Tuesday, December 22, 2009

All I Want for Christmas...

A prisoner to lock in my cage and starve, while I tease him with a huge sushi feast that I eat right in front of him. I've never done this before, I feel like it would be very funny.

Cute-as-a-button forced-bi enthusiasts. Oh, how I long to make a couple of naughty little buttboys perform sordid tasks upon eachother.

New jokes! Email me with a good one!

A long, and intricate needle session. I very much want to sew a corset... on a very lucky subby's balls!

My XXX-mas Gift For You...

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar...

God, I hate that song. It reminds me of Gloria Steinem, bra-burning 70's radical black or white philosophy that most men of a certain age associate with being a feminist. But it's a catchy title.

Anyway... I've been thinking about the reasons why some men have a desire to worship Dominant Women, and where this drive comes from. Is it genetic? Were these genetics influenced by some environmental circumstances?

If we presume that a desire to worship a Dominant Woman is genetic, there might be some sort of evolutionary reason for this. Meaning, most genetic traits are the result of an evolutionary trend- the result of a condition that existed for thousands of years (ex: evolutionary geneticists postulate that humans lost their hair in order to free themselves of external parasites that infest fur). My theory is similar to this in concept- that goddess worshipping cults (or religions where goddesses were an integral part of a greater pantheon) existed for tens of thousands of years before they were all but obliterated. What if this caused a evolutionary psychological "need", or "trend" which now can only manifest itself in the worship of Dominant Women? I'm saying that, if genetics can effect our physical outcomes, why wouldn't it also effect our psychology? To a certain extent, of course. It is analogous to scientists who claim to have found a "gay gene". Is it possible there may be a subby man gene?

I started thinking about these things because I want to know what exactly it is that men are "worshipping" when they come to see me. I would like to think that it is some sort of abstraction of the Divine Feminine that they see reflected in me. I hate all of the "star fucker" clients who need to go to a certain Domme because they feel she is "the best"- because that implies to me that they want the literal person, whom they could not possibly ever know (at least not from a blog or website). It also implies that they have a need to associate themselves with "the best", out of some sort of insecurity, like rooting for the best baseball team- a form of irrational jingoism (okay, maybe that's a bit extreme). But it ignores or de-emphasizes what it is about BDSM that is really important, which is honest, empathic connection.

Are "star fucking" and connection mutually exclusive?

Do you think that genetics play a factor in one's predisposition toward a need to submit to a Dominant Woman?

Does your brain hurt now? Lol!


Sunday, December 13, 2009

Sexy Beast...

They brought me a bottle of Veueve Clicquot, which made me aware that they meant business. Jovial business. Let's have fun kind of business.

I slinked into my black latex dress (business casual for dommes) poured us some champagne, and we all sipped away with nervous apprehension. I was a bit nervous, I admit- I mean, there's so much to do! I wondered what they'd be like- reserved? Scared? Demanding? Complete novices?

I asked them about their experience. Things they had done with eachother, things they had done with other providers/professionals. The woman, Mariana, explained that she had fisted him (Carlos), and that she very much enjoyed it. I eyed her response for long enough to determine that she was telling the truth. He said that he had visited a mistress in their home country, Argentina, a few times, and that she had introduced him to sounds and needles. He said he liked them very much. Wow. Delight. This was not going to be your mother's session. Severe CBT was also something which excited him- kicking, squeezing, and even stomping.

I wanted to test Carlos' boast that he enjoyed hard CBT, so I chained him up and grabbed him- gently at first, and then gradually increasing the pressure, with my hand while looking into his eyes. As the pressure increased, I saw not a hint of resistance or pain, only ecstacy and gratitude.

Mariana was eager to learn how to administer sounds. I showed her how to lube the tip. To run the opening of the urethra with the sound slowly and gently, as to heighten the anticipation. We started with a small gauge, and slowly worked our way up. Slipping the sound gently into the urethra, patiently watching it slide down and twist, following the spiral tube all the way. Feeling the metal inside of the penis against your hand. The shallow breathing of our patient. The slack, relaxed expression on his face inspired her to touch it softly, and he rubbed her pussy as I increased the gauge of the sounds gradually.

Role Play and Dominance

Some mistresses do not offer role play, because they consider it to be too submissive. Well, I say fuck that. I like role playing. Much of the time it's really hot. Because BDSM is theater anyway, why would it seem submissive? Isn't creating a "Domme Persona" sort of like role playing anyway?

Submissive to me is: projecting a persona that you feel your clients will like

You are not worshiping me. You are worshiping the divine feminine in me. What I represent. Not me as a person, because you don't even know me. Perhaps you are worshiping yourself in some convoluted way. Perhaps the feminine side of yourself that is repressed, which needs expression. We could conjecture about that all day!

Sunday, November 29, 2009

"Kink"-y ditties for Crossdressers, Girly-Men, and the people who love them...

The first video is weird, but it was the only recording I could find that doesn't take you to another website... It came out in 1978!! Read the lyrics below while you listen, because it's my blog and that's what I want you to do.

Lyrics for Out of the Wardrobe by The Kinks:

Has anybody here seen a chick called Dick
He looks real burly but he's really hip
He's six feet tall and his arms are all brown and hairy
Well, he married Betty Lou back in '65 when you had to be butch to survive
But lately he's been looking at his wife with mixed emotions
You see, he's not a common place closet queen
He shouldn't be hidden, he should be seen
'cos when he puts on that dress
He looks like a princess
The day he came out of the wardrobe
Betty Lou got quite a surprise
She didn't know whether she should get angry or not bat an eye
She really couldn't call up her mother
Mama would positively die
Should she go or stay or should she try to get a trial separation
You see, he's not a faggot as you might suppose
He just feels restricted in conventional clothes
'cos when he puts on that dress, he feels like a princess
He's not a dandy, he's only living out a fantasy
He's not a pansy, he's only being what he wants to be
Now his life is rearranged and he's grateful for the change
He's out of the wardrobe and now he's got no regrets
Betty Lou didn't know what to do at first
But she's learning how to cope at last
She's got the best of both worlds
And she's really in a state of elation
She says it helps their relationship
She says a change is as good as a rest
And their friends finally coming 'round to their way of thinking
She wears the trousers and smokes the pipe
And he washes up
She helps him wipe
'Cos when he puts on that dress
He looks like a princess
He's out of the wardrobe and he's feeling alright
He's out of the wardrobe and he's feeling satisfied
Now it's farewell to the past
The secret's out at last
He's out of the wardrobe and now he's got no regrets

And another song, more familiar (I hope, for your sake), which Ray Davies claims is about one of his friends who knowingly went home with a transvestite one drunken evening...

And the lyrics to Lola (if you don't already know them):

I met her in a club down in North Soho
Where you drink champagne and it tastes just like Cherry Cola
C-O-L-A Cola.

She walked up to me and she asked me to dance.
I asked her name and in a dark brown voice she said, "Lola"
L-O-L-A Lola, lo lo lo Lola

Well, I'm not the world's most physical guy,
But when she squeesed me tight she nearly broke my spine
Oh my Lola, lo lo lo Lola

Well, I'm not dumb but I can't understand
Why she walks like a woman and talks like a man
Oh my Lola, lo lo lo Lola, lo lo lo Lola

Well, we drank champagne and danced all night,
Under electric candlelight,
She picked me up and sat me on her knee,
She said, "Little boy won't you come home with me?"

Well, I'm not the world's most passionate guy,
But when I looked in her eyes,
I almost fell for my Lola,
Lo lo lo Lola, lo lo lo Lola

I pushed her away. I walked to the door.
I fell to the floor. I got down on my knees.
I looked at her, and she at me.

Well that's the way that I want it to stay.
I always want it to be that way for my Lola.
Lo lo lo Lola.

Girls will be boys, and boys will be girls.
It's a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world,
except for Lola. Lo lo lo Lola. Lo lo lo Lola.

Well I left home just a week before,
and I never ever kissed a woman before,
Lola smiled and took me by the hand,
she said, "Little boy, gonna make you a man."

Well I'm not the world's most masculine man,
but I know what I am and that I'm a man,
so is Lola.
Lo lo lo Lola. Lo lo lo Lola.

