Tuesday, November 30, 2010


I really wish I wasn't at home right now writing this, but sometimes I get sucked into this world so deep, I forget to surface, before I remember I'm suppose to breath.

So there it was, open air, modern market place. Maybe a mall. Maybe sub EurAsia.

Shes alone. She's practically skipping across the tiled halls. The women are laughing. The children are smiling. Everyone is shopping.

Then the gun blasts begin. Bullets flying past their faces, destroying cases of glass and finery.

She's moving again, sucked into the store front from which the army of madness is marching forth.

Big men, big guns, even bigger boots. She gauges the value of her life in the current situation and seeks shelter. Peddling her heels as fast as she can, she can't seem to find enough room under the cash register to hide all of herself from the destroyers. Surely he will see her as she can see him running by now and he will look at her feet and without a moments deliberation he will shoot and kill the woman he once knew, who loved him.


YANK! at that moment my head is lifted out of the memory, my face removed from the pillow, as if some angel of mercy is pulling pulling puuuuling me by the hair at the back of my head, back up from the malignant darkness to the surface so I can breath again.

Breath. Breath. Gasppantchoke Breath!

That wasn't a dream. That was a nightmare. Her first. That wasn't a dream. It was a memory. Someone else's. His.

The experience was so real she lies awake in the dark transfixed by her own altered state, listening to her own breathing to reestablish normal boundaries, so grateful to not be there anymore, in that place, in that moment, watching those men do those things, hearing the women's screams.

PTSD like symptoms set in immediately and she knows they will pass quickly like the nightmare, and maybe only last til dawn. It's happened before. Sometimes her body just does that, it mimics the mood around here. It's not the first time shes experienced another's memory but it's by far the worst one so far. "No more!" She cries into the darkness "It's over" Thats what you get little bitch for when you say the pen is mightier than the sword.

In the middle of the nightmare memory morning her lover returns. Her lips struggle to submit and she whimpers "Daddy" just before she crushes herself into his embrace. "There there" he says with a reinforced smile. Pat pat on her head. Smile. Tears begin to fall.

He knows it's not her fault. She was born this way. A seer. A seeker. A mind like an antenna. So he knows that she knows it was real. And so it is. And as the tremors die down and the other's memory of a time and place she never experienced until tonight, slowly slips from her subconscious physiology back to the secret bunker were demons of destruction and death are stored, he begins to stroke, stroke, stroke the soft back of her neck whispering sweet words of love.

She produces a tiny purr, and he slips inside her. For the first time, ever, she doesn't come. She doesn't want to. She's not herself tonight. Another borrowed her soul and tried to subdue her spirit. So tonight, just fucking and fucking being alive is enough.

And with each graduated rhythmic thrust, she resist the urge to recoil and reminds herself of the fact that she still believes what she said was true. And she still believes the pen is mightier than the sword and she still believes. She still believes. She still believes. He comes. Rest.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Rules of Engagement - What NOT to do to score the session of your dreams

I think every Domme has one of these, a rant page, so here is mine. Let’s hope I don’t reveal too much of the submissive’s personal information. I would just hate for him to be exposed for the worthless waste of time he really is.

Now as some of you may know I sure am not in the habit of hating on anyone, in general, except of course in private and in the company of my dearest companions who generally share my opinions.
This matter, however, must be brought to light so that others may learn, other potential submissives and other Dommes who are kind, generous and skilled enough to make their professional services available to those in need.

Confession: I’m most angry at myself, for not seeing this cubby bullshitter for the liar he truly was from the start…ever meet one of those men who always complains about women and then up and pull the same bullshit themselves? Then you stop wondering why there so mistreated and if you’re like me you figure out really quickly that it’s all their fault. No really, when what you bitch about is what you do, you get what you deserve dumbshit.

So his deal is he’s probably secretly ashamed of his desires and so he’s remained single and uses meeting with ProDommes as a way to transfer all his selfagro. He claims not to be submissive, just kinky. I mean all he wants is needles put through his dick and electrodes shoved up his weewee so yaryaryar yeah not submissive at all…freak. Yeah I called him a freak. Not for what he wants, but how he feels about it.

So he promises a 1000 session. Not unusual this time of year. But he needs a special piece of equipment. Something electrical. Well, although I historically do not work on Sundays, it’s his only day available to session so with less than 24 hrs notice I make an exception. I spend my morning off running around town taking to sex shop owners, leveraging my professional relationships and trying to make a deal on behalf of said submissive for the part he claims he needs now.

Well it doesn’t happen. No parts, but said sub claims he wants something regular with a reliable pro who will accurately represent herself and not “rip him off” like all these other ladies who promise something then don’t deliver. So I invite him to meet for brunch and discuss the details.

