I’m in New Orleans and this weekend DomCon is too. I should be excited, but with the things that are really going on in this town right now I am finding little enthusiasm for dressing up and spanking old ass white guys. I am looking forward to seeing some friends I have not seen in a long time, possibly playing with a couple folks, and maybe the mood will strike me to do something wacky. My life is complicated. I’ll be around the Leather by Danny booth most of the time I am at the event. I am available for sessions. Come find me and we can do something smutty. Bring me something to be excited about.
Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category
I am going to be in the Denver / Boulder area this weekend. A little time has opened up. Your best chance of getting an appointment with me is Friday during the day. email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and tell me about yourself.
I ended up living on a farm. An urban farm in New Orleans. I became an accidental farm manager. A month ago I didn’t even know how to pick up a chicken. Now I care for 30 of them every day.
I can see how it might seem unusual for a dominatrix to become a farmer, but it seems like a wonderful healthy thing to do. And now I actually need slaves!
This week more than next week, as in right this instant I need some bitches to build a fence, pick up a bee hive and transport it, help me acquire a goat. I also need smaller more general tasks like fixing a few things on the farm, cleaning, weeding, etc. So if you don’t know how to move a beehive, don’t worry — there is plenty to do.
I need to be clear about this — I am not looking to keep you chained up naked while you are on a farm of pervs. This is an actual working farm with vanilla folks who don’t want to see you rolling in the compost nude. If you have a fantasy where I take you down with a pitchfork, strip you naked, and put you in a little cage — that is nice, you can tell me that, but don’t tell anyone else on the farm as most of the folks around do not need to know.
I am more or less working a huge farming project alone. I need some folks to help get things done. You don’t need to be submissive — if you are interested in working on a farm, come help. If you have farm experience or not, if you are looking for a small farm to help build your dream of becoming an urban farmer, if you just want to learn to grow things — if you want to help, can take direction, and complete a project — contact me. The farm is in a state of transition and I need folks to help. If you are submissive, great! Say so, maybe I will slap you on the buns as you work.
This is a general call for farm hands. Sadly, I have no budget to pay anyone so everything is on a volunteer basis for now. Hopefully that will change soon and if you have been helpful you will be at the top of the list when funding becomes available. If you are seeking my professional services I can offer a partial work trade. If you have farm experience that is wonderful, if you have never been on a farm but would like to learn about sustainable urban agriculture send me an email right away.
The very first thing I need to deal with is the building of a fence. It is not a complicated ordeal — It should take a few hours. I have all the supplies and tools I just need a couple folks to help. I hope to have it erected before Wednesday afternoon.
If you are anywhere near New Orleans stop creeping on my blog and come be part of my strange and ever changing world.
Earlier in the week I was working on some smutty things when my landlord’s goon started pounding on my door. He said the landlord sent him over to ‘kick the door down’ so I offered him some water and tried to negotiate a situation where that didn’t happen. He tried to talk me into opening the door cause the landlord wanted an additional $4000 out of the blue, or he wanted his house back. After considering my options I told the goon I was not going to open up the door since it was his job to kick it in. It seemed like helping him would be cheating. Also I wanted to know how strong my bolts were. With tools and mussel it took him over an hour. When he did get in he started putting my stuff out on the street, then he put it in his truck and drove away. Thankfully they only took stuff from the front part of the house ‘as a warning.’ Since then I have been frantically trying to pack my things and get them to a safer location.
If you find yourself asking ‘what the hell?” let me assure you that landlords in New Orleans are really classy folks who understand the intricacies of the legal process and find it far more effective to take the law into their own hands. Despite the fact that I have a lease that runs through March he decided he wanted to shake me down for a little scratch. It was unethical and rude but it is the sort of thing that happens in the big sleazy. Yes, I could sue him. No, I am not going to. I’m just going to move. Then I’m gonna go talk to my council members down at city hall. This is such a common sort of occurrence that the city council has been looking at ways to curtail slum lords from retaliating agains tenants. This is not California or New York. Tenants have no rights here at all. So I’m moving. Again.
