Houseboys

I have a bunch of this type of posts rattling around my melon and I am trying to think of a clever name for them--"Your Eye-Liner is Running" or something, deconstructing things about the scene that should be so sexy, but just never work.

The Luxuria Productions Christmas Card. We liked to pretend it was actually like that.

One thing that got me started was that Mistress Victoria recently returned from a several year hiatus--I believe she took a break around the time I moved to NYC, but I had a close slave who spoke highly of her and worked with her in some early projects.  Now she is currently training houseboys for a miniscule donation to prepare them and give them a reference to serve other dommes. This woman is either a saint or raving crazy; either way, mad props.


I'm flippant in many ways, but that wasn't one of them.  Mistress Victoria is walking the walk.

Houseboy scenarios are mostly a nightmare both for the Mistress and slave. In many respects this is strange because the fantasy is pretty mutual: The Mistress is dressed in a decadent outfit, looking resplendent in her fetish gear and immaculate make-up. The houseboy arrives to do some light vacuuming and dusting, intermittently he pauses to give the Mistress a foot rub or bring her chocolates while she reads a book. The houseboy cleans those darn crevices behind books and polishes the light-switch plates to fingerprint free shine. Now that the Mistress has a perfectly kept abode and extra time she feels a bit devious and decides to punish and reward her slave in all kinds of fun ways.


Can't we all agree that is awesome? This is what we all want, but it's not real. Sorry, spoilers, but let's break it down.


I grew up in a proper middle-America home. It doesn't matter if every surface has been sandblasted and then polished with bleach three minutes ago--one still apologizes for the place being a mess. A stranger or mild acquaintance cleaning an actual mess in my home is the psychological equivalent of having them root boogers out of my nose. So somebody's coming over, even if it is to clean, I've got to clean the apartment, not only that but clean it to the appropriate amount so there is something for said houseboy to do.


I've lived alone for almost all of my adult life and worked from my computer at home for a large portion of that. So chances are I'm sitting around in ratty jeans and the same t-shirt I've been wearing for the past 4 days. Probably haven't shaved my legs. Heck man, I wonder if I would even brush my teeth if I didn't have to go outside to walk the dog or on my self-imposed mandatory Starbucks run.  Now I have to purdy myself up and spend 20 minutes wrestling my body into some latex contraption and slime it. (Side note about latex, it looks and feels awesome for about a half hour. Then it's a sweaty trap that is too hot when it's hot and seems to keep the cold in when it's cold.  However it took *$#%$# 20 minutes to get into so there is some kind of emotional investment to wear it longer.) I can't actually sit anywhere because I'll get latex shine all over.

Normally not bitchy, but, man, those shoes pinch.

Being a domme is what I like to call an "Eat what you kill" business.  Meaning, if I'm not hunting, I'm not killing and thus not eating.  So I'm always on the computer like a junkie trying to get her next fix in some mixed metaphor.  I can't really get any work done because I have to stop every few minutes to explain what to clean and how to clean it.


Let's examine our little houseboy at this moment.  He's naked and dust rag in hand.  Wait. This was sooooo much sexier in his mind.  The actual dusting, it's, it's, it's kind of like work. It's pretty much like when he has to clean his own apartment and that's not fun at all. You know what is fun? Talking about being a houseboy.  The Mistress looks so sexy in her shiny latex the wee little houseboy simply must spend 10 minutes explaining how she should never have to do anything or lift a finger.  Actually talking about it to the sexy Mistress is really exciting and he's getting aroused and wants to play with himself. Won't she buy him that $500 pink, latex french-maid's outfit? If he's a real good boy?  Oops he came and this isn't really very exciting at all anymore and seems a bit silly.  He just wants to get home now.


Great, now I have to finish this dusting and clean up this latex shine, which no matter how careful I was still got latex shine everywhere and now there's gross slave cum tissues in my trash so that has to be taken out.  Not until after I've changed back into my jeans and that same old tee shirt.


What just happened?  I just did a session without getting paid.  In fact it was a crappy session because I wasn't enjoying myself, but trying, unsuccessfully to answer the phones and some emails. The houseboy is sending an email explaining how he really feels he should have got more play time in exchange for his cleaning so can he stop by tomorrow after work for about 30 minutes of spanking? Man, cleaning wasn't fun at all.


The moral of the story is to just buy a session.  Cleaning is just a fantasy. You don't do it well. You don't make the Mistress' life better.  You know what makes the Mistress' life better? Paying for a session so she can get away from the computer for a bit and have some kinky fun and then hire a regular maid.