Farewell To My Local Bootslave

I recently learned that a beloved local client of mine is now deceased. Bill was one of the rare clients who I saw regularly for a period of twenty years.

I feel compelled to write a Proper Kink Obituary for folks like him, since no one else will. It’s also cathartic for me to be able to chronicle his background and memories. It doesn’t matter if no one else reads this. It’s the point of committing his legacy to some sort of digital memory.

Bill (yes that was his real name because it doesn’t matter now), started to see me right around the time that I opened my studio in 2002. He was into heavy corporal discipline and boot worship, which was and is a dream session for me. We quickly changed our times together to something more interesting: Bill was a larger man and he thought it would be a good idea to have me help in his weight loss journey. He embarked on that, with a good modicum of success. Then he stopped seeing me for a period of time.

When he reemerged, the news was very sad. His wife had committed suicide after learning that her cancer had returned for the third time. Her cause of death wasn’t technically listed as suicide, but after Bill shared with me some details, it became apparent that she overdosed on her pain medication. He understood why she made that choice, but he still missed her terribly.

Our sessions transitioned from meeting at the studio, to having dinner in San Francisco and then retiring to his hotel room for a few hours. I rarely do outcalls, but we had an established relationship. Bill was also experiencing mobility issues at this point in his life. Frankly it was easier for us to be able to go somewhere with less stairs and more elevators.

I enjoyed the conversations we used to have over a nice meal. He had difficulties with his daughter, but he loved his grandchildren immensely. When a great grandchild came along, he was elated. He loved hearing about my kinky life and whatever I had going on at the time.

Starting around 2017, I began to notice him forgetting details we had shared repeatedly over the years. When I would chastise him for not remembering these important facts, he would chalk it up to only looking at me and not really listening. I thought that was fair enough. Others have told me how they sometimes stop hearing my words and just get lost in what they are thinking about me at the time. I began to worry when his personal hygiene seemed to start slacking. His clothing was also no longer clean all the time. I chalked this up to him being a lonely, older man who lived alone.

Then during one of the last times we met up in 2019, he forgot where the hotel was located. This was sort of a big deal since he grew up in San Francisco. He knew the city by heart. He eventually arrived, but the phone call to get him back on track was painful. I feared for the worst at that point. Then COVID happened, and everyone went radio silent.

Bill did not use email after 2010. The only way I could reach him was via his mobile number. This number would change from time to time. He called me in 2021 and I was happy to hear that he was alive. We promised to get together when things were better.

Then in September of 2022, he reached out. I was so happy to hear from him! He discussed how he really wanted to see me. I agreed and we said that we would do so after I returned from Detroit. He mentioned that he had moved. When I asked him what city he was in now, there was a pause. “I don’t know.” I pressed him a bit further, and he simply couldn’t ascertain exactly where he was. It was then that I knew my worst fears had come true.

Unfortunately, his number had changed when I tried to contact him again. Earlier this year I set out trying to find out if something bad had happened. I eventually tracked him down to a memory care facility in the South Bay. I wrote him a letter and mailed it to the location. It was returned at the end of June, unopened. DECEASED was written across the front of the envelope.

I’ll miss Bill’s exuberance the most. He hated the part of him that was kinky, but he made sure to indulge it when possible. We would agree that he could smart off during our sessions, but that he would pay for talking back. He used to love to crawl across the floor on his belly, begging to PLEASE kiss my boots! I, of course, would deny him repeatedly. The maddened look on his face was priceless. He had a terrible comb over and it would become impossibly disarrayed every time he would get flustered. He used to cry out, “WHEN IS THIS URGE GOING TO END?” and I would tell him, “NEVER.” That was at 74.

Bill was 80 years old when he died. He loved Broadway plays, and New York the most. Boots were his jam. He was kind to a fault. He didn’t seem to have the level of dishonesty that embodies many of the clients I have interacted with over the past ten years. He never disappointed me. I’d like to believe that he and mucous are chuckling away somewhere in the afterlife, regaling the tales of their kinky time with The Vinyl Queen.

A Tribute To The NYC Rubber Studio

It was with great sadness and a heavy heart that I learned of the imminent closure of a New York BDSM institution. I had hoped that the studio could make it through the pandemic. It can not.

I remember when I first learned of Mistress Ariana’s space. I had been utilizing Sterling LaVey’s location in Chelsea for a few years during my annual visits. When she announced the closure of her studio, I inquired about other options in Manhattan. It was a tenuous time in New York City as a legal crackdown had closed a number of large Houses of Domination. Madame LaVey informed me that Mistress Ariana would NOT rent to me because she didn’t know me. I took her work as the truth and never reached out. It was an early lesson in don’t believe everything you hear…

I soon stopped traveling to New York as the economic downturn of 2008 made all but my international trips feasible. As time went on, I began to face my own economic situation in San Francisco. The new Tech Economy was driving commercial rents up higher and higher. I didn’t want to think of closing my studio, but I knew it might become a reality sooner rather than later. In anticipation of a Plan B, I started to travel more often. I figured that maintaining clients in other states and countries would be a good fall back plan if I didn’t have my own local space.