I have been meditating for stability in my life quite a lot recently. So when this happened I assumed it was not random. I expect that some things I need to work on in my life — namely getting grounded and building a permanent home for me to stay more than a few years — I assumed that this goon was only a manifestation of the hard work I have been doing to get my head straightened out and my life stabilized.
I didn’t stop him from kicking the door in. I could have pointed a gun at him and told him to come back with eviction papers and the sheriff, instead I offered him water and made a plan to find a new place to live. I tried to be as peaceful as I could without actually letting him in. I mean he had a specific task — kick the door down. I didn’t want to interfere with his work. I did call my landlord while all this was happening only to be told that they were storming the shack to take it back, that it belonged to them and they wanted it. Or I could pay his extortion rate. I was having none of that.
The house I have been living in has Chinese drywall, cancer of the house. Because of the drywall (which off gasses and corrodes metal) the coper in the electrical system has totally corroded, almost burning the house down several times. The drywall is also responsible for the almost complete lack of plumbing — the bathtub drains immediately under the house, the sinks go past an elbow before they drain under the house too. The drywall situation is so intense that appliances get more or less eaten when they come into the house. Two massive air conditioning units sit on the roof, coils completely rusted out. The shack has not had a stove during the two years I lived in it, and I had the privilege of watching three refrigerators rust out. Three.
In addition to the structural problems that Chinese drywall causes to a house, it also causes health problems. After all the health issues I was having when I was healthy I was ready to overlook a blistery rash I have had since the first week I moved into the house, writing it off as a sun allergy. When it spread to my face recently I wondered if it was cancer or a zit. Having never had acne I just didn’t know. Then I looked at the side effects of living in a house with this drywall. Oh dear.
And as if all that wasn’t enough my sweet little cat has developed respiratory problems. She coughs and gasps like she has asthma. It is very concerning.
About a month ago I started noticing a stinky fart smell when I would come inside. I assumed my house guest had gas but when they departed the house still stunk. It was getting worse. When Chinese drywall off gasses it releases a sulfuric compound that smells like rotten eggs, rotten cabbage — farts. One night it got to be so foul I had to leave and go for a midnight bike ride just to get away from it.
I am staying in New Orleans but I am moving out of the river shack.
I am selling some kinky stuff I have kept in storage.
Giving away most of my furniture.
I am only taking my cat, my manuscript, and my dignity. I am moving to a house with different and less serious problems. I am tired of swamp monsters living under my house. Mosquitos, snakes, opossums, and rats constantly scurrying around the edges of my life. The River Shack was a lovely little place for me to learn to think clearly. It is right on the bank of the Mississippi River. There are hundred year old oak trees in the front yard. The neighbors are delightful family folks who grew up in the houses they currently live in. I have really enjoyed living in this area and would not hesitate to continue living here, if the house was not trying to kill me. My physical and emotional health are demanding that I live somewhere with indoor plumbing. This is not the worst thing that could have happened.
In Person Sessions Again?
Right now, yes. I am available for sessions in New Orleans until I have a few more delightful regular clients. I have been offering yoga, massage, tantra, meditation training, sex and gender transformations and counseling — read that as sexlife coaching.
I am also in the mood for some body worship sessions — if you have ever wanted to worship my big sexy rump, now is your chance.
I think I might offer a foot worship special (this week only) so I can sit down and edit porn while you lust after my super cute yoga feet.
And because I play with my tits all the time — my boobs are lactating! Not a huge amount, just enough to drive you crazy.
You know I love golden showers, if you do too — email me.
My space is set up as a therapist office, massage / yoga / meditation room. I am only interested in sessioning with folks who are looking to develop a higher sense of sexual wellness.
I am in a quiet and very peaceful neighborhood near the bywater. I am currently available for in person sessions between the hours of 5am and 9pm.
I am often taking phone sessions on niteflirt and will continue to do this. If you are planning on visiting New Orleans and want to schedule a session with me, it is best if we get to know one another through phone or cam sessions before you get to town.
I am looking forward to having some sexy fun.
Email me email@example.com — tell me what kind of experience you are seeking. Include a recent photo of your face, a telephone number I can reach you at and any particular details I need to know about your availability.