I drag along my laptop. We spend over 30 minutes online together shopping for equipment and discussing my space, skills, interests and his. Then said sub claims he’s not available at all this month (first I’ve hear that) and that he doesn’t want to buy any equipment (then what exactly did we meet for and why have we been online shopping on my laptop for all this time).

Then he got up and left.

I followed that son of bitch out to his car and said, look here and listen up buddy, what you wanna complain about all those other Dommes doing is exactly what you are doing right now so however people are treating you and whatever your complaints, you are getting exactly what you deserve.

The end.

So for future reference, if you are a potential client of a ProDomme and she shops all over town on her day off for the piece of equipment you need and you claim to want something steady and she ask you to meet to discuss details of the arrangement and you two spend time shopping online and then you get up and leave without making something happen then YOU SUCK MAJOR ASS YOU PIECE OF WANKING SHIT.

And for the record, yeah, I did know the guy. He was not UN known but obviously not know enough, at least not by me. Asshole. And yeah anyone who wants a lead on this puffed up piece of cheap promises, drop me a line. I’ll send you everything I’ve got. The pen is mightier than the sword. Don’t ask for special favors when all you got to offer in return is BOGUS. Especially on Sunday, the day of rest for the Goddess.

I even wanted to give him credit towards the tribute for any equipment we bought and shared.

All I want for Christmas is an Eros Tek.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

All of It - P.S. my blogs will never be perfect

This is me blogging. This is me blogging because I’m a good girl and I’m practicing discipline and I know what it takes for me to be successful and I want to succeed and I believe in leading by example. Yar yar yar. Human example.

Here’s what I think: that I’m barely old enough to remember true desire. A time without cell, phones internet or DVR. We got three channels, that’s right count ‘em three. And one of us three kids had to stand and hold a hand out the wind to adjust the sky high metal antennae if we wanted the last channel to come in clear.
Any image that came to my mind came from either my wild imagination fueled by countless biblical tales, or it came from pictures. Pictures I had to hunt down. Images I had had to earn. If I wanted to see what the Cistine chapel looked like I couldn’t just flip and on switch, throw out a yawn and lean back in my chair and watch it all happen before me on 360 degree virtual tour.

To earn such an image I had to get up, get dressed, walk over to the library, spend minutes, maybe hours, thumbing through the hard copy library file of subject, author and title cards til I found what I wanted. You just had to take your best guess, bug the hell out of the librarian and make sure you always knew where THAT section of the encyclopedias was located.

What you young kids call desire today (there, I said it, you young kids) is really just craving. You also don’t know what dreaming is…the internet and designer drugs have killed that for you too. Instant gratification is your enemy. Pleasure is your alley. Pleasure requires discipline. The older I get the more I approve of military school for minors. Yikeseez!

And it’s funny because all this is exactly how I feel about blogging too…

Why should anyone spend their precious time reading something I might not have given any thought to that took only a moment and a click to globally publish? Because time is precious and reading is a gift from above. Everytime I pick up a book I’m reminded of the magical worlds that I entered repeatidly on the pages when I was young and could spend all my time reading. Someday, I may be rich enough that I can afford to do that again and leave the rest to wage earners and how wonderful would that be?

Instant publishing -that’s good for writers like me who tend to pull it out of their ass all in one big SWOOSH early in the morning (yes writing is very much like taking a big dump) but from the rest of you it results in a lot of mediocrity. There I said it, mediocrity. Like shit. Shit writing. And my inner critic is a seethe. He can’t stand your slop. So much of what is out there, even between the coverbacks at Borders, is often so, er, mindless? How can so many words mean nothing and go no where and not entertain but produce a profit? Oh yikes Lord I’m begging for a renewal of taste and quality. We are treating our minds like were treating everything else – fast food. Ugh.

You people always want to hear from me, well the reason you don’t is because I sit around all day stewing in my mind and thinking about these things. I’m really concerned about Americas youth. I can’t help it. I train for a living. Discipline-good or bad-is my life. And now these young ones come along and want a personal position and they get it because they are not obligated by things like jobs or families just money and school and so I have been realizing a few things as I’ve struggled in the past year or two to do two things at the same time – refine my discipline and attempt to train and discipline the most unruly, immature, selfish, clueless crew of social misfits I have ever dreamt up. Really! Finally one day it came down to this with these kids: YOU DON’T SHARE MY VALUES. But really, how could they? They just weren’t raised the same and now I fear that no one, not even my children, will ever understand or experience the sweet slowness of wandering until you find your elusive dream or the giant satisfaction that comes with finally finding what you always knew was always out there-somewhere. Then you find it!

