Shopping for Boots

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     I’ve been shopping for Weimar Berlin Boot Girl boots!  I can’t find anything super authentic–fashion has moved on–but I found some lace-up pairs that could work.

     When I run around town I almost always wear flat boots with horseshoe heel plates.  I have to buy the plates online and have them installed by my local cobbler, an elderly orthodox Jewish fellow whose shop is full of shoes and, curiously, house plants.  He is always grouchy, but if you compliment him on his plants, he lights up inside.  He takes pride in his gardening skills.  

     Anyway, I like the horseshoe plates because I read that soldiers wore them on their boots in WWI.  They also produce a nice staccato click when I walk down the street, or on hard floors if I’m wearing the boots in a session.  It sounds martial.  And, being metal, the plates are very effective in saving the heels of my shoes.  

     I’d like my Weimar Boot Girl boots to be flat or kitten-heeled, but they have to be sexy enough to wear in session regularly.  So…heels it must be.

      These are the top contenders!

#1 Sam Edelman Knox boot


     They’re pricy–I seldom pay this much for shoes–but they’ll never go out of style and good domme clothes are always a good investment.  I love the hidden platform.  I’d replace the black buckle with a white one.  

#2  Rocket Dog Savannah


          More classic-looking, and the price is right.  The heels wouldn’t kill me, and I’d had that leather band around the top replaced with white or probably cream-colored leather (pale silver could work, too).  Buuut….might not be sexy enough for the doodz.

#3  Born Estelle

      I already own two pairs of Equestrian boots, but I love them (and so do some clients) and these have laces!  These are kinda expensive too, but they look like quality.  You could get an almost patent-leather shine on these.  And I like to have bright shiny boots!  Replace the buckle with a white one or add a white leather strip at the top–I have long legs and the boot shaft never goes up to my knee anyway–or else replace the tongue under the laces with white leather.

#4  Rocket Dog Beany

    A bit gaudy, but what the hell.  Sadomasochism isn’t subtle.  I kinda like the brass-tone grommits.  I’d replace the top leather belt with a white or cream-colored one.  Cream leather would look best with the brass.  

#5  Seduce Lace Up Ankle Boots

     I like this one, but it looks a bit like a witch boot.  

 Stetson 15″ Ombre Harness Snip Toe Boot

     These boots are not Weimar Boot Girl boots, but I am in love with them and if I had a zillion bucks I would buy them tomorrow.  Oh god!  want want want greeeeeeeed


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This stupid video made me laugh so hard!  My favorite montage was the kitties with the dinosaurs.  The song is terrible, but fitting.  For some reason, it reminds me of the Pet Shop Boys.

     What is your favorite dinosaur?  Everyone has a favorite dinosaur.  My favorite is Triceratops.  SO COOL!  Oh my god!  I wish I could have seen dinosaurs!  They were SO BIG!  I wish we could see them walking down the street!  A dinosaur parade!  Why isn’t science cloning these motherfuckers?  Jurassic Park was like twenty years ago!  Get with the program, science!  I would totally pay to attend a dinosaur reservation park!  

   I also like the Dimetrodon.  Dimetrodon was not a dinosaur, but a pelycosaur, which means that he was a mammal-like reptile!  He lived 280 million years ago.  That is way before my homie Triceratops.  When I hear “280 million years ago” it means almost nothing to me because I can’t really comprehend that much time. It’s too big.  

      Dimetrodon was 11.5 feet long and weighed 550 lbs and he was a carnivore, which means that he would eat humans.  I bet he could kill an elephant or a polar bear.  Can you imagine getting eaten by Dimetrodon?  What a badass! 

look at those teeth!  SO COOL!

