Author: g2GdDadDSas

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.

xoxo.

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.

I was thinking this morning about Domme styles and approaches. Some people are really enthusiastic, some are encouraging, some cold and distant, and some soft and gentle. Etcetera.

However, the “drive” or “motivation” behind each style (yes, I’m intentionally using acting terminology) is naturally different as well. I guess I’m trying to say that it’s funny to me when a client doesn’t realize how phony someone is being. Perhaps some people don’t care, and really get off on the theatrics, that is certainly possible.

And have since December. It’s in downtown NYC. I share it with Mistress Alex.

FYI for anyone who wasn’t already aware. We are completely private and well-equipped, save for suspension and other nominal things which we are in the process of procuring.

xoxo.

I was in Purple Passion yesterday to look around and maybe get a new plastic cane. Well, suffice to say, I came away with more than I was originally intending.

So, raise your hand if you are curious to try out my new lexan cane, metal forceps, and sounds kit. I sterilized the kit last night, and am very badly wanting to fuck a cock hole with them!

Also, I’d like to give a shout out to my homey Tim, who sent me three different paddles as a house warming gift for my dungeon. One of them is a nice, light birchwood paddle, and two are lexan. I hope you are preparing your ass for a brutal thrashing, my friend!

xoxo.

Yes, it’s true. New pictures, new text, new ways to contact me.

Please note that the email I will be obsessively checking is now mistressveronicanyc@gmail.com, not mistressveronica13@yahoo.com. Yahoo is for losers. Gmail is the cool email now, so consider yourself told. Ha, just kidding.

The name of the website is still the same, of course: https://www.mistressveronicanyc.com.

So find a lonely computer in a dark room, and get to business. Because I know that’s what you do…

xoxo.

Some of the strangest things happen to me when I go on meandering walks through Brooklyn.

So, I stopped in a smoothie shop around nine o’clock. The clerk was a young kid, couldn’t be older than 19. He’s very friendly (overly so for someone who works in a smoothie shop) and I decide to order a Pina Colada (I love coconut milk, yum). He says, “Oooh pina colaaada! You make with vodka, no?” Being a bartender in a previous life, and not being able to pass up a chance to show my mixology knowledge, I bark back, no that has rum in it. “No vodka in pina colada? Too bad!” Devious smile, as he shakes his head. I sense that he wants to strike up a conversation and promptly walk over to a table where I spy an unopened Village Voice and pretend like I’m reading it. “Sure no vodka?” As he holds up a bottle of cheap-assed bottom shelf swill that has about a quarter of an inch left in it, next to the concoction that is soon to become my refreshing fruit drink. “NO! No vodka! I do not want any, please!” Wanting to jump over the counter and rip it out of his hand (even if I did, it was probably all backwash anyway- ew). Finally realizing that his attempt to endear himself had gone horribly awry, he said, ” Oh, you know I was just kidding, right. I mean, it was a joke.” I say sure, kid, sure, (just give me my unadulterated fresh fruity beverage and let me leave!!) I pay for it, take a sip to make sure there are no roofies in it, and escape with The Voice jauntily tucked under my arm.

I walk a few more blocks until a new burger joint catches my eye, called “Comic Burger”. Oh my god, how brilliant is that to have a fast food shop that caters especially to geeks? Of course it is filled with dork-boys who are on a brief interlude from their World of Warcraft missions. Flipping through the Voice, two high school girls walk in, each texting furiously and sit down behind me. I am reading an article about a movie called Hunger, which I’m dying to see (ha ha! Bad joke) and all of a sudden I hear- smack suck slurp burp smack. Finger sucking sounds. Eating with mouth wide fucking open sounds. Disgusting. Just as that happens, a morbidly obese couple walks in, and the woman starts talking to the waitress, “Ohmigawwwd, I luv ya stowah! Ids sowandaful. I wanna burgah.” More finger licking sounds from behind me. “Git dat ketchup bottle honey. Whair’s a big table, I wanna sit at dah biggest table.” (I bet you do) Lip smack, suck… I don’t know about you, but when someone sucks their fingers constantly when they eat, it’s just gross. I didn’t see them go to the bathroom to wash their hands beforehand either. Appalling. My look to see who was making these deplorable noises turned promptly to disgust then disbelief. The girls just ignored me, ignorantly chomping away at their presumedly juicy sandwiches. I left with a shudder, the fat couple blathering away loudly.

