A new day has dawned, with a fresh hangover...

I was checking out some Mistress listings yesterday. I have been known to cruise around the net, having a poke about in the competitions' websites. This time, I was just immensely relieved to be out of the loop. It's a weird scene, the BDSM world. It's not just a job, you're somehow included in this coven of odd balls. Some are for real and others just faking it for the money.

'Faking it' was the accusation of the day for the first Mistress who ever taught me anything. It is true that she legged it to work in an office - feeling great relief - as soon as she had the chance. But, I think she took pleasure in her BDSM work as well. She just knew in her heart that it was all a shabby game.

I was a mostly unemployed awkward eighteen year old goth with a wacky haircut at the time. I say 'mostly' unemployed because I worked in a theatre restaurant on the weekend, dressed as a witch, while I served substandard food to drunken suburbanites. The wacky haircut was interfering with my ability to secure general employment, as was my shy nature. I was living in a kooky studio flat which was formerly an old stables and was dragging myself out of bed at 3pm once a fortnight to hand in my form at the dole office. These were exciting times indeed. I was intending to visit London towards the end of the year, so was desperate to do something of interest and scrape some money together at the same time. I was scouring the local paper for employment when I saw the following advertisement: dominatrix required, training provided. This was most unusual.

So, I let it go for a few weeks. But, the ad kept appearing and I was encouraged by my boyfriend at the time and this photographer friend who'd taken an interest in fetish looking ladies and accoutrements. He was keeping a raven in his flat. It all seemed rather cool...So, I called this woman and made an appointment to meet her.

The interview took place in an unassuming single fronted terraced house. The only odd feature was a partition concealing the front door. I was led down a narrow hall and could see a middle aged man waiting at the other end. He was wearing nothing but a cheap wig and old lady lavender court shoes. He was introduced as 'Primrose' and I did my best to be incredibly cool about the whole thing. In the dim light of the small lounge, I finally had the chance to check this woman out. She was a slim red head in her thirties, wearing a full length pvc mackintosh and ludicrously high heels. I don't think I've known another woman to work in six inch heels without a platform. But, she could wear the damn things all day.

I'd foolishly brought my CV (flimsy as it was)along and my youth was obviously a concern. I was informed that a number of 'trainees' were being taken on. This was mainly because she was strapped for Mistresses and only had another one working there, who refused to urinate on anybody. This was a sticking point. She liked my look and claimed it was a popular amongst clients - I later learned that something a little more conservative helped, particularly in London - but I couldn't work for her unless I was willing to piss on people. I was incredibly nervous about the prospect and said I'd have to think about it. (These days, golden showers are one of my specialties, oddly enough.) All the while, Primrose remained chained to the wall, hearing everything and occasionally getting his nipples roughed up. I examined his trussed up genitals. He was getting on a bit. Would all my clients be so unattractive?

I have to go away and have a good laugh about all this now.