News, views and unspeakable truths from the daily life of a very British Dominatrix.

Sunday, 25 February 2018

Pasha Adopts New Baby at the Palace of Dreams

Meet Honey the newest resident at Royal Clarence

The Countess Buys a New Gold Plated Card Holder

I have always had a gold card holder but my old one was looking a bit bashed in with all the partying from the last fifteen years.

So I treated myself to a new one. Gold plated as I won't risk solid gold with my absent mindedness.
And having it named should put off a thief one imagines, although it is very nice.

I love my new gold plated card holder!

Adoption and Pink Cat Litter!

Today is the day when the adoption of my new baby will be finalised and she will be delivered to the Palace of dreams.

'Honey' has been abused and neglected and we are perfect for one another.
She is 6 years old and has had to be shaved due to neglect but her new mommy will love and care for her from now on as she is now the baby of a Countess.

I will take pics later today when all the paperwork is done.

Meantime, I found pink cat litter!

Apparently this litter will last a month....

Saturday, 24 February 2018

Gold Digging

I was never any good at gold digging. I found the compromises too great and am not just talking about sex.

Some years ago I had managed to snare an unsuspecting Swiss man with all the trappings a single mother of four living in one of the worst council estates in Europe could wish for.
He had no idea what had hit him. I had lured him in with my effervescent beauty and offbeat humour by convincing him I had a successful fashion label and did ballet for keep fit. (I was trying to set up a business and I had been to one ballet class, one should never lie, just use good 'spin').

He bought me a car, a battered £700 Fiesta for which I was pressed for gratitude but the love was lost once and for all when he told me off for laughing loudly in a fancy restaurant, wearing the clothes he had bought me.

But the real test was one day on the beach. I had more or less accepted that the remote control Porsche he bought my son came with a price. The Swiss was an ogler. It was an embarrassment and totally disrespectful, something I was too young and underdeveloped to quantify at the time. He would dribble over every woman that passed, but my son really loved those cars so I determined to see it through for the summer.

But that was not the worst.

The Swiss was well endowed (which was never wasted in the circumstances) but he had a penchant for lycra that I could never really understand. He was an avid mountain biker so there was a lot of Lycra in our lives already and one day on the beach he arrived in tight pink lycra shorts which gripped his every Swiss curve and dent; was that hair I could see through the shiny surface layer?

Even the kids eyes watered.

The Swiss glans were clearly visible around the Swiss circumcision gleaming from every angle in the baking British sun.
I was dying and the kids peered over their ice creams in disbelief, probably thinking 'thank fuck he is not my real dad'.

More recently, yesterday in fact, a local man offered kindly to pop in with chocolate. As it turned out some had already been delivered but I really need the hoovering done as I am currently incapacitated. 

I threw it out there. Would he be so kind as to pop round and do the hoovering?

Look, as gold digging goes, it is hardly up there with Trump's wife, but the carpets are a mess.

The gentleman messaged saying he was unable to hoover over the weekend as he was 'booked' but he could come over if I am bored with 'munchies and a DVD'.

Do people still do DVD's?
And would he wear lycra I wondered?

Friday, 23 February 2018

Pasha du Valentine DOMINARTIST

Some days I am more artist than Dominatrix and other days more Dominatrix than artist but today I realised that I am a DOMINARTIST which I choose to write in capitals.

I may need a logo. I like it a lot.


Goddamn Media Studio Hire

Great lighting, great tech advice and great ideas folio.

Whatever your project Goddamn Media will be able to help.

Interior studio facilities as well as outside broadcasting and shoots in the Royal Clarence Marina.

Whatever idea you would like to realise, get in touch.

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Lights Camera Action

My lighting for the new Goddamn Media Studio at Royal Clarence has arrived although I do need some assistance to set it all up due to height restrictions.

I believe I will be fully operational by midweek next week.