And here's the music video to Come Dancing, because I like it:

The lyrics are fun too:

They put a parking lot on a piece of land
When the supermarket used to stand
Before that they put up a bowling alley
On the site that used to be the local palais
That's where the big bands used to come and play
My sister went there on a Saturday

Come dancing
All her boyfriends used to come and call
Why not come dancing, it's only natural

Another Saturday, another date
She would be ready but she'd always make them wait
In the hallway, in anticipation
He didn't know the night would end up in frustration
He'd end up blowing all his wages for the week
All for a cuddle and a peck on the cheek

Come dancing
That's how they did it when I was just a kid
And when they said come dancing
My sister always did

My sister should have come in a midnight
And my mom would always sit up and wait
It always ended up in a big row
When my sister used to get home late

Out of my window I can see them in the moonlight
Two silhouettes saying goodnight by the garden gate

The day they knocked down the palais
My sister stood and cried
The day they knocked down the palais
Part of my childhood died, just died


Now I'm grown up and playing in a band
And there's a car park where the palais used to stand
My sister's married and she lives on an estate
Her daughters go out, now it's her turn to wait
She knows they get away with things she never could
But if I asked her I wonder if she would

Come dancing
Come on sister, have yourself a ball
Don't be afraid to come dancing
It's only natural

Come dancing
Just like the palais on a Saturday
And all her friends will come dancing
Where the big bands used to play


Wednesday, November 25, 2009

What if your Mistress was a Vampire?? Muah ha!!

She would hunt you like the innocent prey that you are! Stalking around you, smelling your scent, like you were a piece of pulsating flesh and nothing more!

Friday, November 20, 2009

Victorian Discipline Rules Sooo Hard....

I don't normally do this, because frankly, most people's blogs bore the fucking crap out of me. But Wynter is a true connoisseur, and a true lover of all (most?) things kink. If you've ever been to her house, you know. So she posted a list of Victorian-era schoolroom discipline rules- meaning, a list of possible transgressions and their consequences- which makes me want to cream myself. So here it is (for anyone here who still does not read her blog- naughty, naughty!!):


By the way, she does have this up on her fridge, which is very funny. Also, you need to follow her right now.


Blue ballin it...

Forced bi guys suck


Thank you, Chillball. Now I can listen to "Back Dat Ass Up" whenever and where ever I want!

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Bono sucks so much, let me count the ways...

Hmmm... Well, I really don't have the time or interest to do that (it's a daunting task), but I will leave you with a video to watch which helps illustrate my point. The PEPFAR clause was about to be renegotiated this January, but Bono and his minions helped shut that down. Watch this video to see how little he knows about helping women of third world countries

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Manufacturing Consent...

This is a video that goes along with my previous post. I know I seem to be contradicting myself here, and I also know that a lot of people dislike Noam Chomsky, etc, etc. But, if you have strong feelings about this video one way or the other, let's

Thursday, November 5, 2009


I bet Arod spent all morning doing that...

Check out my new blog header! Of course, how could you miss it? I call that my 'cat who caught the canary' look.

The Yankees won last night, and I was at my favorite old man dive bar to witness it. Testify! Oh, there are few funnier things than watching geriatrics ignore their arthritis by jumping up and down and high-fiveing eachother. The Phillies were stupid for thinking Pedro Martinez could actually pull off another win (I'm a Mets fan, so I know these things). Ha ha! Phillies suck! (The Mets suck more... but go screw, naysayers!)

Speaking of baseball...

I am reading Moneyball right now, by Michael Lewis. Beside there being a ton of statistical minutia that I could care less about, there are a bunch of revealing tidbits about the culture of professional baseball and it's reliance on superstition and pseudo-science when assessing player's performance. One thing about the book that has struck me so far was that looks used to be a factor in determining whether someone should get drafted. There was (is still?) a certain kind of "face" that scouts would look for when choosing ballplayers from colleges and highschools. There was also a certain type of preferred body (ooh, the homoerotic undertones!) aside from any actual proof that it had any bearing whatsoever on how someone could play. There are a bunch of other quasi-interesting facts in the book so far (I'm halfway through), including some great arguments on why some statistics (that are still used) just shouldn't even exist, ex: errors. It is also the story of Billy Beane, the general manager of the Oakland A's who was a pro ball player in the 80's, and who did fit all of the bullshit statistical facial/body requirements, but still never had a successful career. Apparently, this stuck in his craw a little, and as an adult, he became fascinated with choosing players based solely on real statistical data- that being chiefly on-base percentage, and slugging percentage.

Jesus, I'm even boring myself talking about that crap. It would be interesting to know where the facial requirement came from, though. Lewis doesn't go into it, but I'm sure it probably has something to do with physiognomy (which I wrote a paper about in college) and other such racist hogwash.

Anyhoo... I am going to really embarrass my boyfriend right now, and tell everyone that I shaved his cock, balls, and ass last night. Ha ha! It was tremendously intimate and fun. And sooo needed. Phew!

In other news, as I was walking home last night, a lady freaked out on me because she thought I was someone famous, although she could not say who. I am going to go out on a limb and say that she probably thought I was Tina Fey... I am getting a lot of that lately (weird!). I don't know who she thought I was, because I promptly ran down into the subway. It's the glasses. I used to get a lot of, "Oh, you look like that Lisa Loeb!" when she was popular as well. Yick. This was the first time I actually had someone scream and freak out on me, though. Although now I think I should have tried to sign her tits.


Saturday, October 24, 2009

Fuzzy kittens and rainbows...

I know I haven't written in a while... but get over it. I have too many things to write about, and make a bunch of different drafts, but can't bring myself to sit down and focus enough to edit them. Oh well, your loss. So don't get all whiny because this piece sort of goes all over the place.


I am often struck by how BDSM seems to have a therapeutic effect on people. Sometimes it's obvious in session, sometimes more so afterward. Fewer things are more satisfying than making someone cry- either from pain or words. Not because, oooh, I'm such a heartless sadist, arrrgh! (or pirate?) but because there is a catharsis that occurs. It's a cleansing of sorts. At the risk of sounding namby-pamby- men need to cry more. I have one client who tells me that he can't, but only comes close when he comes to see me. This gives me pause, but also a sense that even though there is no scientific evidence to back this up, there exists profound experiential proof that BDSM is beneficial. You can't tell me otherwise when I have a grown man thanking me profusely as he wakes out of subspace. On repeated occasion with many different people.

BDSM is theater. Not to say it's fake (quite the opposite), but it is a stage for people to act out the deepest innerworkings of their minds (god, that phrase is overused, but fuck it). It's a forum for someone to be exactly who they are. Without judgement. (Or with! Depending...)

It pisses me off that there is no scientific data which even explores the possibility that BDSM could be positive. It is simply shelved away in the DSM IV, a collection of activities which fall under Paraphilia. Philosophy and fiction describe it, theorize about it, but still there is no one who has said, "This is exhilarating. This reduces stress. This makes people feel sane again. Look at this, this, and this data." However, most of us who have been mucking around BDSM for awhile know it's pretty terrific, no? Most versions of it, anyway.

Most likely the result of puritanical religious attitudes (endorsed and validated by the scientific community), BDSM is conventionally seen as "dark" or "disturbing". Which is really an impediment to being open and frank. And if we can't be open and frank, how do we expect to be understood? It is a catch-22. I have made the analogy before on this blog, that we are about in the same place that the gay movement was in, I'd say, roughly about 20 years ago.

Look, I know I'm preaching to the choir here. But I just feel like this doesn't get talked about enough.

That being said, I got to use an electrified knife on one of Wynter's subjects last week. He said it felt as if he was being castrated... ha ha! I have too much fun.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Kibbles N Bits

So, I was at a fetish party the other night. I'm not proud of it, but it happened. My friend John pointed out a girl dressed like Marilyn Monroe from The Seven Year Itch. She was gorgeous. I said, "You want me to go up to her?" He is shy, and probably would not have done it himself, I knew. I asked if she needed a drink. We sat, we talked... Then we got on the topic of her relationship- she's with a FTM (she never thought she'd like pussy!) We talked about "plumbing"(genitalia)- is that what people are attracted to? Or is it more about masculinity vs. femininity? Or perhaps even more toward topping or bottoming? I marveled at how convincing she looked, how beautiful she was. She glowed. She stood out. She seemed to be very young. And would only drink soda water.

She pointed to her friend (who was suspending someone with rope in the corner) who's a post-op, and was thinking about getting her operation as well. She's been taking hormones for 2 1/2 years. I say, "Aren't you afraid that you won't feel the same? You won't be able to have an orgasm again." She said the surgeries have gotten much more sophisticated. You can now. I was impressed. And happy that if someone wanted to make that conversion, they could without losing feeling.

