When a Dominatrix born and bred in the Midwest takes a cross continental flight from Buffalo to L.A.,
she realizes her potential.
I showed up in L.A. ready to go to a wedding and do a little teaching with a fantastic Domina who is finding her feet in the shaky ground of D/s. I figured it would be a few long naps, an intense double session, a wonderful wedding/reception, and then home again home again, jiggty jig.
Instead, it turned into a journey that focused, primarily, on healing.
I got to the hotel around 9 pm. I was on Century Blvd. I didn't know where to park. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I needed a cigarette.
So, I smoked, I got my luggage, and walked through the barb-wired, barred-windowed, slightly more than sketchy neighborhood that housed the Adventurer.
True story, that was the name of the hotel.
I wasn't even supposed to be there.
I'd tried to make plans to stay with a friend of the bride.
They fell through the same day as I flew out.
So there I was, walking up to the doors and wondering what in thunderfuck I'd do for three nights in a Hostel in LA.
It turns out, I'd been sent on a mission, both by Serendipity and Bacchus. I hear those two have a pretty torrid thing going on. The ripple effect is outstanding.
Without turning this story into the full screenplay it deserves I will summarize:
I flogged men in public with a martini in hand, laughing at the top of my lungs while Van Morrison played dreamily in the background.
I waxed poetic after a touch too much green; I looked fantasy fully in the face.
I discussed why we all must learn as much as we can before purporting to be Dominant.
I groomed a man who was lost; I gave him permission to accept care.
I sang to a bride and groom while they sat and fed one another; I incited silliness and joy.