At the same time as I was making these future plans, I was faced with a stroke of good luck: my best friend from childhood had moved to Brooklyn! She immediately requested that I visit and stay with her while I worked. So now I had a place to say in New York, but where to work? I decided to see if now Mistress Ariana would allow me to rent from her.

She generously accommodated my request to utilize her studio while I was in town. The rest, shall we say, is history. I began to travel to New York twice a year.

What I enjoyed about the New York Rubber Studio was the sense of camaraderie and inclusiveness. I felt “at home.” Mistress Ariana always made sure that my visits went smoothly. She not only provided a space to work, but she also lent an ear. There are things that you simply can’t understand if you haven’t worked as long as we have in this industry. I welcomed her feedback and insight.

The closing of a studio is akin to the shuttering of a house of worship–be it mosque, temple, or church. SM Studios are like consecrated ground to me, because Femdom is the closest thing to a religion I practice these days. The New York Rubber Studio was very much a sacred space. It had a feeling to it of respect and deference. I welcomed that Mistress Ariana made sure to remind her renters of those who had become before them. Just as a priest will chastise an acolyte for not recognizing a bishop. She made me feel like the legend I am by reminding others of the fact. It takes one to know one! And yes, that was a very haughty statement to make, but after 20 plus years in this business, I am allowed.

Thank you to Mistress Ariana for introducing me to your space, your slaves, and clients I will never forget. You have given us all something that money can’t buy: priceless memories of kink at your space. The tales of these times will live on forever.

R.I.P. mucous: Beloved Slave

mucous as a bad piggy.

I haven’t updated my blog in a very long time for a variety of reasons. Sometimes it takes a big life event to make me want to share my thoughts. The news I received yesterday counts in that regard: I found out that my beloved slave and client mucous had passed away. I feel compelled to share about him. There was a part of his life that no one else knew about it. I want it to live on.

mucous was a single gay man without a partner or children. Yes, I said gay. We met due to his sexual orientation and the AIDS crisis of the 80s. He told me that he started to see Pro Dommes because he still wanted to experience penetration, but he didn’t want to take the risk. He was also very big into humiliation. Dominatrices were a perfect fit to scratch the itch he felt inside his mind.

He started seeing me way back in 1999. I was a Baby Domme back then and I really didn’t know all that much. Humiliation was an area of my work that was challenging for me. I know now that it was due to a lack of communication from potential clients, but I digress. mucous made it so easy. He was a small Southern man and the joy he experienced from what I did to him was always apparent: he would laugh when he felt pain or shame. There really isn’t a better combination for a submissive and a Dominant female. I do something to you. You laugh. I think that’s funny. I do something more to you. You laugh more. Wash. Rinse. Repeat!

Over the years, mucous’ interests evolved. He truly embraced what is now my core value: Making me happy is the Number One slave pursuit. He did not have a foot fetish, but he learned to love my feet. He was not into nipple torture, but he became addicted to the sensation. His humiliation desires took even more creative turns: he would bring accessories to our sessions like a pig mask.

I feel fortunate that we were able to capture many of our best times together on video. For a few years, his birthday was immortalized for the camera as I beat him with one cane stroke for every year of his life. mucous started seeing me in his mid-50s so you can do the math about how much caning ensued! He also thoroughly enjoyed having his genitals beat with a paint stirrer. This simple activity was something else we made clips of together.

For the last hour of every session, mucous and I would share during our downtime. It was then that I began to learn exactly how interesting he was. This process didn’t begin in earnest until the last decade, but I’m certainly happy it did. He told me about his early days as a gay man. Of how he had a “Gay Mentor” who showed him the ropes of hook ups. How this man would go to bars and parties with him to indicate who was interested in mucous’ attentions. Of how he would do many things, but he would never allow himself to be tied up…

mucous grew up in a small town in Louisiana, but he spent his formative years in Texas. It fascinated me to hear of the debauchery that took place in such a Conservative part of the country, long before I was alive! He told me how, as a teenager,  he would walk to the library in the early evening hours. How there would ALWAYS be a car that pulled up slowly beside him, and then turned the next corner. How that car would stop and wait with the passenger side window rolled down. How he would approach the vehicle and the man inside would motion for him to join him. Of how he was humiliated and forced to suck cock–and how he loved every minute of it!

He was also a world-traveler. mucous went on a Big Trip many of the years I knew him. He once sent me a photo from the ruins of an ancient whorehouse in Turkey. The admission barrier was the outline of a footprint in the entryway stone. If your foot wasn’t bigger than that, you could not go inside. mucous’ small foot was nestled deep inside in the impression. His comment was, “I guess I wouldn’t have been able to enter, lol.”

mucous was very generous. The gifts he sent me were treasured and useful. From the ten pairs of shoes he once sent me, to the drip irrigation kit that is responsible for my marvelous garden–he was thoughtful and specific in that regard. He would also bring back tokens from his travels. His trip to Egypt saw him arrive with essential oils that he anointed my feet with later in session.

There are many clients who have seen me over the years, but very few have had his track record. For eighteen years we spent time together every quarter. I am truly saddened at the loss of this great human being in this world. May his memory live on in our videos together. mucous, The Laughing Slave shall not be forgot!

Edit: January 2020 See Mucous at the .20 mark of this episode of Sin Cities we appeared in.