Life has been kinda nutty in my world. The sweltering southern summer seems to have cooked everyone’s brains. I am having some sort of cathartic purging of belongings. I am getting rid of lots of sexy clothing, shoes, toys, books and all this random stuff my inner hoarder seems to have gathered. I’m selling things that you can sniff and things that you might want to taste too. Call me and I can arrange for a baggie of smelly socks or a used latex dress to show up at your house, covered in my sweat. yum!
In niteflirt land — some wanker called my cam line this morning seemingly only to give me one star and try to knock my rating. This is always frustrating but I am hoping you can help fix this by calling my cam line and giving me five stars. You will be my short-term person savior!
I lowered my cam rate before I started typing this. Hopefully you can afford to call me and tribute me. Maybe you got a raise or won the lottery recently. ohhh goodie! Maybe you can buy my things, cam with me, tribute me, take me shopping for new things, pay my bills, upgrade my equipment, and … pay my overdue library fines. Gawd, that would be super.
Right then, it is Monday morning and I am going through all the sexy things I want to send to you. When I am done with this I am going to move on to the decade of untouched video footage. Any chance you have a dusty old miniDV dock? Lie to me, call me and tell me you have antiquated technology even though your car parks itself.
I am in a silly mood. Call me and I’ll show you what panties I’m wearing. Maybe I will put on costumes and we can play dress up games. As long as you call I won’t spend the whole day alone playing with my tits.
I came to New Orleans to give up on life. I had been physically unwell for a number of years and was pretty sure I was going to die. After every possible medical test I discovered that nothing at all was wrong with me, I am in fact quite healthy, despite the horrible problems I was having with my nervous system.
When I got to New Orleans I largely stopped caring about life and death. I drank and danced and fell in love and pushed the chaos of life to take over. I stopped caring if I was doing anything useful with my life or education. I rode a tidal wave of crazy New Orleans madness. I was in such agonizing physical pain, it had permeated every element of my life, I’m not certain that I didn’t have a death wish.
I let obsession and desire take over my ability to process things. I got strung out on sex, something my life had been largely missing. I gave up on everything. I found my thought process had become overwhelmed by the habits of an angry lust. All I wanted was some dude who I wasn’t even sure I liked. We tried to destroy each other, over and over. We fell into a pattern of mutually abusive nonsense. Then he started meditating.
He started meditating and then I did too. We started meditating together. Then we dropped acid and he had a religious experience. He told me that he almost became a priest ten years ago. He told me that he wanted to stop having sex. My brain went crazy. Sex is my religion. Removing sex from our relationship was possibly the one thing that I was not going to tolerate. I mean what else did we do together? Meditate.
I was super cunty for a few days, then I got high again and tried to see things from his point of view. I saw the love, the light, the god in everything. Drugs and God are an amazing combination! I sobered up and the cynicism kicked back in. A couple days past and I forced a frightening sex ritual into his bedroom. It peaked when he put his thumbs in my third eye and said om. I slipped into a trance and chanted Hare Krishna for three hours. The next morning I had a vision of myself dead. It seemed perfectly natural to see that, so I just made breakfast.
I had not thought of Krishna in 25 years. I spent a little time at one of their temples way back then. Not enough time to convert but enough time to read some of their philosophy and have some delicious food. It was unexpected that Krishna showed up as I was pushing my relationship to the very edge of its limit. I went past that limit. I had a religious encounter that I can not deny. Before this I would have suggested that I was an atheist; denying the validity of the very real seeming experiences I have had with with hindu gods and goddesses over the last 13 years while practicing yoga. This time the veil that separates low level human consciousness and the perception of that reality from a realm where other types of beings who ordinary mortals can not usually see — that veil was lifted.
I guess I thought I could play with sex and energy and power and yoga while submerging myself in education and that it would just be a thing – not a deep thing, not a spiritual thing, not the kind of thing that changes a person. I was wrong.
So now I’m looking at my life through the lenses of religion and passion and yoga. What I have been doing seems largely pointless. I feel like I was really rolling in the squalor of human existence. I am totally unsure of what comes next. I’m trying to be a better person, but I’m not sure how that is working out. I keep getting looped into strange things that point out my poor choices.