Dimetrodon anatomy

      What I think are very underrated, though, are extinct Ice Age creatures…the giant sloth, for instance.  I would like to see an extinct Ice Age mammal parade, too.  Might be hard, though, because they were not domesticated and thus would not obey commands.  

ancient armadillo

         One of my favorite films is a Werner Herzog movie called Cave of Forgotten Dreams.  It’s about a cave in southern France that is full of cave-person art.  The art is 32000 years old, and it is so beautiful.  It is so beautiful that one day when I have a bigger apartment and more room on my walls I am going to put up reproductions of it

      The humans who made this art were obsessed with other animals.  As it should be.  When I look at the art, I get the feeling that the people felt very small in the world.  Not like today.  

      They must have loved them.  Animals possess such great spiritual power.

      One thing that strikes me when I consider ancient art, such as Egyptian art, is that in the human conception, there was no barrier between the physical world and the spiritual world or the afterlife. It was sort of like the world was haunted, all the time.  The concept of time was different.  

Why didn’t I devote my life to studying dinosaurs?  It would be more fun, and the money couldn’t possibly be worse!

My friend saw this post and asked me if I was stoned when I wrote it.  lol.  NO.

Prodomme History: Weimar Republic Edition

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      I love to study the history of sex work, especially professional sadomasochism.  Unfortunately, it’s often difficult to find solid research or journalism that isn’t either sugar-coated romance or moralizing hand-wringing.  Not every ho had a career like Madame de Pompadour or Veronica Franco, but they weren’t all tragic soiled doves desperate for “redemption”, either.   I hate that “fallen woman” bullshit. 

     So, imagine my delight when I found this: a fascinating article about prostitution in Weimar Berlin!  The author, Mel Gordon, is a scholar at UC Berkeley.  

     Best of all, the article contains descriptions of prodommes!  

Arriving in Berlin during the inflation crisis of 1922–1923, Klaus Mann remembered walking past a group of the outdoor dominatrices: “Some of them looked like fierce Amazons, strutting in high boots made of green, glossy leather. One of them brandished a supple cane and leered at me as I passed by. ‘Good evening, Madam,’ I said. She whispered into my ear, ‘Want to be my slave? Costs only six billion and a cigarette. A bargain. Come along, honey!’” Eight years after Mann’s encounter, Curt Moreck reported on the same corner: “One favorite tourist site is located near the corner of Passauer and Ansbacher streets, west of Wittenberg Platz. There, a trio of six-foot-tall Boot Girls are garishly costumed in red and black attire like nineteenth-century horsewomen. Snapping a riding crop, the tallest Amazon bellows menacingly, ‘Who will be my slave tonight?’”

     (lol lol “only six billion!”  God, inflation was so bad.)

     I cannot imagine doing street-based work.  I’d never have the guts.  I don’t know how women did it (or do it), though I suppose necessity would give you courage in a hurry.  That was a really hard time in history, and women were especially vulnerable. 

I wonder what she’s holding in her hand?

      The article lists how the dominas advertised their specialties:


Dominatrices near the Wittenberg Platz whose sexual services were signaled by the colors of their boots, laces, and ribbons, sometimes worn in combination.
—Black boots: buttocks cropping (lying on bed).
—Brown boots: asphyxiation by boot or stockinged foot.
—Cobalt blue boots: forced feminization; penetration by female.
—Lacquered gold boots: bound feminization; physical torture.
—Poisonous green boots: psychological enslavement.
—Brick red boots: buttocks flagellation (tied to bed or cross).
—Scarlet boots: forced feminization; transvestite humiliation.
—Black laces: punishment with a short whip.
—Gold laces: defecation on chest.
—Maroon laces: verbal humiliation.
—White laces: collared like a dog.
—White ribbons on top of boots: a roleplay scenario in which the male customer begins as the dominant figure and ends as the submissive party.

     I should get a pair of boots made for myself…brick red or black boots with black laces and a white ribbon across the top.  That would be fun and would give me an opportunity to squander money at Zappos.  A local cobbler could sew on a white leather strip for the ribbons.  Fun idea!

      Or I could have been a “Race Horse”:

Masochistic prostitutes who worked in “Institutes for Foreign Language Instruction” where the schoolrooms were equipped with bondage equipment.

      Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see photos of those bondage salons!  I bet a lot of the equipment was similar to ours–I mean, how many ways can you reinvent the wheel?  A bondage horse is a bondage horse–but I’d still like to see it.  

      Go read the entire article.  It’s fascinating, and now I’m going to buy this fellow’s books!  

Mistress C sez: Drink Your Juice

      My affection for Mistress C is well known.  My (healthy and completely well-founded) fear of her is also well known.  She is volatile.  And she is a bully. 

       She’s been on a big pressed juice smoothie whatever-the-fuck kick recently.  You know, those $5 potions you can buy from juice bars that have cucumber and wheat grass and valarian root and rhino horn and honeybee powder?  She drinks them all the time.  And they are disgusting.  

     (To be fair, though, she must be doing something right, because her figure is rockin recently.  She’s always had a great body, but she’s lost ten lbs and she’s getting totally cut.)

       So I was asking her what her workout routine is like, because I’m trying to lose another 5 lbs.

        She got a gleam in her eye and I instantly regretting the question. 

         Mistress C ran off and returned fifteen minutes later with one of her disgusting vegetable health food shake concoctions.

        “Here you go, Red!  Drink this!  It’s really good for you.  Drink one of those every day and don’t eat junk and you will definitely lose weight.”

          I cautiously took it from her and sniffed it.  It was green.  Dark, muddy green.  And it smelled foul.

         “What’s in it?” I asked.

         “Don’t worry about that.  Just drink it.”

         “How about if I just eat a salad?”

         “Drink that drink.  It’s good for you!”

         I sipped it.

         I swear to God, I almost threw up.  It was gross.  GROSS. 

          “I don’t think I can drink this, C.  This is really bad.”  I tried to hand it back to her.

          She got a stern look on her face.  “That juice is all fresh and cold-pressed.  It cost $6.”

          I stared at her, beseeching.  

          “Drink your drink!  Just down it and get it over with.  It’s going to be a lot nastier once it warms up.  Drink it while it’s cold.”

          “I really don’t want to.”

           She glared at me, and her voice got cold and hard.  “Drink it.”

         What could I do?  I felt like I was back on the playground in grade school, being picked on by the mean girl!  But what could I do?  I didn’t want her to turn on me!

         I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and started chugging the juice.

          My friends, it was disgusting.  I mean, vile, gorge-inducting, awful.  The only thing remotely normal about it was the faint aftertaste of cucumbers.  And I don’t know about you, but I don’t fucking like to drink cucumbers.

         I couldn’t drink more than half.  I burped and thought it was all going to come up.  I actually went to the sink to see if I would vomit.

        “You better not puke up that juice, Red,” C said.

         Yup.  It was like a session, except that I wasn’t getting paid for it.  Weird.  I don’t think I’ve ever been dominated by a chick before.  

         I returned to the chair.  “Let me let it settle for a minute before I drink the rest.”

         She got a sly smile on her face.  “I’m watching you, Red.”

         I eyed the rest of the juice…half of a huge glass.  My heart sank.

         For the next half hour, she kept looking at me, and then nodding at the juice.  I was trapped.

         Then: delivered!  The receptionist had a guy on the phone to talk to C.  She had a phone session!  YAY!

         She went to get the phone and I hid the juice.  I couldn’t pour it down the sink because someone had just put in their stockings to hand-wash.  

           I hid the juice in the back of the fridge behind some OJ and leftovers.  

         After the phone session, she asked me if I finished the juice, and I lied.  I said that I had.  

         Five days later, I came in to work the day shift.  I’d totally forgotten about the juice. I was getting dressed in back when Mistress C peeked at me around the door of my locker.

        “Hey Redhead,” she said.  Her eyes were twinkling.  She was smiling.

          “What’s up?” I asked.

        “Did you forget something?”

        “Forget what?” I looked at her, honestly clueless.  I had no idea what she was talking about.

         She moved her right hand out from behind the door.  She was holding the awful juice.  The half-drank juice!  Fuck!

