This opening leaves me flat because the man really wants it. Also, what’s up with the zebra cock? We’ve got one of our own, and we’ve talked about it on past Podcasts. Those black strips are where the latex has absorbed black ink from other surfaces it has been in touch with like leather. When your cheap $20 latex dildo has gotten that many strips, it’s probably time to buy a new one.

Now, compare that to a similar scene from Boss Bitches #8: Ass Destroyers.

The idea that the woman is imposing her will to make her man submit is, for me, the key to strap-on porn and, without that element, I just find the video unwatchable. The contest of wills featured out pretty vividly in the video we released on Xhamster, and it got many positive reviews. It also got a handful of negative reviews, and I always try to be attentive to it to see if I can find areas where future videos could be improved. Here’s what one detractor wrote:

Filming sucked. Need a new camera.

MIR — Is always great! So enjoyed it.

P — Ahhh…Not so much. Seemed just…I don’t know…out of it. In all honesty — brought the whole scene…DOOOOWN! Made it robotic. Not fun or hot. Being honest

I suppose I was a bit robotic in some scenes, but I think it was this element that caused a number of Xhamster commentaries to say I was being raped- which a lot of people found hot. There comes a point in submission where you just, well, lay back and take it and Mistress Roulette did an excellent job of getting me to that point in that video.

I’m not sure how to be more animated and fun without sacrificing the contest of wills that, for me, if the real heart and soul of these scenes.

I hope you like it.

Diary of a Dominatrix #30: A Farewell to Departed Friends

Because these things are different. And different is quite good!

… it’s not exact, but what can you do?

By the way, this is why I haven’t been on much. Well, one of the many reasons. I’ll fill everyone in later as to the rest.

This is also what apparently happens when editing childrens’ poetry. And BDSM porn. At the same time.

Bitches!

Oh, the hyperactivity can be attributed to the head cold + coffee. One is awesome, the other is not. Guess which!

Asses can be red, and your balls are blue.

I’m outta here; don’t like it? You can stew!

Check out the new HA website. I re-built it in about 2 days using Kompozer by Mozilla. (Because, occasionally, pirated software makes baby Jesus cry. That, and slash fiction of canonically straight characters. And the bullshit that is Twilight, though, if you’d like an explanation, there’s a fantastic one here. (Longer link — just in case your mouse sucks — UNLIKE MINE. Because it’s the new Logitech Anywhere MX, ass-munchers! That’s ‘MX’ for ‘Most Excellent’, I’m pretty sure. What does yours say? Microslop? La-a-a-a-ame! I bet your monitor even says ‘Etch-a-Sketch’ on the side. And not in that brilliant Kindle kind of way, either.)

Oh, and apologies if you’re using a Mac. I’m getting there, okay? Jeeeeez.

Now. There’s your update. You bitches happy now? Good. Because I live to make you happy.

Just kidding. You guys are wonderful. I’ve just been one busy bitch. Busier than Don Everest, AKA ‘The Matador’. And that was one busy motherfucker near the end of Season One.  (And for those who did not watch Tilt, and are more than mildly confused, this is what Mr Everest’s To-Do-List would’ve looked like that day: Breakfast, Liquidate Assets, Play in First Day of WSOP, Go to Tahoe, Whack Guy, Very Late Dinner, Sleep(?), Play in Second Day of WSOP. … Yeeeahh. My thoughts exactly.)

CHECK OUT THE WEBSITE. NOW. Soon it’ll be moved to huntingalice.com, too. And won’t that be wonderful? (The answer is, ‘Yes’, in case you were confused.)

More … when I feel like it? Get around to it? Something like that. Also, yes, we’ll be Podcasting again soon. When? SOON. Deal until then.

Mm. Coffee. Head cold. Blegh.

<3

But every now and again, something comes along that magically incorporates everything. Ladies and gents, Laura Branigan’s 1984 ‘banned-in-Boston’ music video, ‘Self Control’.

Okay, yeah, so, I know what you’re thinking: is that the Phantom of the Opera? Why is he here? And, OH, MY GOD, DID HE JUST … ?

Yes. Yes, he did. (And for you lazy asses who have NO idea what’s going on there, WATCH THE FRICKIN’ VIDEO.)