Walking, walking, then all of a sudden I hear, blaow blaow! Okay, it’s not a gun… Blaow blaow blaow! Okay, it’s someone saying that really loudly, there’s a fight but I can’t see it. Walking, walking… All of a sudden, this lady storms out of a convenience store right in front of me, “You niggas, fuck ya’ll niggas, I don’t need yo niggas!” dressed in red spandex with bleach blonde hair. The only response from the store is, blaow! blaow! blaow! And back, niggas, niggas, niggas. With out missing a beat, a kid walks up to her in the middle of her tirade and asks her for a cigarette. She obliges him, then back to niggas this niggas that. The men in the store continue “Blaow-ing” back- a noise presumedly meant to say that she’s not wanted there.

I continued my walk, just thinking, wow, I love this place.

or else other information which might surprise (an answer to a post of the same name on MF):

1. I’m a peeping tom. I look in people’s windows when I walk by.

2. Conversely, I am an exhibitionist and love to get changed in front of open windows, or else shower with a window open.

3. I have passed out on a sidewalk.

4. I have thrown someone down a flight of stairs (believe me, he deserved it, and was unscathed other than his ego).

5. I won the church hula hoop contest when I was 14.

6. All of my teenage crushes have turned out to be gay, therefore making me a fag hag by proxy. (And proud of it!)

7. I’ve fucked underneath the Irish Hunger Memorial Garden.

8. When walking around late at night, I look for open doors to apartment buildings, so I that I can climb onto the rooftop to check out the view.

9. I can hold my liquor better than you.

10. I once jerked my beau off beneath a table while chatting with friends at a restaurant.

11. I’m a certified herbalist.

12. My first foray into the scene was as a sub (gasp!), and was a guinea pig for a couple who collected antique doctor’s equipment.

13. I have licked ass. If you had seen it, you wouldn’t be able to help yourself either.

14. i was banned from the senior prom.

15. I listen to the radio constantly, although I often shut it off in a fit of frustration.

16. I snuck out of the house once to go to the Billy Joel/ Elton John “Flaming Piano’s” concert. I’m not proud of it. My tastes have changed vastly since then.

17. I am bored with MF most of the time.

18. I used to have surreptitious make out sessions on my bed with a neighbor while my parents were at work when I was 13. He was 16.

19. I sold everything I owned when I was 25 to go to Europe.

20. I hate yuppies, but will take their money.

21. I’ve worked for Harvard University.

22. I ardently love Dirty Dancing, and will argue the progressiveness of it’s themes and the subtleties of the dialogue until I’m blue in the face.

23. I think I am a terrific rapper, but that might be because no one else has ever heard me.

24. I own a pink butt plug.

25. I just joined Twitter, but am unsure whether that makes me a douche bag.

FYI- My handle is MstrssVeronica

Flipping through the day’s set of detention slips, I put my feet on my desk, resting for a moment from a full day of disciplinary duties. Today was especially tiring, as I performed a routine locker check that always reveals the depth of depravity that surrounds me. That, coupled with the revelation that two teachers had been caught “talking closely” in a corner of the gymnasium, and a fight had broken out in the hallway.

It is always exasperating to have to discipline one’s peers, but the teachers were quite apologetic in fear of their jobs. As they were both female, I expressed my dismay through the administration of an enthusiastic paddling, in which I implored Satan to be released from their buttocks. I then issued a warning and commanded they acknowledge their shameful act to the vicar, who has more experience in these matters than I.