Yes I am an elitist. Yes I will tell if your stuff stinks. If you ask. And don’t ask unless you want the truth. Yes I’m a critic and a dilettante. My particular expertise lies in secret and always will. On the surface I have only my witness to offer. I have seen and understand much. I have the experience and power to do this because by the Grace of God I am a Goddess, so why should I toil away dedicating my efforts to a single output when instead I could organize legions of crafty, skilled slaves and have them wage creative wars for me all the time fuck fuck fucking your merry little hearts out all along until we’ve created something great?

Or in my case PLAYING the heart out because frankly I’m too conservative to be or handle a slut. There I said it, I’m a conservative and I’m not a fan of the slut lifestyle. Slut is a mindset. I got a big slut-BETWEEN MY EARS. I don’t do orgies. I don’t even like threesome. There I said it I’m bi and I don’t like threesomes. I like it one on one. Mono y mono.

Had a convo with Vassel up at the studio yesterday. These young kids…back to that again…remember the good ole days when a guy could spend weeks waiting to hear back from a Domina and in the meanwhile all he could do was wait? Yeah well I think that is where learning to serve begins. Turns out I don’t really believe anymore that just because these young kids could, that they should SERVE. Not now. Right now they need to be getting educations and getting married just like you did (I’m still working on the marriage part, maybe) so that later down the line they can determine whether or not they need kink badly enough to put it all on the line. PAY YOUR DUES YOU LITTLE BITCHES. Find out what service really means, get your bratty incandescent self out of the way and learn to give until you empty yourself out on to the floor. Sure I could beat you til you do, but where’s the pleasure in that? Anger is not sexy. You should do it because you want to because if you don’t your head may explode followed by your heart. What the fuck kid, who the hell do you think you are?

Yeah that and some other things are exactly what I’ve thought over the past several months and just now can I put any or all of it to paper. More along the lines of my recent ruminations…

Do we have time for one more?

Dominant men. Conscious vs. unconscious. It’s true. I like to play around with dominant men. Who else is going to give me a worthy challenge? And it’s true, you all know what I’m talking about – the difference between one who gets it and one who don’t. Ones who do, they go leather or at least D/s usually. If you’re lucky, all the way they go and with you , whoohoo! But they can still be an asshole. Hopefully they will acknowledge it at least. But dominant men who lead unconscious vanilla lives, they are the penis packing equivalent to the psyco crazy bitch. So men, get your stuff in line because nothing is more disheartening than a puss of a dominant. And it’s a really pussy move not to come out and be conscious.

Went and saw the eye doctor yesterday. She was cute. I’m often made fun of because I wear sunglasses just about everywhere all day long night and day. They are also the classic oversized jackieO style digs so I usually get way noticed. Well as she peered into my eyes with her bright light in the dark little room (did I mention she was Asian, and hot too) she pulled back and said wow, your eyes are light through and through. I said what does that mean. She said It means that not only is the front of your eye light – the part you can see – but so is the back, by the retina. It means you are going to be significantly more light sensitive than your friends with darker eyes, like brown. I smiled knowing I had been right all along to do what I had done. Not to mention that artificial light fucking sucks. And not to mention that apparently, like all my Hebrew lovers already know, I’m Arian through and through. There I said it. Big taboo. Bad girl.

In closing I would like to say Listen up, this is your mother’s milk speaking; I am fond of ritual. One of my rituals is to listen to praise and worship music on the radio on Sunday mornings while I prepare for church services. A few times Ariel from TNG has crashed at my pad on a Saturday night after a party and in the morning when I do my superman twirl and pull out of my back bedroom some clark kent style and hit the door for praise songs and prayers, he always remarks on how incredible it is and calls me “a good little church girl” Someone asked me not to recently why I do what I do on the 7th or the first day of every week, depending on what type of calendar you claim. And I said because every Sunday of my life til the age of 12 this is what I did. I have been trained. This is what preachers’ kids do on Sundays-they get up, get dressed and go to church.

In closing at this moment I would like to say that it is early on a Sunday morning and the early winter sun rays are warming the East and south facing sides of the buildings and I am nestled in the oversize, down filled cushions of this couch and I have determined it is time to open back up again. Because in the four years that I have been recovering from the first round of blows, some of y’all have stepped up and showed me what COULD happen, if I don’t get back in the ring and honey: jaded is NOT sexy frozen is NOT sexy DRY is not sexy. So here goes. Turns out my first bi-queen performance ever (look it up) was to the tune “Dirty” by Christina Aguilera. There’s a fighter. I think I choose that one because I got to wear leathers and carry a motorcycle helmet on stage while hundreds of women screamed my name at Apex nightclub in DC.
I always write the last paragraph first.