I went back to John. "She's beautiful, isn't she? " I say.

"Yeah, stunning, " he says.

"She's a dude. Well, not really a dude, but she has a dick."

His eyes widened, then he looked disappointed. "Why does it matter?" I say. He turned to me and said, "It's all just kibbles and bits to you, isn't it?" I said, "Yeah. Maybe. What's wrong?"

I got so engrossed in this concept, I started bringing it up in practically every conversation I had that night. I even got into a discussion with some German dude outside, smoking a cigarette. He said, "I am heterosexual man." But what? You're just attracted to a part? A piece of someone's body? All he could say is that he's straight, he's straight. Great. Obviously he thought this out.

I went back inside. "Marilyn" asked me to find her a male Dom. (Huh? Okay, yeah, I don't exactly exude masculinity- unless I'm doing a prison scene, heh) Will John beat her? No, I say, John is submissive (you're welcome, John). I tapped one of the Doms I know were there to hit someone, no matter what the sex, and watched him (very skillfully) flog her. It was a joy to watch. She squealed. Her dress flew up. He whipped her "pussy" and it looked like she was standing over a subway vent, a la her muse.

I watched her, thinking how brave she is, and how difficult it must be to feel like there are parts of your body you don't need or that feel alien to you. Although it begs an interesting contradiction- if "bits" don't matter, why do some people feel they have to change theirs? Why- to feel more like a woman, must one acquire (or lose) plumbing? Is it because they feel societal pressure to conform to one sex? Or is it the result of some genetic predisposition to want another sex? Why does it matter anyway? Why do people care about what certain people do to their bodies? Why is modifying one's sex so controversial? Because it's taboo? Well then, shouldn't that make it sexy? (according to Bataille- see a previous post with comments)

I find it ironic that many of us in the kinky community whine about being accepted, and how our sexuality is different, but no less valid than anyone else's, etc. But when someone from another alternative group shows up and wants to participate, we freak the fuck out. Or else, are not interested in deviating from our deviance. Is that not the same exact thing that we blame vanilla people of doing? Being prudish? Having a lack of imagination?


Sunday, October 4, 2009

Some things that are always funny, no matter how many times I see or hear them...

Note that "Crystal Shit", is the Doors coverband that they are going to go see... I know they made a proper music video to the song, if anyone can find it, please email it or post it here!

It's funnier when you know that Denis Leary did his smoking bit a few years afterward. Recognize the phrase, "Whining fucking maggots?" Um, yeah.

Clearly, I am regressing into adolescence with this one, but if you've never laughed at this... I just don't know what to say to you.

This is just ridiculous...

If anyone knows the name of the sketch where Graham Chapman wears a Senorita dress while riding a tricycle, then blows into a paper bag and smashes it, please tell me!! I think when he does that, confetti comes raining down. It's called Spanish Game Show or something.


Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Ball-crushing table!

Unexpectedly, one of my Max Fischers made this for me. Isn't it cute?


Thursday, September 24, 2009


I am often struck by how BDSM seems to have some sort of therapeutic effect on people. Sometimes it's obvious in session, sometimes moreso afterward.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Just another day...

I met him at the diner on the corner. I was surprised at how handsome he was. Dutch- blond and blue-eyed. Goofy. Straight nose. There was a clarity and a clearness in his eyes which betrayed a kindness which is rare in this city. A sincere kindness. His manner was affable and chatty- although not selfishly so. We talked about Europe, driving in Paris vs. driving in Rome. How young everything is here, vs. how blase people are toward something that is 1,000 years old is in Europe. He told me he had read my blog and website thoroughly and wanted to be abused as I saw fit. He had never experienced electrics, so was curious. I said, "What did you like about my blog?" Testing him. Wanting to know if he was full of shit. "I read about a party you'd been to, and about the sex reading." "Really? What did you like about them?" "I like your writing style, and think you are very funny." The look on his face told me he was sincere, but was not used to describing such things. I could tell he was searching for something to say that would impress me. He clearly was not an English major, although said he'd lived in London for 14 years. How cute. I ordered tea, then cut the conversation abruptly, and gave him the address to my dungeon. He should meet me there in 10 min- give me enough time to change.

I went back and slithered into my black latex dress which zips up the front. I put on my high heels with spikes on the side, adjusted the lighting, and chose a CD to listen to.

He came in, and I told him to get undressed, and to go in the back room. I pressed play on the CD player and watched him undress, my arms folded. "Hurry up," I clapped my hands. He stood in front of me, his eyes cast down. I notices while he was undressing, the very shapely contour of his ass. Hairless, pale, not a blemish. It was round like tow beautifully summetrical orbs. Like two very fleshy orbs suspended in mid-air. Perfect. HIs body was very boyish- although he seemed to be in his mid to late 30's.

It was like he'd never passed puberty. Cute.

I walked up to him, immediately taking his nipples between my fingers. I gave his face a slap. He took it, a little shocked, giving me a look as though he understood why I did it. He looked down. I took his face in my hands. He didn't dare look at me. I slapped him again. I walked him over to the wall. Chained his wrists and his ankles. I put the full weight of my body against his, pinning him, grinding my hips against his ass. Slowly, I ran my hand down the small of his back, between his legs, to grab his balls. "Why are you here, Stefan?" "To obey you, Miss. Mistress." I pressed my pussy against his ass, and he pressed back. "You have a wonderful ass. Don't let it go to your head." I smacked him once more. "I won't, Mistress."

I grabbed the inner part of his thigh. A "ginny pinch". The fleshy part just below the balls. I ran my fingernails down his back and ass. I began grabbing and smacking his ass. Grabbing his thighs, his balls, running my nails up and down the insides of his legs. I felt his little hip-bone, his balls. He stuck his ass out for me, and I was inspired to take out my flogger. I draped it over his shoulders, so that he could smell the leather. Such a soft feeling. Until it's pounding you. I slap his back, in rhythm with the music. His ass. He gets pink. I rub his ass between every few blows, not because I want to go easy on him, but that I am drawn to it, animalistically. I watch the striations of pink form on his ass and back. Pretty little flesh. I then felt he was ready for my single-tail. I create welts on his ass, and he takes it, I can tell, there is no resistance. He knows he deserves it. I take shots at his ass, careful to only hit his "sweet spots" at the bottom- also the part I can't help but grab. Squeeze.

That's it, I've had it. I need to put a finger in his ass. It's just. I can't help myself. I walk to the closet and put on a rubber glove, humming along to the music. I put some lube on my finger. "Oh Mistress, please take my asshole" Well, this is new. He never said he wanted that, but I did it out of sheer wanting to, out of sheer animalistic drive to incur my will on him. Out of sheer desire to own every part of his ass. To have the inside as well as the pretty little cheeks. I wanted to feel how tight he was (I was not disappointed) and somehow, I knew he would love it.

I strapped on my pretty pink and black harness, rubber gloves, and my turquiose cock. I stroked it as I walked toward him. It eased in so nicely. I could feel the tightness of his ass as I thrust back and forth. Romantic. Then I banged him, then I went slow so I could watch my cock go in and out of his ass. Fluctuating between straight fuckin, and then needing to see my cock thrusting in and out- slowly. My harness rubbing my pussy with every go. I made him shcange position till he was over the bondage bed with both hands locked down. I didn't even think aboutg it, I just wanted a better view. I slammed him more. He moaned. I felt his hips, banged them. Felt his nikpples, his little hips, squeezed his balls- all while I banged him so hard. Then- I decided he needed to be electrocuted. I broke out my Relaxacizor. Wrapped his balls and his thighs. "Tell me when you begin to feel something." He felt it. I put a vibrating eghg up his ass. I love doing that while electrocuting people- sensory overload is key. I grabbe his thighs, whispered to him, had him grab his beuatiful cock. Uncircumsized- long, pink cock. I told him to suffer and I turned up the electricity. "Does it hurt?" " Yes, Mistress." I turned it up more. I wanted to watch him suffer. God, I was so wet.

Before, I made him lick the sweat rolling down my leg- or was it cum? Latex is hot. He kissed my feet so passionaltely. I made him do it for a long time so I knew he was sincere. He was so grateful. I smiled. My pussy got wetter. God, he was the perfect combination of hotness and submission. He jerked off so hard as I swhispered in his ear. I told him he would take the pain he would take it for me. I increased the voltage as he came.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Interesting Quote...

"Eroticism differs from animal sexuality in that human sexuality is limited by taboos and the domain of eroticism is that of the transgression of these taboos. Desire in eroticism is the desire that triumphs over the taboo. It presupposes man in conflict with himself."