The space will be available for hire mostly as I am no jobbing photographer. But primarily the studio will be used to film my new shows and for the Golden Dominatrix to work her magic webcam for private clients.

It is all in the lighting love.

The Renaissance Dominatrix

I have been looking at ways to relaunch myself into the world of fashion and style now that I am free of the restraints of the ovaries.

The Goddamn Granny will be forging a future for herself as style icon just as soon as the studio lights arrive, hopefully this week.

Style is such an emotive issue for me as it is always linked with anarchic punk couture and the garb of a Dominatrix. Also, the mainstream terrifies me.

Thursday, 22 February 2018

Agoraphobia and other irrational fears.

Many years ago when I was eighteen I found myself married to a violent abuser and I was left alone all day to wallow in my own personal fuck ups.

I started reading the Sun because it was all he could read and I could do the crossword. My outings were limited to the red light district launderette where I would watch the businessmen come and go from the tiny Victorian dwellings with giveaway illuminations.

After six months or so my home was drenched in my heart and I was increasingly anxious about leaving it.
I had planned to meet the wife beater at work one day and ended up by the stadium in the middle of a football crowd, very bad timing. I was becoming agoraphobic.

Fortunately myself and the wife beater went our separate ways and my family, yet again, got me on track.

I have two friends who are going through anxiety and agoraphobia at the moment and after a disastrous excursion yesterday I am really feeling for them. It is much more common place than you might think and it starts for many reasons, often, seemingly, from nowhere.

I had had to walk around a fifteen minute slow pace journey to the nurse to check my wound. Stupidly, I was so stressed about the journey in my condition that I accidentally went an hour early. I was already beating myself up at my error. I had gone home, had rice pudding, and tried again.
As I have had to pretty much learn how to eat and shit again since my surgery (signals need to be rebuilt and there had been lesions removed as well as organs), I had also gone into a panic because I thought I needed a Countess poop and some level of urgency meant I would be late for the appointment.
(Her poops are now legendary and for the moment at least, after a poop I need a lie down.)

At this point I tried to placate myself with the promise of chocolate. Of course living in a backwater hinders most simultaneous desires. I would struggle to find cocaine and prostitutes but mostly, you can't get a fucking impromptu mars bar for love nor money.

I took some shrapnel and would try the chemist. 

I should be so lucky.
The chemist was filled with sick people, just like me, with the stooped bodies of the infirm and the the worn shoes of the shuffling brigade. Of course there was no chocolate, not even a fucking lollipop.

I saw the nurse crying (me not her) and she was a wonderful woman who told me all about her own hysterectomy and menopause and how it only lasted five years.

Five years?

I thought of Bowie and more death and came home half the woman I was when I had woken up in the morning.

I understand that I was very afraid to leave the house because I am in pain, because I may need a loo if it takes me so long to get anywhere, that I can't run from danger, that if I fell it would hurt a lot and could rip my stitches. But really, the uncontrollable hysterical sobbing for the rest of the day was such an embodiment of extreme fear that I have never experienced before, even at the hands of the wife beater.

Wednesday, 21 February 2018

Suspicious Activities

One of my own shots, a favourite of the Golden Dominatrix in fairly unoffensive mode.

Last year I was a model for some second rate artists who basically abused my image.
They paid me and I learned my lesson but the image of the slaughtered Dominatrix was all over London in one poor grade art piece or another.

More recently one of the images has been hijacked once again for more bad art and poignantly, for an artist to once again attempt some sort of visual dominance within the image. 

The image is not owned by me so I did not even bother to complain about yet more bastardisation of my fine form. But it got me wondering why these second rate artists want my demise, or at least desire to establish their superiority over my persona.

What did the Golden Dominatrix ever do to them?

What does she represent that creates a burning desire in men and women to annihilate her?

One thing is for sure, I will never pose under instruction again and they won't get me on the floor playing into their hands as victors.

They are just bad artists with no style or content but more importantly, these people are untrustworthy.

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