For those curious, this video actually predates the ALW ‘Phantom of the Opera’ Broadway musical by two years. And, oh, my God, the D/s overtones in this — hell, forget overtones — the D/s in this thing …

I now officially blame this video for my being what I call a submissive fetishist. The fact I used to theatrically perform this song all over the house in which I was born shortly after it started coming on the radio does have me scratching my head, and yet, I did. Practically obsessed with the damned thing. So much so that my mother had to remind me that the dining room table was not a stage. (I was a spirited child.)

But for those of you who’ve seen the video, now we can discuss it. I don’t exactly know what the hell is going on in it, to be honest, but my best whack at understanding yields this: the narrator (played by Branigan), is basically this woman who’s very at home with a dark atmosphere; hence the, ‘living among the creatures of the night’. (Why she ‘[hasn't] got the will to try and fight’, we’ll come to later.) She’s not a damsel in distress, or even remotely girly-girl. She’s a strong-willed woman, who becomes fascinated by this strange Phantom-like guy lurking in the shadows around her and her friends, in their night-life, darker world of dancing and a degree of debauchery. He shows up, and she resists him at first until … 4:00 into the song. (I swear, this image is going to be nightmare fuel for awhile.)

Gah. Just … gah.

So, we can hardly blame Branigan’s ‘OH,MYGOD-WHATTHEFUCK?’ look, when he suddenly grabs her hair and shoves her down onto the couch.

You heard me. (Uhh, read me. Whatever.)

… and from there … yeah. Our Christine-like-figure becomes the self-aware, assured, shadow-integrated narrator we meet at the beginning. (Kind of. Time’s doing some funky things in this video. There’s some definite continuity quibbles.)

(And don’t ask what the heap of blue-faced dead-looking people are doing in the corner watching her, erm, ‘transformation’. I don’t know. Or why they appear to be dead, or just … blue.)

And, as we pan back off the dead-blue-people, we get Branigan in a slightly compromised, (but very relaxed) sprawl upon the floor (but in her robe, tied) as red-handed (is that supposed to be metaphoric for something?) Phantom dude, (fully clothed mind; even in shoes — and masque), walks toward the window and, just before he makes to spread the curtains … disappears. Yup. Poof.

Branigan is left with this sort of dazed look as daylight starts filling the room, before doing this strange almost resigned, and yet … undeniably sensual, sort of move where she picks herself up off of the floor and wanders off to turn off a lamp.

But then we cut to her in bed with him next to her — masque and all. And we end on a doll. That … appears to be winking at us. Kinda.

… The fuck?

Who knows what‘s going on in this video. Except that the imagery makes it very clear.

And, yeah. I used to think that only Mister P was severely altered by something from pop culture at a young age. The oldest I could’ve been when I became obsessed with this song was six.

First fucking grade.

At least this helps a lot of the weirder, fucked-up things about my personality make some sense. Especially certain themes in my writing.

Dear God.

Your thoughts? I know you have to have some. How did this song and video affect you? Did it?

P.S. For shits-and-giggles, the whole reason for this post — and revelation — is the fact that Branigan was the ‘featured artist’ on the karaoke website I frequent, and I chose to do ‘Self Control’. Off-the-cuff, no rehearsing, just for the fun of it.

I’m hardly masochistic; in fact, I hate pain. Really. Not a fan. Emotionally, physically, a combination of both …. I’m not even that big into catharsis except with very special reason. And even then, it’s tightly controlled. I don’t run from pain, per se — I’m done with that phase of my life. I confront, I deal, I regroup, and I get back out there. If there’s something I’m supposed to feel in order to move through something into the next phase of my life, I do it.

That’s why I’m not quite sure how I’m feeling right now.

Allow me to explain.

This morning, going about my usual routine, responding to my Facebook messages, I saw that stupid little, ‘Hey! This guy’s friends with one of your friends! Maybe you should friend him, too!’ box in the corner. Normally, I don’t give a shit. But when it’s my abusive ex-I-hesitate-to-call-a-boyfriend — I do.

And … I did the wrong thing.

I clicked it.