         “You forgot to drink your special cold-pressed juice!” she said.

         I groaned.  “C!  No!”


        “I can’t drink it!  It’s old now!  It’s probably rotten!”  I wailed.


       I looked around frantically for someone to protect me.  Nothing doing.  At the Studio, C is my protection. 

        Then she started laughing at me.

        “Ha!  The look on your face!  You nerd!  Relax.  It’s totally spoiled.  I’m not going to make you drink it.  I’m just fucking with you.”

        I exhaled and started to smile.  Whew!  It was just a practical joke!

         “I’ll buy you a fresh one.” 

        Note: she didn’t actually buy me a new one.  Thank God. lol

Reader Mailbag: “How Do You Avoid Getting Seriously Injured?”

“I recently found your blog and I think your story is fascinating, but then I have had a pretty sheltered life. I’m grateful for that! But it doesn’t make for very interesting reading… 

But if & when you can write again I do have a question. How do you avoid getting seriously injured doing what you do? If you’ve already answered this I apologize, I haven’t gone through all your old posts yet.
Finally, I want to say I really admire you for getting sober.”  

                                                                 –Random Internet Stranger

      Howdy, stranger!  I had to edit your comment a little bit.  I hope you don’t mind.  

      Your question is a little vague, so I’m not sure how to answer it.  What do you mean by “doing what (I) do”?   Professional BDSM?  The stuff I like to do in my private sex life (what private sex life these days, ha ha)?

     I only play hard with people who obviously know what they are doing.  I also exercise boundaries throughout the session and reserve the right to terminate any activity that I feel threatens my personal safety.  But honestly, I’ve never physically at risk from consensual violence in a scene.  I am very experienced and very familiar with my body and what acceptable pain feels like to me (versus dangerous pain related to severe injury).  I can tell when, say, a blow is going to result in no mark, superficial bruising, or deep bruising that will last more than a week.  

       At work, the only injuries I really worry about are 1) psychological and 2) sexual.  I’ve never terminated a session because I was worried that I was going to be physically hurt.  I have terminated sessions because the guy violated or tried to violate my sexual boundaries.  Nothing so bad as rape or sexual assault (yet), thank God, but I’ve been molested and sexually harassed.  It blows donkey balls but it comes with the territory, unfortunately. 

      Most clients just aren’t interested in beating the shit out of me, either.  I wish more were, because I’d be making a lot more money! The intensity of the violence commonly requested is very low.  And most of my clients are subs or fetishists.   

      Now that I think of it, the riskiest, most dangerous activity I’ve done professionally are hard bondage sessions.  Shibari, or suspensions, or being tied in stress positions…that shit gets serious in a hurry.  But in my experience, people who know how to do bondage like that typically know exactly what they’re doing, because they’ve studied it.  I communicate with them verbally and there’s always another person in the room.  There is the risk of injury, but I accepted it and so far I’ve been okay.  Buy the ticket, take the ride. 

     In my private life…well, that’s riskier.  The hardest I ever went was with a former partner who was a health care professional.  I felt, perhaps foolishly, that his professional training ameliorated a lot of the personal physical risk.  

     Or do you mean “seriously injured” by a deliberate assault from a client (something non-consensual)…?  

      Two ways: I screen when I do this independently, and I’ve been lucky.  

       But I know that if I stay in this industry, eventually my luck will run out.   As I’ve said on this blog before, virtually every woman I know in the Biz has been assaulted by a client at least once.  Usually it’s fairly minor, like getting punched in the face and having all your money stolen…but a few have been raped or otherwise sent to the hospital.  Sucks.  

      I hope that answers your question!  Thanks for reading.

Tackiest Book Cover Ever

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   Note: this is an old draft I’m posting just to keep the blog updated.  Until I decide what to do, I’m following legal advice and Shutting the Fuck Up About Things.  

                     *                              *                           *    

    This tacky book cover made me laugh.  What was the editor thinking?  “We need to grab the readers’ attention?”  “This book is required reading for High School students, so this sleazy cover art will make them interested?”


