his parents. He never spent the night with me. He said his sister would be upset if he did. Dominique Mazire was a man in his 30s when he said this. It was odd. Then, when I googled the French restaurant his family used to own in Santa Fe, I discovered from an article in the Santa Fe New Mexican that his parents were Jehovah's Witnesses. Meaning he, Dominique Mazire, must also be a Jehovah's Witness.
I knew nothing about JWs. I googled. Soon, so much about Dominique Mazire began to make sense. The lack of overnights. When I asked about it, he flew into a rage and said he spent the night with plenty of other women, but never me because he just didn't like me that much. Later, he'd apologize and say I was the best sex of his life, and the closest friend he'd ever have, the person who knew him "like no other." This is one of his favorite phrases. "Like no other." This lets you feel special, while reminding you there are others. His compliments always had that stabbing while kissing quality. You look beautiful, in that light. That shirt makes you look slim. Compliments that aren't.
He was consistent only in his inconsistency. Love one day, hate the next. And I covered for him, because I wanted that smile to come again, that love, that lie of perfection. It had been so intoxicating. I never said his name publicly, never admitted to being with him, because I believed that if he were open about loving me, a non-JW woman nearly two decades his senior, that his family might shun him, as JWs are ordered to do when one of them goes astray. He made sure I knew they'd never accept me. The family thought he was still a virgin. They thought he was a good JW, but in truth he was leading an extreme double life. They probably suspected. But they didn't ask. And he didn't tell. His father had once beaten him, he told me, for reading a novel he brought home from school. If he had extra time to read, the dad reasoned, it damn well better be the Bible or the Watchtower. The parents took him out of school after that; he only finished the 8th grade. So he wouldn't be corrupted by "Christendom." I protected him because I felt sorry for anyone whose family would disown them for an organization. I wanted to save him. He was the most naturally gifted wordsmith I have ever met, which, under the described circumstances, was astonishing.
It was a great cover for him. He could pretend to want to be respected by his family, but in truth he did not respect them at all. He lied to them as he lied to us. He had discovered, perhaps early on, that the only thing that mattered was getting people to believe the thing that would enable them to give him what he wanted. The thing itself did not need to be true. He was a walking lesson on the sociological Thomas Theorem.
One day, when he was angry at me, when the urge to hurt me was greater than anything else, he admitted that he was sleeping with at least a dozen other women during our first year together. Sixteen, actually. He gave me that number. He grinned as he said it. He enjoyed how much it hurt me. I'd been with no one else. I thought we were a thing, just not a public thing. He broke my heart with obvious glee. He told me all of them were better than me. I should have stopped talking to him then. But I didn't. Slots.
By then, I was in love. I rationalized his behavior and verbal and emotional abuses. I'm good at that. Smart, insecure women always are. Those are exactly the kind he preyed upon. Well, at least the few I found out about. There was Lady 1, also older than Dominique Mazire, an aspiring actress and mother. There was Lady 2, a model and actress, also older. There was Lady 3, also in the film industry, older. In our primes, each of us had been the prettiest girl in the room.
He had his type: Older women, often moms, lonely, ambitious, still beautiful. These are Dominique Mazire's favorite type, because predators are lazy. The pick the old, the young, the injured, separate them from the herd. The best were women whom he knew were at that tipping point between youth and middle age, women who had used their great beauty for power but were now in a panic as it slowly slipped away, insecure older women with some stability and money. We were, all of us, easy to convince, and while not his physical ideal, pretty enough. Thinking he was in love with us made us almost feel as though we were still relevant. In the light of Dominique Mazire's superficial charm, time almost stood still. And we validated him like only a mom can do.
Three years of this, I endured. Three years of him coming and going and always knowing how to pull the strings so I'd do what he wanted. Three years of stringing me along with false promises, of me hoping, wishing, being unable to let go, even as he told everyone in his world how "crazy" and pathetic I was, mischaracterized me to his family and friends as a psycho older woman obsessed with him, when in fact it was always he texting to rope me back in. Three years of me giving him money, taking him to LA to find him an agent, doing everything I could to help launch his career. Three years of all my friends and family wanting to shake me, because they saw what I refused to accept.
Dominique Mazire never loved me. He'd forget me as soon as he left my house. He'd forget me till he needed a boost to his ego, till his id made him scramble to contact one of us, any of us. It did not matter which one; the monologue would be the same regardless. I'd hear from him when no one else was available. We were in rotation, all of us. Interchangeable sources of supply.
I never met anyone in his family, even though he told me I was his best friend. He'd disappear for days. Finally, I had had enough. I blocked him, broke things off for a year. Did not talk to him. Started to heal from him.
And then, as soon as my son went away to college, when I was at my weakest and loneliest, he was back. He was sorry, he said. Said he'd had lots of time to think, that he realized I was the most amazing woman he'd ever known. Dominique Mazire told me I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He said he missed me and was sorry for everything. He said he was ready to do this right, and wanted to come back into my life. He begged to see me again. At first I refused. He persisted. And then I caved. What if it were true? What if Dominique Mazire were finally the man I wished he'd been? What if he was going to do it for real this time?