Oh, fuck, no, I’m not requesting the asshole’s ‘friendship’ in any form. I was just … curious. It said there were several photos that had been added in the last few years or so; whenever the hell it was I was last faced with his terrorist-looking-mug. (Really. He looks either like a terrorist or a serial killer in his older profile photo. It’s disturbing. Dunno why he picked that one. Though, it may be the most truthful representation of what’s inside — which, I feel, is pure narcissist.) An-yw-a-a-ay ….

I poked through, and saw … a look which was at one point familiar to me. An expression that was loving and tendre, gazing to the side of … some chick. And … I underwent some (very briefly expended) detective work. (I think there’s a 10 minute cap before you can consider yourself ‘cyber-stalking’ — though, considering he fucking actually cyber-stalked me, to the point where I had to get a damned restraining order — yeah. I’m good.) It revealed that she is, in fact, his girlfriend. They both — in fact — appear quite happy, and he is, in fact, becoming an employed professional.

And all of the sudden, I find myself doing something I never do.

I want to fucking cry.

A single word beats against my brain: Why.

Why, why, why, why?

Why, when I fucking gave all I had to give — which wasn’t much, and I still gave it — when I was at the absolute lowest point of my life, when I had been so successfully beaten down, broken, and embittred to the point of just not giving a shit, allowing myself to become another cog in the machine — a retail drone — foregoing ever realising any of my dreams, and resigning myself to — not failure, but mediocrity — when I was the only one putting any fucking bread on the table, going out and busting my ass to ensure that the Goddamned lights stayed on — the main point of contact when anything went wrong –

WHY … was it that all he could do was fucking hate me?

WHY?

A person can drive themselves mad with this question in no time. So, naturally, I quit asking it. Years ago. Occam and I sat down, cut through the bullshit, and decided upon the most likely cause:

He’s just an asshole. He’ll probably be alone for the rest of his life (poor guy) and I was the one speck of happiness in that dismal, failure of an existence — which is why he hated me even more so once I finally fucking left, (four and a half years too late) that he completely shot to hell.

I felt … pity. And, I moved on.

I decided that, while it takes two to tango, there really wasn’t much I could have done in that situation that I hadn’t already. I gave what I had to give. I stuck with him. I kept plodding on, plowing through. Day after fucking day, fight after Goddamned fight, I remained faithful, strong, and capable. I carried him to the point where I thought I would break — and for what?

Because nobody ever had.

Mister P and I have a sickness. We like to help heal the wounded birds — help the poor lost souls out there find their way — if at all possible — because we know what it’s like to be lost. We remember how it feels to hit rock bottom, and wonder how the fuck we’re ever going to get back up.

And, yet, we have. And we keep doing so. We’re survivors. It’s what we do.

So, when I met this charismatic fellow with a brilliant smile, I thought — wow. There’s a lot of pain in those eyes, even though he tries to hide it with an almost blinding smile. And, foolish me, the fixer in me just had to get to work. And, work it was. And work, I did.

I can’t give up — it’s a problem I have. One of my failings as a submissive. I’m going to scream at and curse you before I’ll cry — no matter how much it fucking hurts. I won’t let you win.

Yeah. That‘s not love. It’s not a relationship. It’s not anything — except an endurance test. Quizzically, I ended up with some of my absolute best writing during those four, almost five, lonely years. My mid-twenties. I existed working and writing. I’d go to work, do my time wherever it was from which I was currently drawing a steady paycheck, punch out, go home and write. I’d write like a fiend. I’d type until my fingertips were calloused, and I was approaching early-stage carpal tunnel, and my doctor told me it was either publishing or get out of clerical quickly. I ditched clerical and became a host for a restaurant. And I’m still the best fucking host they’ve — possibly ever — had. Because when I do something, I do it one-fucking-hundred-and-ten-per-cent. Or … I don’t do it at all. Another failing of mine. There’s a lot I’ve done. Sadly, I know it could be more.

But, I digress.

You’ll hear Mister P go on about the ‘Pizza Delivery Guy’, or, use pizzas as a form of measurement. ‘ … all I’m saying,’ he begins, ‘Is that’s gotta be a LOT of pizzas.’ (Regarding whatever winnings he’s brought home, or so forth.) And yeah, that’s why. Because when I knew him — almost solidly — he was a fucking pizza delivery driver. We he capable of more? Fuck, yes. Would he do it? Even Goddamned try? … No.

