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.

“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.”

Hmm… seems familiar, no?

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!

Hmmm…

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.

xoxo.

So am not going to say anything! Ha ha!

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

So there.

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-

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?

xoxo.

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.

xoxo.

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.

xoxo.