Dominatrix Island

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Mistress Matisse wrote this thing last week about an imagined TV show called America’s Next Top Dominatrix. Ha ha. I loved that idea. I spent the whole of that day thinking about it and how if there was such a show the ball I would have MSTing every episode.

Funny how easy it is to imagine this show very precisely. That’ll be the dominatrix cultural archetype in action.

I like Mistress Matisse despite the fact that I am duty bound to spit vicious bile at prodoms all the long day (I’m not sure how I got this job but it’s a tough old life - especially for such a nice person as me). I like her because her website homepage features a picture of her poking a Molly Ringwald lookalike with a cane. (Find it yourself - it’s not like it’s hard.)

Anyway, enough random distractions, I was so taken with America’s Nextest Most Toppermost Dominatrix-ah! that I wrote to Matisse offering myself as a contestant. Well, as an imaginary contestant as the show is imaginary. I think I would be a great contestant. I would be the token fat dowdy one and be lucky if I made it to week two after my assigned submissive started hitting *me* in a frustrated rage.

In fact I really spent far too much time thinking about this. Up to and including wondering whether or not the theme tune might be a grunge band with a whey-faced waifish girl singer covering Cole Porter’s You’re the Top. I don’t think it would. That meaning of ‘Top’ isn’t well known enough in the real word. (You remember the real world, don’t you? Or is that dungeon door still locked?) Whip Crack Away would be more likely. But I’ve always been rather fond of You’re the Top.

Not really in a dirty way. I just love Cole Porter – pretty much every word geek does. This is my favourite version of You’re the Top for, um, some reason. I think I heard it at am impressionable age. My Agatha Christie phase.

I suppose I would quite like a version with a man singing it. Then again, I can have really weird inverted taste in popular culture sometimes. I’m so louche and ironical. When I said my favourite song to sing as Karaoke was Hopelessly Devoted To You, I really did mean it.

And the other day I was trying to explain to Gwen why I liked Wuthering Heights - and specifically Heathcliff - so much and somehow, ‘I dunno, I think it might be because he’s so emotionally tortured,’ did sound a bit lame next to her simple assertion that, ‘He’s a wife beater - some women like that.’

She means women like her - she’s so awful.

But back to kinky reality TV, in fact, I decided – I really did think about this for quite a long time – you could do masses of shows like this. It would make a lot of sense. Everyone knows dominatrixes are big bankable business – you have an audience of deep-pocketed submissive men, switchy-pervy weirdy men (hello, darling), men who like women dressed stupidly sexily. Etcetera, etcetera… And you’d get some women watching – ’cause of the hot male slaves. You know, just a couple of us unicorns.

I don’t actually have to tell you how I see Dominatrix Idol or America’s Got Dominatrixes panning out. I’m sure you can join the dots yourself. As I said before – archetype in action.

Best of all, though, would be a show where a bunch of dominatrixes were parachuted onto a deserted desert island and had to build their own dungeon out of coconuts while their PVC catsuits got sand in the crotch and their gelled pony tails went all frizzy.

It would be called Dominatrix Island, or something. That wouldn’t be important.

Oh, you can laugh now. You wouldn’t be laughing so hard if you had a couple of coconuts lashed to *your* coconuts with some mildly poisonous creepers would you?

Not saying you wouldn’t *enjoy* it – just that you wouldn’t laugh.

There would be a great episode about half way through where one of the more rebellious, arsey, sassy dominatrixes caught some hermit crabs to use as nipple torture devices and Peta stormed the island.

For the finale a single lucky male submissive would be dropped somewhere on the island and the final two dominatrixes left standing would hunt him down.

The winner would be the one who broke the fewest fingernails.

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If you want to make dominatrix based reality TV you should probably call Mistress Matisse not me. It was her idea. I just stole it.

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As a vague aside – my no-Amazon-wishlist-on-this-blog-ever rule pinched a lot more when I was made aware that if I *had* one I might actually get bought something from it. Ow. It’s not easy being red. So I put something up in the sidebar.

Not sure how long I’ll keep it ’cause even that makes me antsy. But look, if you really want to buy me something – buy me this.

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Pan’s CB. Yes, I will do an update next post. Sort of. And my unbelievable lameness and unsuitability for exerting any kind of 24/7 control will astound you.

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