Until I left.

His whole fucking world seemed to open up for him when I left. Kana and the fucking crows. (That confuses you? Google it, slacker. And then watch the series. It’s breathtakingly beautiful.) I left, and he actually started fucking living. Went back to school, graduated, and apparently, found another very capable, strong … short … auburn, (though, chunkier, to be frank — not that it matters, though he’s — fuck. A good wind could knock him down) … young woman, and … make her his girlfriend.

And … love her.

You can tell that he loves her.

So, that leaves me with another resounding question I cannot answer, and I probably shouldn’t even try.

… why couldn’t he love me?

What was so … wrong with showing me love? Why did he have to hate, tear down, manipulate, ruin and destroy me?

And, yeah. If I think about it too much, it makes me want to fucking cry.

Sigh. So, I don’t. I go back to writing … and, living. Because I’m happy now — despite the past. I am loved, and I love in return. Again. And regardless of why he couldn’t love me doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t affect me anymore. As Mister P says, ‘Who gives a shit?’ Of course, to an abuse survivor, when we find that our abuser truly loves, is treating properly, and altogether being a good person to someone else, we’re left wondering. Did they learn? What taught them?

We try not to resort to the obvious darker question.

‘What was wrong with me?’

I don’t think anything’s wrong with me besides what I know, have accepted, and am working through. That’s all I can do. I have my goals, and I’m slowly achieving them. We’re all a bit cracked for sure, but if we were perfect — we wouldn’t be here. We’d all be pretty boring, too.

I’m glad he’s found love. I’m glad he can love someone. But it really gets under my skin when I remember the note he left me, with the one single red rose I’d ever received in the entirety of our relationship. (I’d gone with my best friend to move out of what had been our apartment — that I’d chosen, up-kept, etc., ad nauseum, infinitum.

‘I hope you find someone whom you’re willing to love.’

… Willing to love? Had he been there, I would’ve shown him how willing I was to shove it up his fucking ass. Willing to love.

Yeah. Who was unwilling? Who didn’t try?

Useless now. Wasted energy.

… and I refuse to waste anymore of it. On this.

Diary of a Dominatrix #29: Mistress Roulette, Cuckoldress?

In the light of all-things-Alice trending again with strange remakes, reworkings, and wonderful new material being published about the actual historical figures, it seems important to set something straight.

First, the obvious. (Albeit, maybe controversial.)

Dodgson was not a paedophile. Alice Liddell was not innocent.

Oh, and if you’d like to argue that point? Have a look at one of the most famous photographs ever taken by Dodgson – ‘The Beggar Maid’ from 1858, featuring, of course, Liddell.

Go on.

Yeah. Look at those eyes. I rest my case.

Holy eyes, Batman! How would you feel if you were a repressed Victorian gentleman on the other end of that?

Why Miss Liddell was quite the strange charmer of men at such a young age, nobody truly knows, and she, of course, never dared to say. (After all, it’s horribly un-lady-like to discuss one’s personal business in mixed company — or, let’s face it, at all.) All we know is that, given the evidence that’s been left behind, certain testimonials and memoirs — she was. And, unluckily perhaps for Dodgson, with whom she shared a close and somewhat precarious friendship for most of her youth, he got the brunt of it.

Was it playful? Her mother, Lorina Liddell, the wife of the Dean certainly knew how to wrap men around her finger. The newer (last 5-10 years) biographical material argues that a lot of the personality for the famed Queen of Hearts came from none other than the domineering Lorina, given the power and control she had over all of Oxford. If you wanted to be somebody, then she had ultimate say over it. (Yikes.)

Being from a domineering mother myself, I understand how a little girl can watch her prime feminine role-model’s behaviour with men and draw all sorts of conclusions. And if they practically bow to, defer, and treat her as if she holds their life in her hands … well … it sends a hell of a message.

So, on that front, can we really be that surprised when a fumbly, well-meaning Oxford don shows a great deal of interest in photographing and spinning tales of incredible imagination and wit with an insatiable (and very precocious young mind) that, given her background, she’d pull immediately from how she thought women were supposed to engage men, despite her years?

Dear God.

It was a Victorian recipe for ultimate disaster — and I can only hope I capture (at least) the spirit of it in my novels. (I think I do.)