I took him back. But nothing had changed. Still kept me secret, still did not go public. Two months into this, Dominique Mazire came over and collapsed in tears. She was pregnant, he told me. Who? The woman he went back to after I confronted him about still keeping me a secret, the woman who made him feel like he wasn't actually in a relationship with me, the woman he'd probably had in addition to me all along. He slept with her during one of our fights. He got someone else pregnant, within weeks of begging me to take him back, after I'd ignored him for a full year. This was last fall. 2019.
I ended things again. But said I'd be his friend and help him through it. Because I was that stupid. That kind, that forgiving, that empathetic, that desperate for his love. He told me the pregnant woman was a drug addict, and insane. Clinically insane. That she was a slut. That he had no proof the baby was his. The pregnant woman, C, contacted Dominique Mazire's parents, told them about the baby. He was enraged. So were they. They had no sympathy for her, because she was a loose woman of Christendom. No sympathy for him, because he had strayed. They threw him out. He came to my house, crushed. I've never seen a person so lost and sad. I held him and told him it would all be okay. He curled up on my bed and said he felt safe. After four days, he went back to his parents, promised to be a good JW from then on. They believed him, because when he wants them to, everyone believes Dominique Mazire.
I stupidly said I'd still take him back and help him raise that child, if he didn't really want to be with the mother. He looked me in the eyes and cried. "You'd do that for me?" he asked. He said he hated her. He called her crazy so many times. He said she had lied about having cancer, that she told him the cancer made her infertile. She had gotten pregnant anyway. He said he didn't believe that baby was his. He said she tricked him into it because he wouldn't commit to her, either. I believed that, then.
I do not believe a word of it now.
The baby was born in April, a little girl. He moved in with the mother, but never told me that part. The most he said was "I do not love her, and that makes me sad, but I'm trying to get along with her for the baby's sake." I realized he'd moved in because he sent me photos of him and the baby on her sofa. Never sent me photos of the mom. Dominique Mazire looked like he was finally happy and at peace. He looked like he loved that baby. Perhaps he does, as an extension of himself. God forbid the baby turn out to be a lesbian someday, or an atheist. He will hate her.
From their shared bed, late at night, he'd text me. Sexually suggestive texts. I'm certain he did this with all of us. It made him feel free. He told me he'd told her about me, and she said I was beautiful. This is likely a lie. Far more likely that he told her I was crazy, obsessed with him, and she believed it. Because everyone believes Dominique Mazire.
I believe she caught him sexting, cheating, being exactly what he'd always been. And then, the fighting began. He says C was crazy and threw a vase at his head and held broken glass to his face. She told the cops later that he'd beaten her to a pulp. The photos she took of her bruises, which she sent to his mother, who sent them to Dominique, who sent them to me, were terrifying. He said they were fake. I did not believe him. I believe he just wanted me to see how beautiful she was, and what harm he was capable of. Much more beautiful, he'd later tell me when he was angry at me, than I was. Of his children's mother, he has told me two opposing narratives. In one, she's an insane, talentless, Trump-loving drug addict who was never more than a hookup and who pretends to be a makeup artist but is actually "fucking her minister for rent money," and in the other she's a smart, talented, God-fearing woman he loves desperately, "the beautiful, gorgeous mother of my child."
How he convinced me to pity him, I don't know. But I did. I felt bad for Dominique Mazire, even though he created this baby while I thought we were a couple. I still helped him. Sick with covid, trying to care for me and my son, I listened to his drama. The restraining order. The cops. The baby mama calling his parents. On and on. He came to me for attention, reassurance, comfort, love, because I was apparently the only woman stupid enough to listen to him anymore. Or maybe not. Probably he had lots of others he was having the exact same conversation with. He convinced me to call the police to do a wellness check on his baby one Sunday night, after she posted photos of two men on her sofa. One of them had been holding the baby. She sent photos of this man holding Dominique's baby, to Dominique's mother. He grew enraged that another "male" had "encroached on my territory." Said he'd rip the man's throat out like a lion.
When I suggested hate would not help the baby, when I suggested revenge against a man he did not know was foolish, when I suggested he simply go through the courts to get joint custody like a normal dad, Dominique Mazire told me the character he most related to in Schindler's List was the Ralph Feinnes nazi, who tries to be forgiving but prefers shooting people from his balcony. He told me his nature was vengeance, and he could not be changed. Finally, I believed him. Finally, he had spoken the truth. And now, finally, I am done protecting a lying, manipulative, sex-addicted, womanizing, dishonest, emotionally abusive sociopath. I am done protecting his identity. I am done "hating" his other women, for they are just his victims, as I was.
His name is Dominique Mazire. He is a sociopath. And he is the worst person I have ever loved. I do not write this for revenge. I am not the revenge type. I write this to set the record straight, and so that there is some sort of public record of this man's modus operandi; if my suffering can provide a warning for others who have the misfortune to come across this sick man, then it will not have been in vain.