Since the chanting trance of Hare Krishna, the obsessive magnetic pull that seems to have held me in that relationship has totally reversed. I’m not repulsed by him but I am totally not drawn to him in the way I have been for years. We meditate, we do yoga, we finally had a chance to actually become friends. I’m trying to be kind to myself when I fuck up, I can’t imagine that lingering catholic guilt is going to be in any way useful as I try to navigate becoming a person who does not act like an asshole just because I can. I keep fucking up. But at least now I care about things a little more. I’m actually trying to act like a nice person. I’m confused about how that translates to every aspect of my life.
I’m finding that I can’t really participate in a number of things in New Orleans. My old behavior patterns frequently make this town impossibly difficult for me to navigate in the new realm of trying to be a decent person. Oh dear. I’m getting over myself. Fuck.
TRAVELING: March 30th and 31st, Boston. (1 April, Philly? Boston? NYC? Providence?) 2 April, Completely Booked. 3 April, NYC.
I know I have a lot of fans who want to see me while I am in the northeast. My trip will be fast and spontaneous. At least this time I’m not going to the airport without notice. I’m happy to say that I will only be able to see clients and fans who book time with me in advance. I will require a deposit to confirm your appointment with me.
I am looking forward to playing with some folks I haven’t seen in a while. Maybe you. If you want to be one of the lucky few who are granted an audience with me the very best way to communicate with me is through niteflirt. Call me, pay me, talk me into putting you on my schedule.
Life has been hectic and confusing. I’m in the mood to be entertained on this trip. Don’t disappoint me. Call now and schedule our sexy time.
I’m looking for something. I’m not sure if I am looking for sex or love, but I’m not looking for them both in the same person. Not today. When I’m horny I want to find a person to roll around with. Someone who is only in town for three months, who has time on their hands, speaks spanish, has no pressing hang-ups, is built like an athletic porn star, is kinky, has nothing on his mind but sex.
And yet I’m looking for more than that. I’m a terribly romantic person. I want to hold hands and have picnics and write poems. I want to skip in the rain, skip work, stay in bed for three weeks snuggling and laughing. I love to be in love.
For a number of years I was quite content to be single, I really like living alone, not having to save hot water for anyone else to bathe in, drinking all the juice, leaving my panties on the floor without someone bitching at me are all highlights of being single. I like having the time to spend hours in the bathtub with a good book and a pot of tea. I enjoy my own company and I cherish my privacy. But lately I am lonely. I’m a little tired of always picnicking alone. I really do like to share my toys, my books, my life with someone. I appreciate being able to come home and fall into someones arms, knowing that they are there for me and that they cherish the fact that I am there for them.
Now I’m sad. In fact I’m kind of depressed. It’s not the kind of depressed that requires medication. It is the kind of depressed that requires wine and girlfriends and inspires writing at 3am in combat boots and a bathrobe. It is the depression that kicks in after a breakup that you didn’t want. And I didn’t want to break up. We broke up because we had to. Because we were going to hurt each other physically. I guess that at some point all of the emotional abuse, the games, the lies, the passive aggressive ways in which we toy with each others hearts stopped being useful and we decided to hit each other.
Maybe it was a feeling of being trapped. Maybe it was a lack of common language. Maybe it was the age difference. Maybe it was the fact that we are both damaged people living in a damaged town full of damaged goods, dented cans, and three legged pets. I’m tired of asking why. It just is what it is.
But I’m sad. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling. I know I will live. I will be fine. But I miss the intimacy, the physical reality of snuggling up next to someone who knows how to hold me. I miss the touch and the kissing and the sex. I miss the hot passionate kinky sex. And I am aware enough to know that I’m not in any shape to date anyone right now. I’m a sad mess. I’m overwhelmed with thoughts about my ex and anyone I date is gonna have to deal with that pathetic baggage. So I need to get past it before I can even hold a decent conversation with anyone. Yet I need to fuck. Pretty badly.
I tried to get laid this week. I went drinking with a couple of boys in their 20s. We ended up at my house and the younger (and more conservative one) said that he had been working in his boots all day. I really wanted to sniff his filthy socks. I told him to take his boots off. He was embarrassed and said that his feet would stink my whole house up. I grabbed him by the sleeves of his shirt and shook him a little demanding that he take off the boots and present me with these olfactory treasures. I love stinky feet. Why was he teasing me?