So, as a result, we have lots of pages ripped from diaries, the rest of those journals burned, misunderstandings, gossip, and eventual estrangement.

Sigh.

I’m not even sure the little Alice had any idea — at first. She simply thought this was male-female interpersonal dynamics worked, and it must have been great fun to evaluate the power she no doubt held over Dodgson. He was seeking a free-spirited and adventurous cerebral playmate. One who wouldn’t be hung-up on all of the tropes and trappings of the Victorian era; who chose against operating by it. Which is why her nice dresses were always splattered with mud, her hair constantly tangling, and her eyes positively full of mischief. (Again. Look at the challenge in those eyes! Goddamn!)

As a result, I’ve always felt a kinship with her. The real Alice. As, I have to admit, it reminds me a lot of how I operated as a youth. Watching my mother, I had a very sure sense of this is how stuff worked, and … I suppose given the numbers, I encountered enough submissive boys to have it somehow proven right.

I had ‘boyfriends’ for every day of the week. I wish I was kidding. They each knew when it was or wasn’t their day, and politely backed off in those times. They were also all very aware of each other — and as a result, some of them got into a few fights on the playground, while others were great friends. I hadn’t realised at the time what a disservice I was doing to my girl-friends at the time. What elementary schoolgirl does? (Oh, did I forget that part? I was … let’s see. 8? Maybe ’til round-about 11? Something like that.)

Of course, I had no designs on anyone. They were perfectly free to court any of the other girls in our classes, and, of course, some did. And we’d all play tag and steal kisses on the cheek and run away. Even some of the girls — which, at that point, is a pretty natural exploration of sexuality. They’re your sisters, and they might later become your lovers, and they might not. We’re all figuring it out at that point. For me, I ended up playing for the opposite team, but I never faulted any of my sisters that chose otherwise. Hell, I respect and support them for it. (But that’s another story. Speaking of other stories — ask me about the monogamy versus polyamoury ‘experiment’ I unwittingly held that year. That’s a trip in and of itself.)

Ah, digressions.

I know why I’m not innocent, and haven’t been since the age of seven. As for Liddell … who can say? It may simply be modelling. Some of mine may also be due to the very same.

Either way, thanks for letting me soapbox there. Since so much new information is coming out about Dodgson’s life and sexuality, (namely, that he actually had a drive of which to speak, and it vacillated between periods of long celibacy and bursts of passionate interlude) I felt it important to fill in some blanks there, as a result of my own extensive research over the last decade or more.

We’re quick to paint someone a paedophile if there was any sort of involvement with children. We don’t even examine the interaction or relationship. And, I realise, being as insistent about this as I am, being a survivor myself of childhood sexual abuse, it’s a bit contradictory. But you might say it’s also kept me from becoming dogmatic and exclusionary.

My personal understanding and definition of abuse involving a minor is when a child is lured into sexual situations of which they have no understanding or ability to evaluate. Their privileged trust is used against them by the one seeking to satisfy their illness, or, simply encounter a sexual relationship without having to go through the necessary work to achieve one with a consenting adult. And that is something for which I have equal if not greater passionate detestation which knows no bounds.

Anyway.

It’s seemed pretty important for me to bring some necessary clarity to this subject which is often confused, clouded, and as misunderstood as it was accused back when it was first happening. Give the ghosts some peace, for chrissake. Sometimes, it feels like that’s what I’m trying to do, in a way. Set the record straight, and let their story conclude with the same sort of truth that only they ever knew.

So. Thanks for listening.

This one is of particular significance to me, as it’s very much -about- me. As some know, (and perhaps, some don’t) I was diagnosed with Asperger’s as a child — around 8 or 9. It has made certain things of my life interesting. I can’t say it was ever truly severe, though, my mother worked with me extremely diligently to see that I was able to overcome most of its drawbacks and social shortcomings.

The one part of me that’s always baffled me is the portion which I’ve only been able to call, (most humourously) Vulcan. (And, maybe some Jedi for good measure — naturally, without the awesome accoutréments.)

So, without further explanation — a scene from a restaurant. Specifically, my last all-employee meeting in a restaurant at which I worked prior to my relocating to LA.

–