The female students who had started a fight in the hallway had almost ripped each other’s clothes to pieces in their passionate quarrel. The nurse had to be called, and one of the girl’s skirts was completely ripped off. I ordered them all into my office, regardless of their disheveled state, and made them apologize and shake hands before I gave each of them ten swift strokes with my rattan cane. I then ordered them to leave my presence to ponder the futility of their violence, detention slips in hand. Sniffling and rubbing their rosy red hindquarters, I believe they left with a renewed sense of what it means to be a lady.

Now, finally able to rest, I glance over at my wall of implements and smile. The cane sits jauntily in it’s receptacle, almost begging to be picked up in order exert yet more of it’s influence. I finger it lightly, then grab it and swipe it through the air to hear it whistle. A small giggle escapes my lips. Oh, but there is still more work to be done! I button my blouse up to the top, straighten my skirt, and fix any stray wisps of hair away from my face as I remember that Thomas, a new student, has still to walk through my door. I would politely describe him as “obedience challenged”, as he has only been in my charge for two weeks, but has already been tardy three times, and has fallen asleep during his English class. Recalling these infractions, I swipe the cane three more times. Clearing my throat, I lean on my desk and call him in.

“Good afternoon, Thomas.”

“Hi, Ms. Wolfe.”

“Sit down.” I point with the cane to a small chair, which I keep across from my desk. The height of it makes him look more diminutive than a normal one might. I loom over him, a good four feet, arms folded. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“No, I have no idea.”

“Really? You’ve absolutely no notion of why you would be called down to my office.” I demand, rather than ask.

“No, ma’am.”

“Perhaps you could be induced to remember if I told you that I performed a routine locker check today.”

“No, ma’am, I have no idea how my locker contents could get me in trouble, ma’am.”

“Are you telling me that you are not aware of the contents of your own locker?”

“No, ma’am.”

My patience is wearing thin. He has been given a chance to confess, which he refuses to take. Does he really think he can get away with such insolence? I grab his jaw, perhaps a little harder than he would expect.

“Don’t play games with me, Thomas.”

He squirms, trying to break free of my grip. His eyes flash with fear. I look down at him, raising one eyebrow, and bringing my face closer to his. He is an audacious little thing, and doesn’t seem to know quite what he’s gotten himself into.

“There’s nothing bad in my locker ma’am, if there is, it was put in there by someone else, I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I sense him turning scenarios and lies over in his mind, trying to decide on an alibi. I stare into his eyes. He is my prey. He swallows, and can’t hold my gaze. I know he is lying. I walk behind him, slowly, deliberately. I put both hands on his shoulders, rubbing them softly, and then taking hold of them. I whisper in his ear, “Thomas, don’t dig yourself deeper than you already have.” I make sure that my voice is as soft as my caresses, and that my lips lightly touch the lobe of his ear, almost a kiss.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Wolfe, I honestly don’t know why I’m here.”

He’s made the decision to withold information, and therefore to disrespect me. Obviously, he needs to be introduced to my special “behavioral modification techniques”. I tell him to strip.

“What?” he says.

“You heard me. Do it now.”

“This is highly unorthodox, ma’am.”

I take the herbal contraband out of my desk and hold it in front of his face. “Is that so? Would you rather I call the police? Surely they would not tolerate such substances being brought to school. In fact, I doubt they would have any reservations about recommending you to a juvenile detention center.” His face becomes more serious as he realizes the gravity of his situation. “I see that you recognize the contents. Undress. Now.” It makes me smile to watch him take his clothes off hurriedly, as if they were burning him. He undresses to reveal his deliciously lithe body, sinewy and alive with a faint, glistening glow all over him. His odor wafts toward me, and I walk around him, drinking it in. He stands with his head down.

“When I said undress, everything must come off.” He looks at me pleadingly, as if to say, why? I seize the opportunity to smack his round, toned ass.

“Everything. Off. Now.”

To Be Continued…