HELSINKI – Inspired by a recent Cosmopolitan interview with porn star and dominatrix Daisy Ducati, I’ve made my way to Nordic climes in pursuit of a new career as a “fin dom,” an occupation that, as I understand it, requires practitioners to accept fabulous gifts and piles of money from people who feel a compulsion to shower total strangers with fabulous gifts and piles of money.

Unfortunately, I didn’t realize until after I’d touched down at Helsinki-Vantaa International Airport this lucrative practice has nothing to do with Finland, a fact that probably has troubling implications for another of my fin dom assumptions — namely, that I’d soon be in possession of more fancy champagne than I could ever drink.

Reading over Ducati’s profile again, this time being careful to read all the nouns it contained, I came to understand fin domming refers to dominating someone financially, but somehow that doesn’t require the person doing the dominating to be the wealthy one in the equation. In fact, it seems under the bizarre interpersonal power dynamics of fin domming, the person being dominated is the rich one.

Intuitively and immediately I really like the sound of this new profession, especially if it means I get to clamp Donald Trump into an upright stock and flog him with one of the Koch brothers. Sadly, as it turns out, in fin domming I don’t get to hit anybody with anything. I’m just supposed to talk to them while they buy me stuff, or something.

“It’s not about tricking people or manipulating them,” Ducati explained, summarily crossing two more potential techniques off my rapidly dwindling list of options. “It’s just that they want to give you the money. Most of these people, they come in with that particular fetish, and they want to spoil pretty girls.”

As you can see, we have another problem here; pretty as I may be, I’m clearly deficient in the being-a-girl department.

Still, if there’s one thing my time in the porn industry has taught me, it’s anything a woman can do is something a man can do, as well — provided doing the thing in question doesn’t also require having a vagina, obviously.

So, undeterred, I established a sexy new Twitter handle, got a webcam, set up accounts on a few sites suggested by Ducati and waited for the cash to roll in.

Right off the bat, things started to go south — and I don’t mean down Uusimaa way.

The first guy who worked up the confidence to initiate a session with me seemed taken aback to learn I was man, even accusing me of trying to fool people through my username. His assertion was ridiculous, because I chose as my nomme du fin dom the very masculine screen name “Caitlyn,” after my all-time favorite Olympic decathlon champion.

Then, before I could even suggest he buy me a new pair of Converse, my first “date” abandoned the session without so much as asking me to verbally abuse him. It was a disheartening start, but I’ve never been a quitter. Just ask my AA sponsor!

My next encounter was more encouraging, until we got to the part where the guy was supposed to buy me stuff or send me cash. The problem wasn’t an unwillingness to spend on his part; it was the inability to do so. In retrospect, I probably should have demanded proof of wealth before agreeing to show him my penis, but at least I got some practical experience and a chance to develop confidence in the attractiveness of my scrotum.

Despite two false starts, I was optimistic as my third attempt to financially dominate someone kicked off. You know what they say: The third time’s a charm. Things seemed a whole lot less charmed, however, when the third guy broke down crying about how much I looked like his ex-wife, who had recently left him, taking with her their “trusty driver.”

Still, my curiosity was piqued. After all, a guy has to have some kind of bankroll to justify employing a chauffeur, right? My bubble burst just as quickly as it had formed, though, after the man explained to me he was talking about a golf club.

At this point I knew even if he were rich, my third date also was insane. What kind of maniac lets a golf club operate a motor vehicle? And even if his wife used the thing to masturbate a lot, is it really reasonable to conclude Big Bertha was the only reason she dumped him?

At any rate, to this point all I have to show for my little experiment with fin domming is a pair of cold, shrunken testicles, a smattering of highly embarrassing memories and a bowl of riisipuuro topped with luumukiisseli.

Tomorrow is another day, though. If I don’t freeze to death overnight, maybe I’ll head south a ways and try my hand at pole domming instead.