- Georges Bataille

Hmm... seems familiar, no?

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Rant # 1,467...

Who am I kidding? The number is much higher than that. I just don't want to come off as the utter curmudgeon that I am. Wait- yes I do.

Okay. So, I go to some sex worker events where published people get up and read their stories.

I'm standing there at an event, talking to a relatively well-known blogger who recently had some stories published, and she is pissed out of her mind. She asks me how my business is going, and I say it's pretty feast or famine right now, as all business seems to be. I tell her, no, I'm not a dungeon Domme, I'm an independent with my own place. Suddenly, her ears perk up, and I get her card and an, "Oh, we need to hang out some time!" Yeah, right. She used to be a Domme, and she liked it, but then she did some porn and won some award, and now she is a darling of the sex worker writing scene. She wants to get back into Domming. It was so much fun!


She got up to read and fumbled through her story- a giggly little, "tee hee, I did an infantalist scene! wasn't it funny and quirky, yet poignant and sad at the same time?" kind of piece. No one was laughing. She slurred through in an oblivious, cutesie sort of way anyway, revealing that she was actually a phone sex Domme, not a real one. A scattered round of applause followed.

Whenever I go to these events, I see a lot of people I am acquainted with, and we chat (but have nothing to talk about). I buy their comic book, their book of short stories, or their video (I want to show my support), but ultimately always leave thinking that I've just been to a big schmooze-a-thon, where everyone is desperately trying to become the next Tracy Quan. The events are usually quite crowded, which is great. There is a certain amount of solidarity.

But. I can't shake the feeling that many of these people "dabbled" in sex work in order to have something interesting to write about. Or to focus their "art" around. This blogger woman, at least while she was drunk, was so transparent about her reasons for wanting to Domme (hint: cha-ching). I have no problem with people wanting to make money- there is a market of clients out there for everyone. However, I do have a problem with people taking what I consider to be my chosen profession, and packaging it in such a way as to gain notoriety for their bad writing. Many of these people went to ivy league schools (or close), and use that as a way to legitimize their perspective on their little "stint" as a sex worker. Oooh, you went to Yale, majored in performance art, and can't pay back your loans, so you decided to give hand jobs for three months... So what???

There are, however, a few people who show up who completely blow me away. One woman, who was a stripper in the 80's, was basically like, "Hey, when I was a 'sex worker', that term didn't even exist, everyone was a junkie- myself included. No one was saving to go to college, and most of us who are still alive are surprised we made it this far." She told a story about a fifteen year old girl who worked at her club and couldn't dance, because she had been shooting heroin between her toes so much she couldn't wear her platforms anymore. That basically shut everyone the fuck up. It seems like a stereotype that everyone is trying very desperately nowadays to shake off. Which I understand. And can get behind. But stereotypes exist for a reason.

Sex worker fiction contains subject matter that the majority of the public finds scandalous- but that alone does not make you a good writer. Granted, most people are probably going to look twice in order to be titillated (which sells books), but it pisses me off that these floozies are getting signed essentially for exploiting the very same "scene" to which they claim to be a dedicated member.

Ah, but who said life was fair, right? I'm probably just jealous, anyway. Maybe in exchange for Domming experience, the blogger chick will give me a few lessons on being a shameless self-promoter.


Thursday, August 27, 2009

I am unsure what to write...

So am not going to say anything! Ha ha!

I have been writing all day, so don't feel like it.

So there.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Video vs. Real Sessions

I really hope that no one here expects that by becoming someone's "videoslave", that they are actually going to get an actual session-like experience out of it.

First of all- it's going to be a performance. In most situations. Which means, that the Domme might not be how she would normally act in a session. Depending on who is directing the action-

Saturday, August 15, 2009

This is some bullshit...

I love it when people turn sex into a morality issue. It's also really funny when people make all kinds of unfounded presumptions about prostitutes and their experiences, with out ever actually having talked to one single prostitute. Is there exploitation in the sex industry? Absolutely. Is that a serious fucking problem? Yes. However, arresting the women who are being exploited is a crime in itself. Putting someone in jail does not rehabilitate them, it does not empower them or distance them from their pimps- just like putting people in jail for drugs does not "cure" them- in fact, it does the exact opposite.

A group, called Citizens Against Trafficking (CAT), are seeking to make in-door prostitution in Rhode Island illegal. There is, in fact, a bill before the Rhode Island legislature which they are preparing to vote on. CAT is the creation of two so-called feminists- one of whom lives in Massachusetts, and the other who is a professor of Women's Studies. They claim to be experts on the issue of sex work, but have never heard (until recently) of any of the organizations which actually research sex workers and their experiences. These groups are, in no particular order of importance: SWOP (Sex Worker Outreach Project), SWP (Sex Worker Project of the Urban Justice Center, who have actually published two studies on sex workers and their demographics), and $pread Magazine (an all sex worker run and written publication). In fact, in a statement made by one of the ladies, she claims that an editor of $pread is a professor at a local university (Wha? No one on the staff seemed to know what she was talking about).

These "feminists" think (just like the Prohibitionists) that by making something illegal, you will eradicate it. Of course, it is really a transparent attempt to impose their own sense of morality on the rest of the population- as most of these "feminists" also see sex work as detrimental to women, and a blight on society as a whole. This is not true, and based on their own second-wave feminist bullshit ethics that have been thrown away by most people in the field of women's studies. But, by using scare tactics, and appealing to soccer moms who think there's going to be a brothel in every schoolyard, these bitches might actually get their way!

You know what's morally and ethically unjust? Using a marginalized population as a platform for your own fucked up, misinformed crusade. It pisses me off when people who are the loudest get their way in the face of reason and compassion.

Make it so that doesn't happen, by adding your support here:

Sex In The Public Square

Also, see what actual research reveals about sex work and trafficking here:

Sex Worker Project of The Urban Justice Center

Subcribe, or make a donation to $pread Magazine. They need it, trust me.

See what some ignorant bitch has to say about an industry she knows nothing about here:

Open Letter To Sex Radicals

BTW- What the hell is a "sex radical", and where do I sign up?


Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Rules for the jukebox (and a lament on their collective demise)...

I was going to write something titillating about a recent session I had, but fuck you assholes and your dicks. This is what I feel like writing:

Of course I know this is silly and completely subjective, but I think that my rules for the jukebox are pretty universal and should be abided by no matter what situation with a jukebox you might find yourself in. I'm not a music nerd, I just value my ears.

The biggest mistake people make when selecting from the jukebox (I love that word!) is to make decisions on what is familiar, rather than on what others who are listening to the jukebox might like. Look around the bar. Is it a dive? Are there a bunch of crotchety old men sitting around in their legionaire's uniforms? Or are there a bunch of NYU students? (if yes to the latter, I suggest you forget the music and leave) I have a tendency to enjoy an atmosphere of infirmity and drowned sorrows- and inevitably these places will have the better jukebox. A bunch of crotchety old men are not going to want to listen to the Dead Milkmen (although they rule). Obviously. Find stuff that was made before 1967. Who knows, you might even get a free drink out of it.

Secondly, do not play anything that you could hear as soon as you turn on a classic rock station. This is a huge, unforgivable blunder that most people make when choosing songs. Don't choose Zeppelin if it's not a B-side off of CO/DA, do not, under any circumstances, choose Journey or Air Supply or Chicago EVER, do not play the Stones, the Beatles, Black Sabbath, or any other popular yet ground-breaking band unless it's obscure (Gimme Shelter and Beast of Burden are the only exceptions- I told you these rules were subjective). Do not play Janis Joplin, The Doors, or Jimi Hendrix- unless you have no other option.

Thirdly, do not choose hip hop or rap unless the bar is completely packed full of yuppies. Hip hop can be a huge crowd-pleaser. Unfortunately, in most instances, it is the most insipidly common mainstream bullshit that gets the best reaction. I'll leave it up to you to decide whether it is more important to make people happy, or for your ears to bleed.

Fourthly, do not play goth music. Just don't. Yes, The Cure falls under this category. That said, do not play Tori Amos (ugh!).

Fifthly (is that a word?), scratch the Jimi Hendrix rule. I'm listening to him now, and I change my mind.

Sixthly (hee), if you're over forty-five, don't try to choose something contemporary that you think "the kids" will like. Jukeboxes are never kept up to date, and you're not impressing anyone. Contemporary popular music by it's very nature is faddish and banal. Just don't go there. I implore you.

