We all have our hobbies

On the one hand, I feel like sleeping with the partner at my firm would be fun and easy. On the other hand, that’s a career limiting move, right there.

Why does so much stress have to be attached to fucking? All I want to do is see if I can seduce an older, married man into sex.

The more I meditate on this interest, the more I consider his dominance. His position of power. There’s a tremendously compelling urge to use my sexuality to take the upper hand, to bring him low by exposing my own dominance and influence. There’s the drive to show him what real power can look like, and it’s delicious to let the thought fill me up until it seems like I’m made of aggression and sex and control. How many times have men spoken over me in a meeting or taken my ideas? This would be a form of retribution, in a way…

Ugh. I…. should probably have sex with Special K before I torpedo my entire career. Jesus Christ.


Dating While Domme

When I first left my ex, I assumed that was just *it* for me. Done. Who the hell would want to date a woman with someone else’s kids? On top of that, I’m Jewish in a very NON Jewish country. And American, so it’s not like there’s a load of stability around me. Plus, there’s the BDSM factor; I’m hardly some submissive woman who just wants her man to Take Control™. My dating pool has got to be something like 0.000000000001% of the world population… like, 5 guys, two of whom are half dead in Madagascar, somewhere.

Funny enough, that hasn’t been *exactly* my experience. When Special K started dating Miss Sonata, I began seeing her partner, Ninja. Initially, I was 50/50 on him. I didn’t find him overtly annoying, so that’s already leaps and bounds above most people. Personally, I find that a man in his natural state is an entirely different beast from a man who seeks a sexual and prolonged romantic dynamic with me. A man who once was interested in my thoughts and opinions, can start to establish this bullshit dominance through subtle or overt means. For example, I enjoy fixing things and home repair; most men will find that interesting and want to have a little chat about it. But once they think they’re in Relationship Space, they’re suddenly entitled talk down to me, often without them even realising they’re doing it. One man, mid-conversation, tried to pat me on the hand like I was some child, and he nearly fucking lost the hand, and the arm attached.

I say all this to say, people change, weirdly, when they go from Friends Who Fuck, to Dating™. I think Ninja began to feel like we were Dating, rather than my using him for good sex, a friendly chat, and some more advanced home repair. This was an unfortunate mistake on his part (not just because I own sharp objects and have fantasies about the slow removal of skin off of a willing victim), but because when people let down their guard, you see what they really think of you.

Case in point:


That’s not a client; that’s a man who fancies himself something of a partner to me. Ignoring the simple fact that I have yet to find any man my equal, the simple concept that he thinks he can define what my role or “job” in our dynamic is or could be, is beyond absurd. BDSM aside, I define my roles in how I behave and interact with people. For someone to dictate their expectations of me and how I should act is… repugnant.

But this is it, really. I think most men can’t help but impose their desires on you, because we socialise them to believe that’s ok. Yes, even many submissive men feel entitled to dictate, to some degree, who you are and how you are expected to behave in this dynamic. I had one client, not too long ago, who criticised my outfit during a session… our time ended quickly, thereafter.

So here is Ninja. Guilty of being nothing more than a representative of his particular socio-economic background… our time ended shortly, thereafter.

The Slowest Suicide


“Mom. I know it’s serious.” The nice thing about being an expatriate in a foreign land, is at times how far your family is from you, physically. I can listen to my mother panic, courtesy of Skype, and also look at sneak peaks of Cyber Monday sales.

“It’s ALZHEIMER’S!!!” She’s panicking on the phone, because her identical twin has a quick-progressing form of Alzheimer’s. Admittedly, that’s unspeakable awful, and I’ll never know what it’s like to look at your twin, and watch them slowly decline into a dark pit from which we all know they will never emerge. It… yeah, it sucks, but..

“But mom, if you have it, then you won’t remember soon anyway, so kinda….. why worry??”

Asshole Status: UNLOCKED!!!

I guess for me there’s simply a finite amount of things I can worry about (but don’t tell anyone, or I’ll lose my membership the Jewish New Yorker’s Club). I have my vanilla career, my kink work, my kids and the ex (who will shortly be receiving a court date to pay support!), and honestly, I’m at maximum capacity for shit that can keep me up at night.

“Maybe think about going on something like Xanax?” my friend from New York suggests. I could, but the last time I was on medication like that, I met my ex husband. And somehow, alcoholism just sounds more…. European. Like, I can imagine myself drinking red wine (which is funny, because I’m more of a white wine kinda gal), while smoking (I have asthma; I have no idea where these images come from) in my Parisian apartment (I…. where would I even keep the kids??), while I stare longingly over the Paris skyline. At times, I can TOTALLY see my life in film noir, if only I wasn’t so damn practical.

