Summer is slow for my industry. “Five Things I Hate About Being A Dominatrix In The Summer” really says it all. We’ve thoroughly tested the iced-coffee theory in this heat; maybe tomorrow we’ll lay off playing with my webcam and obtain asparagus out of sheer boredom.

These may be the first photographic evidence of my curly hair:

I do not usually wear lipstick with so much eye makeup, but I had to cover up the bloodblister left from last night’s party. My teeth met my lip during an enthusiastic wrestling match. (I almost won. Doesn’t that sound better than “lost”?)

After Saturday I’ve decided that any party I host will have wrestling. With sweaty, muscular, half-naked men. Sadly, I have no pictures of the pretty boys wrestling each other, for there were many of them.

One in particular caught my fancy; I just barely won the match despite denying him the use of both his hands. I mean, damn. I could not help but think (a la Eileen) of boxes, and packing tape, and shipping him off neatly to someone who might also appreciate brawny men who could be overpowered by force. I bet he’d pop out of the box all flushed and mussed and thirsty, hands still appealingly tied.

It’s okay to think about kidnapping your friends, right?

Here is the more banal evidence of my Saturday night:

You know it was a good night when you can’t sit down on the subway ride to work.

I took these photos at home in the much less flattering light of my bedroom. In my professional opinion, no one should ever choose a webcam to take pictures of their own ass. The poorer the quality of a picture, the raunchier it looks.

A couple weeks ago I had a rare client who loved my ass — I mean really loved it, in the way I can condone, not just for its proximity to more private parts. He got down on the floor and put his face not a foot away. Reverently, he palmed each cheek. He squeezed gently. He lifted them an inch, then let them fall. When he had made his introductions with my buttocks, he began to jiggle them, again gently with his palms, rolling them around as if my ass rippled and danced while I stood in my heels. Kneeling in the presence of all that undulating flesh, he looked like a man experiencing the rapture.

I was charmed. Most people who compliment my ass are complimenting the lack of it. You’re not fat, they tell me. You must work out, they say. Nice and firm. You must be so careful about what you eat.

When I hear those, all I can think of is the first boyfriend who spanked me. “Why does your ass jiggle when I hit it?” he said. “Did it used to do that? I think you’ve put on some weight since I met you.” I left convinced that if I were ever spanked again, my partner would think I was ugly.

Ugh. I’m sorry to lay down edicts, men, but don’t do any of this — ever. You wouldn’t tell her she’s gotten “less ugly”, now would you? So don’t compliment a woman by telling her that she’s lost weight.

I am grateful that I have enough ass to hit, among many other things tonight. For friends; for parties; for play. For cabs that take me home to sweet sleep at 4am. For living in New York fucking City (no, I’m not over it yet).

And for pretty, pretty boys wrestling.

Posted in marks, bruises, pictures, switching, the double standard, pro domination, submission (or the lack thereof), masochism, pain, sex work, nyc, spanking, sex party