Seventhly, do not play show tunes or Billy Joel. Hopefully this goes with out saying. This is a bigger problem with karaoke than jukeboxes, granted. Also, no Metallica or heavy metal or punk made after 1983. This falls under the same category as show tunes, because I said so. And because you shouldn't play anything that makes people feel like they might go mad listening to it. Whether it's completely atonal or completely insipidly treacly and trite.

Sometimes you may come in contact with one of those internet "choose your own adventure" (nightmare), look-and-you-will-find-it sort of jobs. Originally only to be found in places that one should actively avoid anyway, they seem to be making themselves into halfway decent bars. This is unfortunate, because inevitably people will always pick something right out of their own CD collection. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, but face it, most people own like 12 CD's (thanks for that observation, Billy). I hate these jukeboxes, because while seeming to foster the idea that you can go crazy and use your imagination, they in fact encourage people to do just the opposite. I can, however, appreciate them for things like Desmond Dekker (why can't I find that shit anywhere?) or the Melodians, or bad British ska music.

Essentially, when faced with a jukebox that is old-fashioned and has a static list of choices, one is forced to spend some money on songs/artists/albums that perhaps they aren't familiar with. This is trial by error, but that's part of the fun! Sometimes you win, sometimes not. Can one really put a price on something they played randomly and ended up really enjoying?

ADDENDUM: This also should go without saying, but country music made within the last 30 years is bad, unless you're in like, a saloon, or there's line-dancing happening in front of you. This rule does not apply to Dolly Parton or Willie Nelson.


Thursday, August 6, 2009

It's Your Lucky Day...

How nice am I to keep putting up new pictures of myself? Surely, none of you deserve this level of generosity! These are from the same photoshoot as below. Check my new outfit!


Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Website Weeeiiiiirrrdddness!

For some reason, when you go to look for Mistress Veronica in Los Angeles (http://www.missveronica.com), my website pops up. I am unsure how this came to be, but it is surely very odd.


Saturday, August 1, 2009

New Pics...

These are from a photoshoot I did about two weeks ago. I don't think I will use this photographer again, but these are a few that I think aren't too bad. The photographer was really big on Photoshop (so the flaws abound, yes?)- which I do not like to use except to fix the tiniest of details. Suffice to say, we had our differences, but I got a few that I'm obviously not embarrassed to post here. Anyway, here they are- with no touching up at all.

Special Thanks to Mikey T for lending me his tux. xoxo.


Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Smoke if you got 'em...

These are from a photo shoot I did last week.

Sunday, July 26, 2009


Please contact me via comment or email if you are proficient in using INDESIGN, and are looking for a volunteering/ internship opportunity. I know it's a long shot, but thought I would put it out there. If you know anyone who might be interested, you may contact me as well.


Thursday, July 23, 2009

Strap-on review I did...

Someone told me that I need to start posting my material that actually gets published on here, and I thought that wasn't a bad idea... However, the language is a little more, say... colorful (?) than how I normally write, but hey, I'm trying to entertain people here. Or shock them. Either way, here it is. It's for a "trade" magazine for sex workers.

Mistress Veronica’s Choices:

Harness with adjustable O-Ring:

Better if you are a more experienced ass-jammer, and fuck sluts with varying levels of butt-sluttiness. Why? Because the point of having adjustable rings is to be able to adjust the size to take a cock with large or small girth. This way, whether you are fucking a novice or a slutty Nancy boy who needs a fat one, you’re ready to go. I have a Terra Firma, made by Stormy Leather, found at Babeland here: http://store.babeland.com/harnesses-2-strap/terra-firma-leather-d-ring The great thing about this model is that it is fully adjustable for different body sizes, and you can remove the pad for double dildo fun. It is also one of the only harnesses that will fit a dildo with a ball sack.

Harness with non-adjustable O-Ring or pre-attached dildo:

Clients will inevitably always, always want different sizes of dildo, so this is obviously not the most desirable option. If you must take this option, go for the medium-sized attached dildo, and get a small butt plug to boot. But this will probably just equal out to the price of a nice harness anyway, so why bother?

Harness Materials:

I have to say, I love leather. It looks professional, and it acts that way too. Vinyl is my second choice, but in my experience, not as durable. Also, try the damned thing on before you buy it. There are a lot of shitty harnesses out there. Don’t just think about material, look at the design. The kind that fits like a g-string is terribly uncomfortable. Get the kind with straps under the ass. It is also hard to find one that is not cheap leather or pleather. The Spare Parts Joque harness is polyester, so is durable, and a good option for vegans. http://store.babeland.com/harnesses-all/spareparts-joque-harness

Sunday, July 19, 2009

She Must Be Somebody's Baby...

I was listening to my "Guilty Pleasures" channel on Pandora today. (For those of you unfamiliar with Pandora, it's a website where you can create your own radio stations, based on a song you like. You pick a song or artist, and they keep playing songs or artists that are musically similar. If you haven't tried it, you should. It's fab.)

"Guilty Pleasures" could basically be re-named my "Blue-eyed Soul" channel. I'm not ashamed to admit that yes, I love me some Hall and Oates. (If you don't, there's something amiss in your life. Seriously.) Other artists that crop up on this station are Michael McDonald (hearts!), The Police (not technically soul, but I'll take it), Chris DeBurgh (remember Lady in Red? So do I!!), Christopher Cross, I digress... Anyway, I was all, wooo, groovin on my elevator music, and heard this song that sounded SO familiar... but I couldn't place it. Then- I remembered. It's the song I had my tap-dancing recital to when I was like 7 years old! "Somebody's Baby", by Jackson Browne! This may not seem like a big deal to most of you, nay, any of you, but it almost brought tears to my eyes. And then, while it was playing, I could hear my teacher saying, "Fa-lap, heel-heel, fa-lap, heel-heel, rhythm step!" I can remember what a rhythm step is! I almost got up and did it out of habit.

Oh, man, and the outfit I had to wear- big surprise- was a red and white sequined leotard, with (strangely) one of those flapperesque headbands with a feather in the front. Not really time-compatible with the song, but we're talking tap-dancing here. And everyone HAS to look like they're a magician's assistant.

Wow. It's funny how a really detailed memory can pop up out of nowhere.

Well, on the off-chance that you actually like Jackson Browne, here's the song:

Monday, July 13, 2009

Blogging is sooo 2008...

In an experiment to test my own self-absorption, I am re-opening my Twitter account. You may join the zany, whacky, and pseudo-intellectual fun, by going here:

My Twitter, Bitchez!

Since I know my last post probably befuddled and/or disgusted some people (who don't understand the gloriousness of chubby queens performing in front of a mirror), here is something that I saw last night that made me have to excuse myself. Enjoy!

Watch It Here


Friday, July 10, 2009

This bitch brings it.

Chubby queens taping themselves dancing to Beyonce are a dime a dozen, but when they do it well- it's blog-worthy. At least, it's worthy of my blog. The fat dude in the leotard can't hold a candle to Tyrone!

Also, the hilarity doesn't stop there! Watch this (very short) video of Russian ladies being almost unbearably endearing.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

You Can't Shit And Cry At The Same Time...

I was sitting on the toilet today feeling sorry for myself, sad over some person or nonsense like that- and I let out a really wet fart. A bunch of them, in fact. As hard as I was trying to feel bad, I couldn't do it, because I just could not stop farting. The noise is just too hilarious. It's never NOT funny. Is it possible to be on the toilet and be upset? Try it sometime, it is surprisingly difficult.

(This is not an invitation for people into toilet training to call me. Please do not.)

Ha! Was that too much information? Oh well.

Since I love to rant endlessly, almost to the point of resembling Andy Rooney (when the hell are that guy his eyebrows going to die, anyway?)- I was at a hip hop show a few nights ago, enjoying the music, and I feel someone slam into me.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Fascinating Interview...

This is from a website called "Fetish Flame", which is a collection of podcast interviews that explore BDSM. This interview is particularly interesting, I think, because they sit down with Diaper Dan, who is a diaper fetishist (natch). Dan is quite open and articulate about diaper loving and predicaments of incontinence, and also explains the difference between his fetish and someone who considers him/herself an adult baby. It's about 40 minutes long, but don't let that deter you. It is incredibly engaging, very funny, and it will challenge any preconceived notions you may have previously had about this genre of BDSM.

He also makes an interesting point about the experiencial difference between a fetish, and how that may be a source of arousal, and how that relates (or doesn't) to wanting actual "normal" sex.