What DOES keep me up at night, is what I’m going to say to my family when they demand that I return to the US to take care of my mom. I mean, Alzheimer’s or not, eventually we all go tumbling toward an end… but unlike most of my women relatives, I have a proper career, not just a job. They understand the concept, but don’t grok the reality. The don’t realise the benefits of living in a semi-socialist state, as a single mom. And the truth is, my rejection of moving home will in fact be taken as a rejection of the superiority of the American lifestyle and, in truth, of their own choices. I CHOOSE Europe. I choose my career, my children, and I choose to help my family… not at the expense of my own happiness, but in conjunction with.

So, as far as worries are concerned, the Alzheimer’s doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the folks with long memories who may hold grudges.

How To Spot A Time waster, Cont’d

When last we met our heroine, she was establishing a stable of slutty paying submissive men. However, since they don’t just show up at my door (except for the one last night, but that’s a weird and long story), she must advertise on relevant website. And yet, an ad can bring in the bad as well as the good. And so, for your enjoyment, I present the next instalment of How To Spot a Timewaster.  TA DAH, KIDS!!!!:


I’m doing this on my phone, and I can’t seem to make it larger. But let’s start with the obvious: if you write to me, I’m going to check out your profile. That’s your first impression, so it had better be good. If you can’t even be asked to properly write out “I’m,” EVEN WHEN MOST SOCIAL MEDIA SERVICES AND MICROSOFT SUITS PROMPT YOU WITH THE CORRECT SPELLING, THIS WILL NEVER BE A LOVE MATCH.

Also, are you discreet? I can’t tell. Sure, you say it THREE TIMES in what amounts to maybe 6-7 sentences, BUT HOW CAN I, A NICE YOUNG, HETERO MAN be sure?

Answer: I can’t. Because you misspelled that, too. Look, we all play a bit fast and loose with grammar and we all make spelling errors, but you’re taking my time, and I can’t see the forest through the terrifying trees of your mangled English.

I’m just being picky here, but “aswell” is not a word. We could make it one, though. “Anyone who makes Dommehouse THIS angry is a total aswell.”

Yup. That works.

Finally, I know people over use ellipses; I’m guilty of it, myself…

NOBODY PUTS FIVE COMMAS IN A ROW. THAT’S NOT A THING THAT PEOPLE DO. When you can’t be bothered to put any time or effort into your profile or your email (I got a jarring, “hey, hows u”), then why on EARTH would I think you’re someone who can commit to a mature, ongoing, BDSM dynamic?

Verdict: you’re a time waster because you don’t value ANYONE’S time, including your own.

The Interview


“…but you look so…. normal.”

I’ve been working my ass off to get new clients, and make the existing ones into regulars. On top of my full time job, and the little men. And the relationships. So, the old plate is feeling somewhat full. When that happens, I try to do little things to make myself feel good; usually, I take a taxi. It’s not much, but for a little while, I just relax and have a good gab with the driver. Nobody will talk to you the way a good taxi driver will. They’re better than therapists, because they have their own input and experience. It’s lovely.

This taxi driver is picking me up after a client. After THAT client, another one stopped by for a bit of a slap, just as an impromptu sign of submission, and if you’re not into BDSM, I really don’t know how to normalise that last mental image for you, but think of it like someone needing a hug. But with your hand to their face at somewhat excessive speeds……. and maybe three or four times. I….. let’s not get caught up on the details, ok? Right.

So, the conversation started off with the driver asking, “so, you just finishing up from work?” I’ve thrown my big bag o’kit into the back seat and flopped down into the cushion. When they ask, I always debate, “to be honest, or spare their delicate sensitivities?” I was honest.

“I work two jobs. You’re picking me up from my second.”

“Oh? And what’s that?” He’s not really listening; he’s looking at traffic.

“I’m in technology by day, and a Professional Dominatrix by night.” Yeah, you’re listening to me now, aren’tcha?? His head whips around to look at me when we hit a red light.

“You don’t say!! ….but….. you look so normal…”

“What did you think we looked like?”

“I… maybe more leather or something. What’s that shiny stuff?”


“Yeah, more of that.”

“Man, it is HOT AS HELL outside. I’m not into THAT kind of discomfort!!” We both laugh. The fact is, I prefer when people ask. Ask me, because then I can tell you, rather than have you assume something.

“So, do you….?”

“No. I don’t have sex with my clients.”

