Femdom Blog

The older I get, the less I care.

I put that in my Facebook today.  It’s a lie.

I’m going to tell you the most bastardy thing about this job as a Mistress , which is :  It makes me care very deeply about people I shouldn’t care about , because when worst comes to worst , I cannot contact them.

Let me tell you what’s going on right now in my little insignificant world.  Yesterday after a late night session I was doing the laundry as I always do and was carrying this big beige laundry basket back to my condo from the elevator.  I set it down on the kitchen counter rather than taking it straight to my bedroom because it was overflowing with bed sheets rendering it quite heavy on my tiny little she-muscles that I have as biceps.

During the time the clothes were in the wash I had been cleaning the toys we used in the kitchen sink , and to make room for doing that I put the couple of dishes I had used that day on the counter over to the side.  So when I put the laundry basket down I happened to set it down on an unwashed kitchen knife.

Said knife slips off the counter and plummets like an icicle towards the floor and slices right through my ankle making a very long quarter inch deep incision on the way down.

I didn’t immediately see the depth of the incision because there were copious amounts of blood oozing onto the floor.  My first thought was, “wow that’s an excessive amount of blood” like, in a humorous way.  Though I was alone at the time at nearly 2am , I made the connection to the movie Psycho and said aloud, “Mother, oh god Mother … blood.”   Then I followed that thought up with “ya, I might die from that if I don’t take action.”

Before tying a white (now red) t-shirt around the gash like a tourniquet I called Wael to hurry over.  Then I sat.  And sat.  And sat.  All the while thinking that I maybe should go downstairs to the lobby but that the trail of blood I’d leave behind would not only be gross , but I’d have to pay for any stains left behind no doubt.   Thereabouts, while bleeding out sitting on the floor near the door, that mind numbing, shrieking, shrilling pain one gets after such an injury started to manifest in my brain.  This whole introspection of my self began, with how fragile we are as a species that one simple cut can do us in , and fuck me if  I die sitting in a pool of my own blood without ever having found the meaning behind my dream of me on that mountain surrounded by little tiny angels throwing dill pickles at me.



It wasn’t until Wael and I reached the hospital that it hit me like a tidal wave.

There’s a guy who sees me regularly , doesn’t send money or anything corny like that , but over the years we’ve interacted with about 10,000 emails to one another.  It’s been going on like this for over half a decade now, but his health has been deteriorating.  Nonetheless, nary has there been a day where we haven’t sent each other something funny , or I’ve cussed him out for being who I think he could be … a better version of himself.  ‘Til these past two weeks where he disappeared completely after going to the hospital.

Except, he’s married.  As most my “clients”  (re: friends) are.

And thus, there is no way I can phone him, write him, visit him.  Had he died (he hasn’t), there would be no way for me to know.

Thing is, I have over the past decade, silently bid farewell to more than ten friends like that , never really knowing what happened to them but always in the back of my mind having them categorised as “presumed dead.”

Being a mistress, at it’s core, means nothing more than bringing happiness to somebody who’s unsatisfied with something in his life and sees me as a release.  Sometimes, when there’s a connection as oft happens between a man and a woman, the relationship between a man and his mistress evolves into something more, something spiritual.  I dunno, there’s probably a better word than spiritual , but you know what I’m getting at right?  It’s a friendship , but not really a friendship is it?  Like a secret friend.  I’m the greatest thing in some people’s lives , yet a thing they can’t let anybody know about.

wheelchair footThe god awful thing about that is that once you stop seeing me as a mistress who writes this ‘scary’ blog and know the girl behind the curtain , I’m just the frail old wizard from The Wizard of Oz , a vulnerable girl who has genuine concern and care for the people I meet.  After all , you guys are the only people I talk to in my life.  I have no Thai friends, not a single one.  Sometimes I look forward to my 7pm session so much because other than my fitness trainer whom I see every afternoon, that person at 7pm will be the first person I’ve spoken to since the previous day at that time.  There’s really no other reason I go to the gym every single day without fail , I need someone to talk to.

I suppose my greatest curse is that I care too much about the guys I see.  I know that I’m supposed to be like a doctor and be removed emotionally from whom I’m seeing day in and day out, but it’s difficult.

One rule that I follow to a fault comes from Dale Carnegie’s famous book , in which he gives a simple key to life … show genuine interest in the other person.  Following that bit of advice pays off endlessly and is perhaps the single greatest reason I’m so successful, and in the same thought, is the single greatest reason I’m so alone.

Normally, when you give somebody a genuine ear that listens to their life stories it gets paid back in kind , over time.

But while being genuine is crystal clear on my side, it’s quite a bit foggy when it bounces back , and that’s all due to the obscurity of our relationship with one another.

Think of your life as if you have a thousand friends, and then as if you have suddenly woken from a dream, they vanish into smoke leaving you with the stark reality that in fact , you are alone.  That’s me , toda la vida.

Jaa, original Jaa I’m speaking of , had a similar life long friend Matthew whom she emailed every day.  He would take her fishing at this fish farm in Bangkok every time he passed through town and on that pier he’d share his deepest inner most feelings with her a few times a year … and she’d share the same in return.  They never slept with one another over the decade they spent together, never kissed, never loved, but they had a bond which was adorable to see from a distance.

Then suddenly, he was gone.

On her birthday some years ago as he did every year he sent her flowers from the USA and a small Amazon Gift card with the note “go buy yourself something nice, something special, because you are indeed that.  See you soon my mistress.”   That was the last she ever heard from him , and it crushed her.  Secretly, between you and me, I think that’s the reason she retired.  Like I told you before, this job as a mistress can make one feel very alone and we all need somebody to ground us , for her Matthew was that guy.

I felt I almost lost that guy this week, and sitting there in the doctor’s room where they stitched my ankle up I was thinking both of Matthew and of my guy Brad … and of Isaac , and Tom, and Thomas , and James.

Isaac probably passed away, he was over 80, but loved flirting with me, it was so cute.  I loved his love for life.  The rest, I don’t know.  I honestly don’t know.

My dad died like this , maybe this is his way of punishing me for not being there for him.

When I was all alone oversees in school with no friends yet , I’d write to him every day and his emails would make me smile once a day, it was a given.  No matter how alone I felt over there , how lost, I could always count on him to say something that would touch me, the way only he could.  Then, one day in June he just didn’t reply.  The more I’d write him after that day the more it would depress me as the list of no replied to emails would get longer and longer.  I would go back every night and re-read almost all of our conversations from the day I arrived until his last response and one line stood out in my head more than anything else he ever said.  “Whatever you might face over there, you can get through it, no matter how hard, and I’ll always be here waiting for you when you get back.”

Except , you weren’t.

You were the ‘whatever’ , and I pushed through it , I’m still pushing through it.  For you.

I see though that this is my burden to carry on my shoulders until the day I finally pass away too , that nobody will ever be there waiting for me.  So when I write that the older I get , the less I care ; I guess what I really should say is “the older I get , the more it hurts , but I act like I don’t care so it won’t hurt as much.”

But it does.








One Response to The Deepest Cut