Click below:

Fetish Flame


Friday, June 19, 2009


This is why you have to love Richard Simmons. And you KNOW he totally bedazzled that!

Sunday, June 14, 2009

We live in grave times...

The time... of the douchey hat. They are ubiquitous. You can't escape them. They need you to notice them- they yearn to stand out and distinguish themselves as evidence that their wearer is a huge douche. Leopard print cowboy hats with rolled-up brims, pink Red Sox hats, cheap pork pie hats and fedoras from the Gap, faux-distressed trucker hats, flat-brimmed baseball caps... must I go on?

Yes, I must. Indiana Jones hats? Have they replaced Mazda Miatas as the new mid-life crisis accessory? It's cheaper, I suppose... But if you wear one- you don't look like Harrison Ford. You just look like a douche.

Why doesn't the Italian straw skimmer hat make a comeback? Who has the balls to wear that one? Someone has to bring back the barber shop quartet along with it. It's a dying art. Someone under 80 has to save it! Boyz II Men were waaay ahead of their time.

We also live in a time of the douchey jean pant. Perhaps not so much as a few years ago, but the presence of the intentionally ripped and creased jean with various bedazzlements are still pretty common.

Personally, I'm waiting for the rainbow light-up disco visor to make a comeback. I had one when I was a kid, and I can't wait to get back on the douchey hat bandwagon. See above.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Jim Jarmusch, you bloated, self-indulgent ass...

You stole an hour and 45 minutes of my life! Gone! Poof! Never again shall I have those precious moments back, that I spent yawning and rubbing my eyes while watching "Limits of Control".

Admittedly, Jarmusch is usually a crap shoot. Loved "Down By Law", hated "Dead Man" (you hated it too, you just think it's good because it's incomprehensible- admit it!). Liked "Coffee and Cigarettes" (sort of). But "Ghost Dog" kicked ass, right? Anyone? My friend and I were bored with the rain, so decided to give it a go, and man, did we lose.

This movie was so bad, I had to seriously restrain myself from jumping up and shouting, "This is a piece of shit! Who else is with me?! Walk out! Riot! At-ti-ca!" I mean, at least with "Dead Man", there is some substance there for you to hate. There is some dialogue to scoff at. Not so with this latest. Nope-ah. Dead silence. All the way, well, most of the way through. Some colorful characters flitter onto the screen- to do what? Say the same damned line over and over again. So... what do you have? A boring, repetitious snore of someone's vacation to Spain. I would have rather watched the same episode of "One Day at a Time" four times in a row than have seen this. It was the worst form of torture. Ever.

And then, coming out of the bathroom, I hear two guys talking about how they need to see it again in order to form an opinion. What?! You couldn't tell that it's a colossal piece of shit the first time you saw it, you have to come back and make sure?! Hmmm... was the point of the movie that as long as you have investors to back your crappy art, that you can subject audiences to whatever senseless, unadulterated, shameless drivel that your swollen ego can conjure?

Albeit, from the outside, the movie has a lot going for it- Tilda Swinton, John Hurt, Bill Murray... Those actors spew sweet ambrosia from their lips every time they talk. But. Not. When they are pounding you with the meaning of the movie like so much Mike Tyson. And get this- they actually keep saying, "Life is meaningless" in Spanish. Like that isn't something that a 19 year old NYU film school student wouldn't think of. Can I get a witness?

And who's idea was it to make Bill Murray the bad guy? What about him is nefarious at all? His hairline? Seriously. Carl from "Caddyshack"? Venkman from "Ghostbusters"? Really? For real, now? He was the camp counselor in "Meatballs", for chrissakes. But Jarmusch wants you to see him as a cold-blooded gangster. Please.

I will, however, give it one "kudo" (is there such thing as a singular of kudos?) for being pleasant to look at. I'm sure it captures the "essence" of Spain very well. But really, you could watch an episode of Europe Through the Back Door and get the same thing. Or, even better, an episode of Mario Battali's, "Eat My Weight in Churritos Through Spain", or whatever it's called (better, because you get to scoff at the upper-class twittedness of Gwyneth Paltrow).

I actually saw Jim Jarmusch on the street in the LES a few months ago. He has a big, white pompadour, so is hard to miss. I usually ignore celebrities when I see them (except David Byrne!), but I think if I saw him again, that I would either... well, no, I would just ignore him. Just like I should have done with his movie.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Let This Groove...

Get you to move! I forgot how awesome Earth, Wind, and Fire were...


Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Fat People Dancing...

Always makes me smile!

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Invasion of the Body Snatchers...

(Although all names have not been changed to protect the innocent, this did actually happen between consenting adults. Also, this version has been modified to better fit your attention-span)

I met Alex at the Uhaul center in Midtown on an uncharacteristically heated Spring day. I, dressed in my best head-to-toe black anarcho-feminist terrorist outfit (replete with black kerchief), and she in her Marlon Brando-esque wife-beater tough girl get-up (actually, that's what she always wears, she's so butch!).

Waiting in line I tap my foot nervously to the beat of the saccharine pop ditty drifting out of the speakers, anticipating what we were about to do. She taps me on the shoulder, points her head at a display of saran wrap, and smiles. I smile back. We grab it and inspect it, making sure that it's the size we need- amused that no one around us even slightly suspects how we might use it. I finger some other items and ponder what they might alternatively be used for, as Alex procures the keys. We pull ourselves into the van- ready to lock n load!

Alex guides the massive machine effortlessly down a matrix of tiny streets, and finally the highway, as we drive to pick up our accomplice, Ms. X. I look out the window- I don't like to be in cars, but feel safe with her at the wheel. Ms. X is to be our decoy, as the victim has not met her yet. Alex and I discuss the salient details of the abduction. We decide the back windows should be covered, and that we should grab him from the side door instead of the back. Ms. X should affect a Southern accent to make herself seem more helpless- lost and alone in the big, scary city.

X jaunts out of her house and squats down between the two of us in front of the van, her long red hair straightened and combed to perfection, grazing her bare shoulders, and dressed all in white. We tell her what we want her to do, where she is to stand, the signal for when we see him coming, and that she is to ask for his help getting a hand-truck out of the side of the van. He, being the noble gentleman he is, will help her- and that is where his predicament will begin.

We drive to the spot in the Flatiron District where Alex has told him to meet her promptly at 5pm on an "urgent matter". Alex and I cover the back windows with garbage bags, while Ms. X gets out and leans casually against the side, a hand on one hip, and a clove cigarette dangling in the other- our charming ruse ready to pounce. I finally spot him- and he's walking down the opposite side of the street! Shit! I call to tell her where he is, that she has to cross and run up to him, exasperated and pleading. She obliges, and we watch as the scene begins. He is walking diligently, swiftly- his head bent in focused duty to his Mistress. But, lo! Suddenly, he's interrupted by a damsel in distress!? He stops short as she cuts off his path, pointing to the van. He seems startled, a bit confused, and a little annoyed that his meeting might be delayed. However, he still takes the bait.

Alex and I stand in the van holding a blanket in front of us. We hear a slightly muffled, "Ah juss caint reach! It's insihde, faah insihde." He opens the door. I can hardly stifle my chuckle as he gets in on his knees... and we nab him! He rolls around, and I grab his arms as X grabs his legs and Alex gets out and starts driving madly, furiously down the block. We strip him completely- X takes off his shoes, "Ew, they stink!" she says. "Well, he is a man, afterall, they're all filthy animals." I say, ripping his shirt off and pinching a nipple. I take the saran wrap and tightly bind his wrists, then throw it to X, who wraps his ankles, while the car swerves, and we struggle to keep ourselves upright. He pleads with us, "What are you doing?" "Who are you?". I slap him and tell him to shut his pie hole if he wants to get out alive.

"Get his wallet, X. Let's see how much he's got."

She takes his pants and looks inside. "Two hundred and thirty-five bucks."

"That's it? Well, pointdexter, we're going to have to amend that, aren't we?"

"Wha, what's going on?"

"I told you to shut the fuck up!" I say, grabbing his mouth. "Let's wrap this little bitch up, X. We've got a squealer."

She hands me the large roll of saran wrap, and I start with his mouth, his eyes bulging, still pleading with me. Then I proceed to wrap his arms to the front of his chest, wrapping down, until his entire body is completely bound and helpless.