“And how did you end up in this?” I feel a bit sad when people ask me this. Some folks honestly are curious about your story, but sometimes, even clients want to hear that you were forced into it by some terrible life situation, and that if you had your ‘druthers, you’d rather be, I don’t know, at home, knitting or something. The truth is that I do this to make money and a part of that need stems from Deadbeat Dad, but I authentically love what I do. It’s interesting, and it forces me to grow, as a result. I tell the driver a bit about my story, but focus more on who I am and what I gain from my chosen profession. He’s fascinated in the kind of way that makes you feel flattered and almost like a celebrity.

“Is it always sexual??”

“I had a client who liked Puppy Play, and I don’t consider myself into bestiality, so, no.”

“How much do you charge?”

I tell him.

“JESUS, THAT’S NOT AS BAD AS I THOUGHT!”No, I explain. You might spend that much on a few nights out with the lads.

“You just…. you seem so NORMAL. I can’t get over it. And you’ve got a great sense of humour.”

“But I would have to, wouldn’t I? I mean, look at what I do for a living. If you can’t laugh and enjoy it, your client isn’t the only one who suffers!!”

I love these taxicab confessionals. I don’t get much of a chance to talk about this stuff with a vanilla person and change some perceptions. When it happens, I feel like the Mother Theresa of BDSM… in fact, I bet I could buy that outfit in latex!!

The Violent Client

Every sex worker, whether “full service” or otherwise, has the story of “that time that a client got violent.” It’s why massage therapists hire security, ostensibly it’s why prostitutes have their pimps, and it’s why ProDommes have our spotters. Something happens to human beings when they enter a space in which societal expectations not only don’t exist, but where the client is expected to remove the mask they wear so tightly on a day to day basis.

That “something,” is that sometimes, they lose their fucking minds.

For a massage therapist and a prostitute, the general conclusion is, “you got an asshole client.” And that’s not entirely wrong when it comes to the world of Professional BDSM services, too. A client who acts smart and goes beyond “topping from the bottom,” shifting straight into outright attempts at control and manipulation via physical means, is a client who should expect a fucking beat down. But there’s this intriguing gray area between joyful submission and aggressive anger, and in that area lies the entire psychology of each of us.

I realise that sounds big, but I’ll explain what I mean. Last week, I took a client. This man has come to my door (with my approval), for the honour of being slapped in the face and to kneel, in public, at my feet. He’s what I would call an “alpha sub;” extremely dominant in his work and home life, charismatic, and almost never at a loss for the right words. He would happily announce himself as my “boot meat,” and adores when I heap abuse on him. So here’s Boot Meat, tied to a St. Andrew’s cross. I’m flogging, whipping, and doing a bit of breath play. Intense? Yes. But he was being punished for a particularly egregious offense. At one point, my whip hits him, and  he loses his shit.


He’s tied to the cross, but he’s balled his hands into fists and slammed them against the frame. The wood knocks, but holds. I stop, partly because I’m unsure as to what’s going on, partly because I realise that he’s becoming violent and I need to stay cool, and partly because I realise I’ve made a tremendous mistake…

….I didn’t bring a spotter.

“What the fuck was that??” I ask.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!?!?!” he shouts back at me.

I pause. In the battle between fight or flight, my native state has always been to freeze. He takes a moment and tries to explain what’s going on in his head. I’m torn between fear…. and fascination. I’ve read about this moment so often, and I’m just watching him. He’s struggling for words, he’s reigning himself back in, but in a very real way, what I just saw is a part of him that most people never will. Not the violence; that’s a symptom of it, but the authentic pain and humanity behind his need to submit.

He’s gotten himself back together and as soon as I feel safe, I take him down off the cross. He kneels at my feet, and tries to explain that the pain was intense. So intense, but he was torn between speaking up, and wanting to impress me. He wanted to make me proud, and a part of him just…. broke.

“It’s happened before, but only a few times. I just let loose. I never would hit you, Miss. NEVER. Part of it was just knowing I COULD let loose because I was tied down.” The same bondage that allows people to experience sex acts they feel they shouldn’t enjoy, is the bondage that allowed him to express an emotion that he feels he shouldn’t have. Anger. Rage. The Unpretty inside of us. It shits and farts and it’s selfish. It binds its feet every day to walk in the shoes that society gives us, but in my play space, it flexed for a moment. I found it stunning.

“The question you have to ask yourself, slut, is whether you want it to happen again. Because we can do that.” He’s kneeling at my feet now, his head on my knees as I sit on the couch, talking to him. I notice how soft his hair is, how his breathing has slowed down.

He stills for a moment, “I don’t know. I guess it’s something to think about…”

I think it is. This is the client who teased out a darker side of me with his requests, and I find now that I’m really more in control than ever. And now I wonder, do I have enough control to look at his most naked side, and really stare it down?


Grow Thicker Skin, or GTFO

There are exactly two types of clients:

  1. The type who see you as a person, often deserving of some serious respect
  2. The type who see you as a fetish-delivery system

These second ones are assholes… but they’re also, sadly, a part of the job.