     How can you give Victor Hugo this treatment?  The Hunchback of Notre Dame is ART, man!  ART!

     Actually, it is a pretty racy book, and I was stunned when I learned that Disney was making it into a G-rated children’s cartoon.  I had no idea how the writers would be able to edit it in order to make it acceptable “family” entertainment.  The book is full of violence, sexually ambiguous situations, and morally complicated characters.  The politics therein are not exactly conservative, either. 

      I re-read the book yesterday.  I have the 1833 translation, which sort of sucks, but oh well (if you read foreign literature, shop around the amazon reviews to find the best translation.  It makes a huge difference).  It’s very good, if a little…melodramatic, but I remembered why I liked it so much as a teenager, even if some of the complexities went right over my head the first time I read it.

      I remembered Claude Frollo as a deranged homicidal maniac, but now I see he is actually a complex character who is kinda sympathetic.  He is a responsible, sensitive intellectual who lead a very full life until he has his stupid midlife crisis.  He raises his little brother and loves him very much.  His little brother grows up to be a useless, undisciplined (but still sort of charming) drunk.  Frollo loves him anyway and continues to support him and pay his college tuition, and he tried to get him back on the straight and narrow.  Frollo needs Al-Anon.  I wonder if there was a French word for co-dependent in  Victor Hugo’s time.

       Then Frollo saved and reared the hunchbacked Quasimodo as his own son.  He educated him and had hopes of making him into a scholar.  Unfortunately, Quasimodo’s hearing was damaged from ringing the church bells–occupational hazard, and no worker’s comp back then, major bummer–so that put an end to his academic ambitions.

      Those were major personal defeats for Frollo, whose life hitherto seemed to be one big winning streak and triumph over adversity.  Suddenly he’s hitting middle age, and shit’s just not working out.  It’s enough to make a person depressed.

      So, he takes up some new hobbies: alchemy…and, alas, a girl.  He has a breakdown, starts to get very selfish, and his moral rigidity doesn’t let him recognize his own hypocrisy or learn from his mistakes.  He destroys himself.  It’s sad.  Shit went downhill fast with Frollo.

     Esmerelda is a really good person.  She is kind and merciful.  I think she is also a streetwalker, but Hugo couldn’t really say that. 

      She’s the stereotypical Hooker with the Heart of Gold. Unfortunately, she’s kinda dumb and also has awful taste in men, and falls for a handsome but morally hideous womanizing dudebro of a soldier, Phoebus (note: I fucking hate Phoebus and I wish Frollo had managed to kill him).  What sort of a douchebag is Pheobus…?  The sort of douchebag who is so foul-mouthed and illiterate that he can’t let himself speak freely outside of a bar because he knows he will inevitably offend the people around him.  The sort of guy who would hide a male friend in a bedroom closet so that his friend could watch him seduce and shag an unsuspecting girl.  Keep it classy, Phoebus!  BOOOOOOO!

        This awful dudebro manages to marry into the middle class, too.  Joke’s on his bride, but she’s a jerk, too, so all’s well that ends well for those two.

       Good summer reading.  The novel has a lot of absurd plot twists and impossible conveniences that characterize 19th-century literature (Dickens was the worst when he came to impossible conveniences, yikes), but this book is a lot of fun and you can read it in a day. 

Scenes from My Dunkalogue: In the Eye of the Beholder

      I rode the bus to the Upper East Side.  I was wearing my best pink and yellow sundressand black leather sandals.  I was freshly scrubbed, shaved, manicured, blow-dried, and made up.  

      My bag of gear rested on my lap. 

     Right before I left my apartment, I’d eaten half of one of the two “End-of-the-World” emergency valium in my jewelry box, letting it dissolve under my tongue as I watered my birds, put on my shoes, and checked my reflection in the mirror.  

     I got off the bus a few blocks away from his apartment.  It was a perfect day.  A bluebird day.  The air was dry, breezy, just slightly cool.  You could stand in the sun without getting hot.  