He was probably too inexperienced to understand that I really do like stinky feet. I explained to him quite matter of factly that taking off his shoes would lead to a smutty night of hot three way sex. He got scared and wanted to go home.
I drunk dialed my ex. We were nice to each other. I imagine he is sad too.
Later in the week I went to meet a potential slave. I think I scared him off with my line of questions that were not intended to unearth a huge red flag, but did. I asked a friend of mine if I am being too picky. Maybe my standards are too high.
I’m not sure if I blogged about the time last year I went on two or three dates with a guy who seemed awesome and then he threw a steel post at my head. The good news is that the potential slave handled himself much better than that guy. He paid the bill and excused himself. My line of questioning did seem to be a bit intimidating thought it was just casual banter. He seemed nice enough. He claimed to have slave training though we never really got to discuss that. His answers to my questions made him seem like his addition to my world would lead to criminal charges being brought against me. Surprisingly, I’m not really looking for that kind of drama. I just want someone who can rub my feet and make breakfast. Maybe my standards are too high.
A couple weeks ago a friend of mine tried to hook me up with a bartender she knows. The bartender seemed kind of quirky. I liked him. He seemed excited about kinky things. I was game. At the next bar my friend started talking to someone else and they both agreed that the bartender was a super person “he just has a little bit of a drug problem,” they tell me. This is New Orleans, everyone has a drug problem. It’s not usually even mentioned. It goes without saying, so the fact that they said something made me curious “what kind of drug problem?” “Oh well ya know, sometimes he, ugh well,” they stammered and tried to dodge my question. “Sometimes he smokes crack” it comes out. Crack — really? Hmmmm, I can’t see a problem with that.
Are you fucking kidding me? I remember a time when I would not consider dating anyone shorter than myself. Now my criteria looks more like this:
No Felons, No Crackheads, No one who throws things (no fits, no steel posts, no punches, nothing).
Do you think my standards are too high?
This is the city that care forgot. The town of misfit toys. Everyone here is damaged goods. I get that. Really I do. I just wanna believe in love and romance in a world where gravity keeps steel posts firmly planted on the ground, where crackheads are not the best opportunity to have a fun filled night on the town, where I might meet someone at a vegan restaurant and not immediately assume that another meeting with him could lead to a rico charge.
Oh love, you evasive temptress. I’ll happily settle for lust, passion, intellectual stimulation. That last one is really just a sarcastic shot in the dark. This town attracts that certain type of distraught intellectual who wanders into a bar alone and stays there for thirty years. By the time I bump into them they usually appear as through they have been smoking crack and hitting themselves in the heard with a steel post.
Recently I developed a new kink. I became excited about giantess fetish. The idea of shrinking men down into tiny little things — making them the size of a doll, or a dildo, or the size of a bug. Shrinking them and then doing things to men that you really can’t do to full size humans — things like inserting them into my vagina like a tampon, or sucking on them like candy.
Sometimes when I am walking along and I feel a little pinch in my sock I imagine that it is a tiny little man trapped in there. I wiggle my toes around and imagine squishing him with the sweat and toe jam that might be in my sock.
Yeah, that’s what I am thinking about when I am on stage at clubs. I think about keeping them as little pets and filling up a little doll house full of tiny men. It’s a funny game.
Sometimes my cat brings lizards into the house and plays with them until they die. When I see her doing that I imagine that she found a little tiny man who tried to escape. That the cat is really battering a tiny man, throwing him in the air, pouncing on him.
I assume I will start to make smutty videos with little dolls soon. Since this is a game of fantasy I can only amuse myself with toys and talking dirty — so I started a new niteflirt line dedicated to giantess fetish. I often put my camera on the floor anyway, giving the viewer a long look up at me, creating the illusion of them being at my feet staring up at my very large and powerful frame.
Are you a tiny little man? Do you secretly want me to shrink you down and keep you as my pet? Call me on niteflirt and I’ll shrink you with my ray guns, my magical giantess arse, or give you a shrinking pill that will make you very small indeed.