"Ha!" I get down close to his ear, "Do you know why you're here?" He shakes his head, no. "Being the dull, male beast that you are, do you know what Female Supremacy is?" He nods his head, yes. "Do you accept that the XY chromosome is inferior to the double X chromosome?" He nods his head again, yes. (I was expecting a little more resistance to that, but okay, I'll roll with it) I get on top of him, knees on his chest, "Good! Then you should have no problem giving us all your money in order to further our cause! Ha ha!" I turn around and high-five Ms. X. We laugh maniacally, looking deep into his eyes, seeing the fear, and unfortunately, smelling it as well.

The van swerves to a halt. We leave him in the back, sweating, teary-eyed and bewildered. X and I cool ourselves off in the air conditioning and tell Alex what we did and said to him. She throws her head back and laughs, and we all look back at him, our perspiring larvae, and continue laughing to each other.

Alex gets out, and we all scamper into the back of the cab and stand above him, hands on our hips, then take turns kicking him, spitting, and cursing at him. He bunches up as much as he can, the saran wrap conveniently keeping him in check. We admonish him for being such a weak, pathetic male creature, and launch into a barrage of questions about feminist theory, discerning his ignorance on the subject. We reference the S.C.U.M. Manifesto and other works of a radical feminist bent, and tell him that he is to pay for all of the indiscretions of his sex- past and present. His first penitence shall be that he is to fund our terrorist activities, in which we kidnap men and keep them as our slaves! Raping them, and making them grovel- to torture however we see fit! We tell him how lucky he is to be chosen for such a distinguished position, and that if he resists, we will kill him.

Alex then jumps in the front and starts driving again. I kneel once more on his chest, and get my face nice and close to his. I think that I want to throw some more scare into him, just for fun. "Do you know what we're REALLY going to do with you, now?" He shakes his head. "We're going to leave you naked on the Brooklyn Bridge. How would you like that?" He shakes his head more violently this time. "Wait! But you don't know the best part yet!" I get down closer and lick some of the sweat off his nose, giving him my best "crazy eyes". I lower my voice to a soft whisper, "Then we're going to call the police, and tell them that a strange man is walking on the bridge, exposing himself to all the young women and children." I hear a low moan come out of him, his eyes flashing with real fear, not the role play pansy kind. "Oh yes! You're playing with the big girls now, we don't fuck around!" X and I laugh maniacally, poking him, watching him being thrown from one side of the van to the other as Alex squeals through the streets. I watch him try to pathetically worm his way out of his plastic body sock for a bit longer before slapping him for his gullibility.

"Alex, where are we really going to leave him off!?" I shout.

"Harlem!" she says. It is about 10pm, and quite dark outside. He had mentioned to her before that he was afraid of being left there alone at night, therefore sealing his fate. Such racist assertions had not fallen on deaf ears, and now it was to be the poisoned cherry on top of his sundae of torment! I could hear his muffled No's and protestations through the plastic gag, which just made me laugh again. He tried to get up over and over, like we were directing him to do sit-ups. X and I just stood there, watching him, pushing him down and bullying him, laughing.

The van finally stops. We take his plastic wrap off and tell him that we are in a secluded alley near 110th street. He is to get out of the van, lean against a building, and count to 20 before he is allowed to start walking. (We had actually left him back in the Flatiron District, but in a place where he would not know it as soon as he stepped out of the van)

We then squealed away again, laughing our asses off, and didn't stop for hours. Damn, that was fun.

Monday, May 25, 2009


It is yet another beautiful day outside!! Which means, sorry guys, but I must continue to ignore my blog for just a little bit longer. Well, at least until tonight.

Hope you don't mind! (Actually, I could care less if you do)

Ready, set, frolic!


Monday, May 18, 2009

It doesn't look so terrible...

I guess. I'm glad that they seem to have gone completely off the canon and created something new. You can't really tell what the plot is from the preview, but it seems to have something to do with witchcraft and the end of the world. Hmph. A bit over the top for a Holmes story, but nonetheless, here is the preview:

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Mistress Trish and I...

Mistress Trish is offering her very experienced, very beautiful services for doubles with Me at a reduced rate, for a short time only.

My rate shall stay the same, however, you may invite Miss Trish to assist Me (or vice versa) for one hour for an additional $100. This is a super bargain, and I am really stoked (and flattered) that She would like to play together so much as to offer a discount. She is a fantastically creative and sadistic Domme, not to mention one of the most gracious people I know. It should be a good time.

Please email Me for more information.

You may find Her website here: Mistress Trish


Sunday, May 3, 2009

Love That Dirty Water...

Boston, here I come!

I will be visiting your fine city from May 26th to the 30th. Please email me to make an appointment, as I do not answer my phone. Three weeks should be ample time to fashion a succinct, polite missive requesting a session.

Go Sawx!


The Votes Are IN!!!

You, my readers, have spoken! I shall no longer be Twittering, as the decision has been made 66% in favor of me smashing the technocracy!!

I am closing my account today, as I have had a whopping 8 total posts in the last two months. I do, however, have like 50 followers, which completely confounds me.


Thursday, April 30, 2009

Party time, excellent!!

This is about a party we threw a few months back to celebrate our dungeon space, and to show our appreciation for some of our fellow mistresses. Written by my personal slave, Spunk...

I was invited to serve food and drink at a party that Ms. Veronica and Ms. Alex were throwing for their fellow Dominatrices at their Lower East Side dungeon. The invitation explained that I would be required to wear a frilly white apron and something mildly humiliating underneath. Alex gave me a pair of tight vinyl shorts and I picked up a silky apron with lacey edges at a discount store. The invitation gave detailed instructions of what was expected of me. I was not to speak unless spoken to, and it warned that if I insisted on drawing attention to myself, I would be used for the Mistress’ amusement. I knew that there would be eight Mistresses present, many of whom I did not know. In the days leading up to the party, I was excited and also nervous at the thought of what might happen to me at the hands of this group of dominant women. There would be two other men present, another server and the chef. I knew that women often behave differently in packs than one on one, and I knew that I would have to try my hardest to do well at serving the wine and food, in order to avoid the tortures they are all so expert in administering.

The day of the party finally arrived and I showed up early as instructed to assist the chef, Preston, with his preparations in the kitchen. I set the table. I was barefoot and feeling a little exposed in the vinyl shorts and apron when the first guests arrived. I asked the guests if I could take their bag and coats. My fellow server, Lolita, (whose name was chosen by Veronica and Alex) offered them a glass of Prosecco. (Lolita had a much more elaborate outfit than mine: High heels, stockings, a corset and apron) Once all the coats were hung, the ladies sat drinking wine and talking. I passed around hors d'oeuvres and Lolita poured the wine, and shared his knowledge about the wine.

Ms. Jada told Ms. Veronica she had a sore neck, and Ms. Veronica offered my services. She accepted and I began massaging her neck and back. Her bra strap began falling down her arm and she accused me of trying to undress her. She reported this to Ms. Veronica, and then Ms. Jada threw me on the floor and started hitting my inner thighs with a riding crop. I remember Ms. Veronica saying "He can tolerate a lot of pain", as Ms. J reddened my ass with the crop. I felt good and it seemed easy to take. I was then ordered to roll over and there I lay on my back looking up at the eight beautiful women who surrounded me and began pushing their feet and heels into my face, torso and balls. They laughed and giggled. They finally released me, as it was now time to start serving the first course of the meal, which was a soup.

At one point I knocked something over and Ms. Veronica ordered me to lean with my hands against the wall. She began giving me my first flogging of the evening. Feeling ballsy I said, "Is that all you got for me?" Angrily she took me out to the other room and again with my arms against the wall she hit me with her self-fashioned speaker wire flogger, which is extremely painful. Then Ms. Devon asked Veronica if she might have a go at me with a wooden spoon to which Veronica replied "He's feeling cheeky tonight, put him in his place..." Devon then lay into me with a heavy wooden spoon as if she were releasing all her frustrations upon me. I remember hearing a voice say "Position" . "Bridge Position". Devon said "Count!" and I couldn't remember how to count. I was trying to understand. But then I remembered the numbers and I just started saying numbers "7, 8, 9.." like that. Then I saw Veronica in front of me, crouching down, and she smiled as if she were trying to help me to take it and I knew everything was alright. Devon pushed me off her lap. Ms. Guinevere approached me and began twisting my nipples, "These have been ignored for too long!" I remember thinking how pretty she was and how nice she seemed. She just played around a bit and then let me go. Then it was time to serve the first course.