     I stopped in a bistro.  People were eating brunch.  Chatting.  Normalcy.  Children.  Affluence.  

      I went to the bar and ordered a glass of champagne.  I wanted scotch, but it was only 11 AM, and I didn’t want to look, you know, like some fucking degenerate.  With a problem

      Three glasses of champagne.  They were small.

      Then I settled up and hit the road.  I had to move fast.  The alcohol on top of the valium served two purposes: it was just enough to anesthetize me while leaving me cogent and functional. 

     And it would significantly impair my short-term memory. 

     But it wouldn’t last long.  Thirty, forty minutes tops.  Then I would be present again, and sensitive, and horribly aware.  

      I had to get there and get it over with.  ASAP. 

     Walking up the stairs to his apartment, my dread was replaced with a sort of soothing, vague detachment.  Everything was going to be just fine.  I stopped being angry at him.  I stopped being angry at myself.  I thought about the bills I was going to pay with the money, and felt relief.  

     Because this was a “Have-to-pay-the-Bills” client.  A last-resort client.  A client only to be seen in times of financial distress.  I couldn’t stand him.  He stressed me out.  

    But business had been slower than molasses.  And it was the end of the month.  And I was floating a check for my tuition.  

     And this man, this Client of Last Resort, sent me an urgent email out of the blue: Can you come over? 

     I pushed the button, announced myself, and he buzzed me in.  He was standing in the doorway as I approached.  Even in my slightly drugged state, I could feel the anticipation coming off of him in waves.  A very eager beaver, this one.  

     “You’re beautiful,” he said when he saw me. 

     Get through it.  Get through it, fast. 

     “Thank you,” I said, smiling.

      As I brushed past him to go inside, he remarked that I smelled crisp and a little minty. 

      He probably thought it was toothpaste or an altoid.  In fact, before I’d left the house, I’d rubbed myself down liberally with a lidocaine gel intended for the relief of minor burns.  I paced in my living room, letting it absorb into the skin before I put on my dress.  The gel had a slight menthol scent.  

      I am a superlative masochist.  Pain and violence are my business.  But I didn’t like him, and I didn’t want his touch. The burn gel would help with that.

      I stood in his living room, faced him, and set the bag at my feet.  I asked him how he would like to begin.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a souvenir wooden baseball bat on his sofa.  Oh, yipee.  

      He was still standing by the door, staring at me.  As if he’d never laid eyes on a woman before. 

      “You’re beautiful,” he repeated. 

                         *                            *                        *


       Later, I recounted the story to my friend Alice, at the Studio.  

      “A baseball bat?  That’s a new one,” she said, and laughed.  “What was the script?  ‘Punish me please, I’m a Red Sox fan?'”

       That cracked me up.  

       “It’s a living,” I said.

       “It’s a dying,” she corrected. 

       I thought that was even funnier. 

Shooting St. Sebastian

      I updated my financial spreadsheets yesterday.  The last two weeks have been sadly slow.  Here’s to hoping that all the tri-State area wackadoodles who are my bread and butter are, even now, driving back into the city.  Kids driving you crazy with their fighting in the back seat?  Mad at wife you’ve been trapped in the same house with all summer?  Your boss’s secretary called and says he needs to see you in his office first thing Tuesday morning?  Call your friendly neighborhood dominatrix.  She will take your mind off of it.  

       Yesterday I had a session with a Swede.  That’s a first for me.  He was pleasant, with a calm, gentle demeanor.  

      He wanted a bondage session.  I’ve been avoiding those since the Mathematician because it makes me remember hurt feelings, but yesterday I decided I was ready to do it again.  I got through it just fine and actually had quite a bit of fun with it.  

      I’m not as quick with the rope as I’d like to be, but I still managed to get him into four different positions over the course of the hour (sanitizing and re-bundling all that rope afterward was a bit of a chore, though).  

