By Besha Rodell
By Patrick Range McDonald
By Michael Goldstein
By Dennis Romero
By Sarah Fenske
By Matthew Mullins
By Patrick Range McDonald
By LA Weekly
On a brisk, damp evening, her other class, “Mistress in the Bedroom,” is in full swing at the store. Mistress Absolute discusses how to use silence in an unnerving way, how to cultivate mystery, and how to build up your bank of wicked ideas. “I have great fun thinking about the men I send off to work in women’s underwear.” Conversation turns to the niceties of role playing — for those who want to dress up as an office bitch, or schoolmarm, say. She occasionally employs a “hilarious” German interrogation accent.
“Do you start role playing without their knowledge?” one student asks.
“You usually want to discuss it first. Or they might think you’ve got a split personality.”
Flush with power, new dominatrixes will often come down with a bout of “domititis” and start thinking every man is submissive. This is not necessarily the case, she says. Mistress Absolute is a great proponent of public humiliation, though never of beating in anger. Recently, she dressed a client up in a pink tutu and dragged him lovingly around the street.
The first thing she does is to make the client kneel, kiss her feet, and don the collar, a civilized little ritual that marks the start of the session.
“At what point do you put in the Japanese anal beads?” interrupts one woman.
“Dinner,” answers another.
Mistress Absolute sometimes tells nosy strangers she is a “psychodrama therapist” when feels like toying with them. “And no, I don’t do my grocery shopping in full rubber. Though some would love to hear it if I did.”
You wouldn’t guess she is a dominatrix if you saw her out of the bedroom. She was milling about at Harrod’s recently looking for a white ruffled blouse to go with her jodhpurs and riding crop. “What event is it for, madam?” asked the unsuspecting salesgirl.
“Event? I’m a professional dominatrix and I need a new outfit,” said Mistress Absolute.
“Oooh!” said the salesgirl. “Lovely madam. Right this way.”
Over the years, having seen and done it all, she’s developed a theory about sexuality. “Your main setup is before 6,” she says, “Somebody’s kink comes from when they get a stirring but they don’t yet know what it is.”
Still, even an experienced mistress is not without her difficulties. Feet get sore from running around in 5-inch stilettos. Then there’s the consuming mental aspect of making sure your client isn’t going to go into cardiac arrest or lose too much hair when you set him on fire, or that he’s having a good time while he’s suffering. Too often, you’ll get a client roped up in a gorgeous, complicated truss that took two hours to execute — like she did recently with an older businessman — and, even though he swore a love for hardcore bondage, he’ll kvetch: “Ouf, mistress, my ankle has gone numb.” Then there is nothing to do but sigh and untie him.
Class is almost over now and the slave girl who picked her up at the airport arrives. “Come here, young lady,” says Mistress Absolute, crooking one red-polished finger. Having fetched the mistress’ shampoo and conditioner, the slave is rewarded by being told to walk a student’s dog. This particular slave likes to be beat with a cricket bat, Mistress Absolute says casually, and the novices wince. Afterward, dog walked, the waiting slave looks in through the window glass. Rain begins to fall. The mistress smiles.