From this point on, dear reader, I can only report what an endorphin and adrenalin soaked brain has to say. We served the first course of the meal, which was short ribs. Everyone was imbibing and having a good time. Lolita entertained the ladies with dirty limericks. When anyone wanted a cigarette I would light it for them, or offer to light it for them. I kept filling their wine glasses and lighting their cigarettes, taking their plates away and bringing more food.

While serving the dessert I spilled some of the cream sauce on the floor. Veronica noticed and had me get down on all fours and lick it up. It really wasn't so hard because the sauce was pretty good and I knew her floors were clean. I think the girls found it amusing how willing I was to do whatever Veronica told me.

After dinner the girls retired to the other room. Lolita and I cleared the dishes. Ms. Alex invited me to come sit on her lap. She was dressed in a wife-beater and men's dress pants. As I sat on her lap she reached down the back of my vinyl shorts and shoved her dry index finger into my asshole. This was a little uncomfortable because of the lack of lubricant, but once it was in there it felt good. I began moving my hips to the music and tried to dance with her finger in my ass. Ms. Veronica looked at me and pronounced in a scolding tone "You're having sex!"

After a while I felt like pulling away, but Ms. Alex wouldn't let me. She would pull me back with her index finger, yanking on my anus. Eventually she released me. Then she asked me to lick her finger clean. At this moment, dear reader, I hesitated. I got paranoid about how hygienic it was. In retrospect, having made out with a girlfriend after she had her tongue in my ass, it amounts to the same thing.

Ms Veronica then told me to clean Ms. Alex's finger as I had clearly enjoyed it. That made it easy to do it, so I got down before Ms. Alex and sucked on her finger. She put two fingers in my mouth, and then started ramming them down my throat, which was making me gag. She didn't seem to care that I might puke on her. After I sucked on her finger for a while again she let me go. I went to the bathroom and spit it out. Then I did some dishes to kind of hide because I was freaking out.

As the guests left, I helped them on with their coats, and they all seemed to have enjoyed themselves. When everyone was gone, I was allowed to eat a plate of food that hadn't been eaten. As Lolita was getting ready to leave, Alex suggested we “get together”, and I tried acting salacious toward him. Then the girls started playing with him, ramming a dildo in his mouth. After he got slapped a bit, they tired of him and sent him away.

Then I took to cleaning all of the chef’s pots and pans and various implements of which there were many. Then I loaded it all into his car. By this time it was about 4 am. When I went back in, I was alone with Ms Veronica and Ms Alex. They seemed to be acting a little funny, and suddenly they attacked me. My shirt was ripped off. They pulled my pants down around my ankles. Ms. Alex stood in behind me and held my arms in a kind of arm lock. She had her nose pressed against my back and she kept sniffing me, but more like huffing me. Ms. Veronica started scratching me with her fingernails with broad swipes. They did it to my front and back. Then Ms. Veronica hit my cock with a long suede single tail. The blows left tremendous purple bruises. Ms. Veronica then took me in the bathroom and put alcohol on all the wounds and we talked about everything that had happened and that was really an amazing moment, dear reader. Then we all lay down, Ms. Alex and Ms Veronica on the pull out bed, and I, naked on the bondage bed. In the middle of the night Ms. Veronica came and laid a blanket on me.

The next day I got up and went to work. I felt warm all over and high as a kite. It was awesome.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Pics from a performance...

I did a performance at a party called, "Muff Muff Give" in Williamsburg recently, and thought I would post some pics here because it was by far the most fun I've had at a fetish event in a long time. The party isn't always a fetish event, but this particular installment was, for queer people only (I consider myself "queer", but only in the sense that I am a little strange). There were people getting naked, impromptu go-go dancing on stage all around me, and an incredibly cute sub girl for me to beat on. Needless to say, I was very happy. Never had I seen so many people letting go and enjoying themselves so unself-consciously in one space. It was a sight to be seen, as you can see.

** The first picture has me in the background, concentrating very intently on what I was going to do to my sub's very adorable (and very durable) ass. Notice the girls making out in the bottom left corner.**


Tuesday, April 21, 2009

All delinquent Twitterers please stand up

I thrust my chair back enthusiastically to admit that I am a bad, bad Twitterer (the prefix "twit" is quite apropos). Everyone who is following me, I apologize. But I just can't bring myself to jot down so much self-indulgent nothing rubbish. I mean, one could argue that having a blog is pretty ego-driven, but it actually requires thought and follow-through of some sort. The object here is to entertain, and along the way to perhaps complain, share thoughts, miseries, observations, etc in an integrated and meaningful way (sometimes).

But really, do you really need to know that I'm on my way to the hardware store, or that I cut my ankle while shaving? Do I really need to share these insignificant incidentals with the world? I mean, who cares?

Does anyone ever think that perhaps we are turning into a technocracy of stalkers? Doesn't anyone want anything to be private anymore? Do we all think we're so great that sharing all of the intimate details of our lives would be so interesting to everyone else?

Of course I can see the advantages of online interactive "friend" or "dating" sites. You are able to meet new people with interests that match your own to a scarily exacting degree, and you can find people who were important to you earlier in life/ keep in contact with those you don't see on a regular basis. Sure, that's cool. I can dig that.

And- I'm not going to lie- it is perhaps advantageous for my business to offer such drivel for those who just can't get enough of me. Ha ha! I suppose I feel horribly ambivalent about the whole situation. I don't want to have phones and computers and iPods and whatever else creeping into every corner of my life. But on the other hand, even my trivialities are pretty sweet... Hmmm....

Well, that does it. Shall I keep tweeting (to "tweet" is the act of writing on Twitter- thank you francis) or not? I shall let my readers decide. Take the survey to your right to help me. I should like if you gave a description in the comments section on why you voted Yay or Nay.


Tuesday, April 7, 2009

"Woman's Faith In Humanity Still Not Dashed Despite Seeing Man Take Picture of Accident Victim With His Cell Phone"

That is what the headline of my newspaper would read today, if in fact, I owned a newspaper. Which I should!

And yes, that did actually happen to me while I was walking in the Village the other day. There was a body grotesquely articulated on the ground amongst a scene of ambulance horror, and some dude raised his phone in the air and took a picture of it. For what? So he could show his friends how demented he is? So that no one would doubt that he was, in fact, the biggest douchebag on the planet?

I contemplated confronting him, then decided it wasn't worth the trouble. There was a huge mob of people around the scene. I don't know about you, but I find it a little strange to stand there and stare at a mortally injured body. I really, really wanted to- but it skeeved me out too much to stand there for more than five seconds. What is it about accidents and violent mishappenings that hypnotizes people so completely? The projection of ourselves in the situation? The anomolous terror of it all? The shock value?

And why, why, why do I always have to bring everything back to BDSM (because I'm a pervert) but- car crashes are a fetish. Remember that lip-stretching yawn of a movie, Crash, with James Spader and Holly Hunter (*cough* no chemistry *cough*)? It is beyond me how you can make a movie about car crash fetishists into a grade A nap-inducer, but somehow Hollywood managed to pull it off. The opening scene with the panties and the sex against a car (or for some reason, I'm remembering an airplane was involved) was terrifically, scorchingly hot. Woo! I get squishy thinking about that. Don't bother to see it if you haven't already. It was made in the mid 90's, so it's about as shocking as seeing Britney Spears' pussy at this point. It's overdone.

Anyway- the movie seems to imply that the fetish goes beyond the simple shocking incident and aftermath and bridges over into a fetish for immobilization, re: casts, wheelchairs, and permanent handicaps. If the fetish actually exists, how are we to find out where the people who engage it are? They don't need their own porn sites, as there are plenty of pictures of car crashes on the internet!

The only evidence I have that this might be a legitimate fetish (and not fairytale) is a small statement from an artist called Romain Slocombe. He is known for his contributions to a genre of art called, Medical Art, and his pictures of Japanese women in various states of immobility are quite famous. From Deviant Desires:

"Slocombe remembers being quite terrified of car accidents as a child. At the same time, he felt that people who had been in an accident had a special erotic aura around them."

This only implies that these fetishes are related, but not conclusive of anything. If anyone has any insight into this subject, please don't hesitate to contribute. Is this a true fetish, or something that has been Hollywood-ized into the annals of urban myth? We might never know.

Oh, and totally off topic-

For those who call me instead of emailing me as it says on my website to book a session: Use email. Trust me, you won't be disappointed. When someone calls me when I'm not expecting it I do a little dance to the ringtone. Seriously. It's like a Curtis Mayfield R&B jam with horns. It's really nice. I get down to it's funky beat.