I get a lot of flack for not having a face photo up on either my fetlife account, or on any other online space. I just don’t. I have a personal life, and I don’t need you sending photos of me around. When a potential client sends me a face photo, I NEVER send it anywhere, but then again, I don’t really have a reason to. If I ruined someone’s life, I lose a client, gain an enemy, and add drama…. I fail to see my motivation.

But anyway……

I get a lot of flack. I lose clients for it. Not too long ago, I was speaking with a potential client. Things looked good and we enjoyed chatting. I started pushing for a date and time to have a session.

“Do you have a face photo?”


“Are you SURE?! Just oooooooooooooooooooone???”


Later that day, I checked in with him again. Had he figured out a date when we could meet? His response: “I’m going to work with another Dominatrix in the area. I KNOW she’s hot, and I have her photos.”

When you run the risk of being rejected up to three times in a day, you have to learn to roll with it. To accept that some people want the fantasy more than they want the skills or experience. As a friend of mine said when I told him this, “I feel sorry for him. He wants the looks, but the minute she walks in the room, he’s gotten the only thing he really went there for.” And it’s true.

But also, I need to remind myself that this is not a career for the faint of heart, or the easily spooked. That if you can’t take rejection on a near constant basis, you really need to find another path. Because in ProKink, you either grow a thicker skin, or…


Thanks, Spidey. Love the latex. Mmmmmmmm……

To Be A Jew

With all the crazy bombings and attempted bombings going on in the US right now, there’s not a lot that would make me consider moving back. But each day, I am made passively aware that I am still a stranger in a strange land. When Summer and I first moved in together, I discussed the struggles and wrestling I do with my culture and faith. Do I believe in a deity? I don’t know… I believe in SOMETHING bigger than me. Do I think it matters if I keep kosher or turn on a light on Shabbat? No. If I follow something or do something, it’s because I feel it adds to my personal growth and challenges me as a human. And she has always been supportive of that. Unwavering.

But last night, she and her boyfriend returned back from a weekend away.
“Wow!” He said. “Did you hire cleaners?! You’re never good at keeping things this clean!” He meant it as a joke. A back handed compliment. It fell short.
“What’s this??” He picked up a book about Passover for my sons.
“Ew. I’m not eating this stuff!” I’m trying to write this off as a joke, but he’s pressing my nerve.

“It’s a holiday about understanding slavery and showing compassion for those still in pain.”
“Ha!!! Like the Palestinians?!?!”

I walked out. Whatever your personal belief on the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, THIS IS MY FUCKING HOUSE. I was so angry. I pay the bills and I have never thrown that in anyone’s face, but I felt the need to now. And it’s the next morning, and as my web feed is filled with comments about how the US has sent loads of money to Israel, and responses  about how “maybe Hitler was on to something,” I’m biting my tongue.

Because Summer asked him to apologise. And he did. Fully and without holding back. And so what can be gained from explaining how completely fucking disrespected I feel? Maybe nothing. But for the very first time since I moved to this country, I really saw passive antisemitism. He doesn’t MEAN to disrespect me; he’s just making a joke. And he’s not an asshole… But I kinda feel that way for being so damn angry, right now.

Practice Makes Perverts!! (NSFW!)

Everyone wants a knowledgeable Domme, but not everyone wants to be the guinea pig as she works on her needling skills. So when lovely Miss Sonata showed up with her submissive/boyfriend, Ninja, who nearly threw himself at our feet at the mere thought of two Dommes abusing him for an evening, I happily selected the areas where I need to up my game.

To be honest, BDSM is just like any other interest: it’s super easy to get lazy. Can you swing a flogger? Yup. So……. do you REALLY need to learn much more? I mean… you don’t NEED to, so if you don’t WANT to, you never will. There’s no external motivation; you’re entirely self-directed.

So, without further ado, I present some photos of the abuse suffered at the hands of me, and the delightful Miss Sonata:


That’s called a COCKADILE. It’s two pieces of wood with teeth that bite into the, wait for it, cock. Funny story, it’s best to have the foreskin pulled DOWN, because otherwise, the boy cries.



I WILL F* YOUR COCKHOLE WHILE I DRINK WHITE WINE!!! (NB: we don’t drink and play. Ever. But it sounds like something the cool Dommes would say.)


…..and then we cover it all in hot, purple wax…..



My Saturday night was AWESOME. When you love doing something, “training” is just the best. And yes, I didn’t get to fuck Miss Sonata, but I DID get to feel her up, and that’s almost as much fun as…..

…no. No, it’s not. I really want to have sex with that woman. It’s in my future. I have faith.