      The best part was when I had him tied standing up to a post, with his arms behind him.  It looked pretty awesome.  I was standing across the room admiring my handiwork when inspiration hit.

      “You look like Saint Sebastian!”  I said.


       “Saint Sebastian!  The martyr!  He was killed with arrows.  Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

        I ran out of the room, probably causing the fellow a little distress, and went to the supply closet.  There, I found one of those children’s toy bow-and-arrow sets with suction cup arrows (I have no idea what it’s doing in there, but it’s been around forever):

       I went back to the room with a big grin on my face and proceeded to shoot the arrows at him until all of them finally stuck to his body.  It took a few minutes.  I put his sunglasses back on his head so that I wouldn’t accidentally take his eye out.  That would be fun to explain to the ER doctor.  Blindness by misadventure, or How a Dominatrix Shot Out My Eyeball On My Big Apple Vacation.

      Eventually, I got em all on him.

      “Cool!  Can I take a photo?  Can I take a photo if I put a bag over your head?  This is great!”

      Alas, he wouldn’t let me.

      After the session, I fetched my laptop and looked up images of Saint Sebastian to show him.  I figured maybe he was unfamiliar with Sebastian because the Swedes are protestants.  

      He peered at the screen and laughed: “That’s very funny.  But gruesome, no?”

      “Only if you use real arrows.”

      “Well…I meant the art.”

       Well, I suppose…but it certainly commands one’s attention.  Besides, Catholicism is gruesome.  Lots of masochism in Catholic art.  Lots and lots.  

You, Too, Can Make Money Babysitting Idiot Cokeheads

    Unfortunately, I decided that I had to pull the blog post about Vlad.  It occurred to me when I was almost done with the story (and it really is a good story–too bad I can’t share it) that posting it online would be idiotic.  There are journalists all over Russia who have been, shall we say, reprimanded for writing about Russian “businessmen.”  

     The long and short of it is that Vlad asked me out and Farbissina did him a favor and put me in a position where I had to run an errand for the dungeon with him.  We took his car and ended up in a “private nightclub” in Brighton Beach that looked like it was decorated by Saddam Hussein.   

      I’m going to try to get out of this one by saying that I have a boyfriend, but something tells me that Vlad is not going to be deterred by that excuse.   Something tells me that Vlad is going to say something along the lines of “I don’t care.”  

      I’ll think of something.

      I pulled another night shift and was disappointed because it was a very slow night and I hate being stuck there at 2 AM with the night shift crazies and not having any money to show for it.

       But then…then the bars closed, and our ship came in.

       An independent domme and her client came in at 3:30 AM.  They hired me and three others for an hour, and then extended another hour.

        The session was a shitshow.  I can’t really describe it because we didn’t do much.  We didn’t do much because both of them were out of their minds on cocaine.   When they’re out of their minds on drugs, they are paying you to basically babysit them.

       The dude wasn’t much trouble.  He kept trying to wander around whenever my back was turned, as if he was in his living room or something, so we tied him to a table and that took care of that.  He didn’t care as long as people were talking to him and paying attention.  And giving him more drugs, of course.  I had to cut him off so that he wouldn’t OD.  That would be great, a dead body on the table.  I had one of my friends get some pedialyte from the drug store to keep him hydrated.  

        The woman was the problem.  She was too high.  She was incoherent and couldn’t concentrate on anything for more than 10 seconds.  It was really ugly.  You should have seen her when she thought she lost her drugs.  We were tearing the place apart looking for her stash (I thought for sure that one of the other dommes must have ripped her off) while she flipped out like Whitney Houston.  Then she found it in her handbag, right where she said it was supposed to be, the dumbass.  

        I have no idea why some people love coke.  It’s never appealed to me.  

        They kept extending.  I guess they didn’t want to go home.  Eventually we got every domme in the house in there.  I have no idea how much money the guy spent to be baby-sat by a bunch of women in fetish clothes for four hours.  Thousands of dollars.  But he had it on him in cash, so it was his (bad) decision to make.