Lifestyle, Professional and Number 33

I mentioned my pedal pushing fetish recently. I have another one. I am obsessed with antique books; particularly cookbooks, home-keeping and etiquette books. I have dozens of beautiful, fragile books with tissue paper thin pages that belonged to each of my grandmothers. I have as many in electronic format as my Kindle will hold. The actual books are so precious to me, but truth be told I love the electronic versions. The paper versions require a careful handling, but I am not a gentle reader. I eat books, absolutely devour them. I use highlighters on them. I break their spines, even hardcovers. I fold their corners. Who has time to find a bookmark? I am coming right back to it. I can do these things, well I can't fold corners, but the rest I can do to an e-book without any fear that it will beg for mercy.
So I have this collection of antique books that describe in minute detail the various things a proper lady at the turn of the last century should know. Such as how much money one should save from their allowance to pay the doctor for their maternity care. Of the dozens of books like this I have read, none to date discuss how much one should expect to pay their midwife. If you know me in real life, you know why this is troubling to me. Many discuss how to properly care for various illnesses, as all women can expect to be called to providing nursing care to their families or close friends. Again, no mention of what one might expect for compensation for wearing soft shoes in the sick room and being sure the windows are open for an hour each day so the patient may have healthy air to breathe.

I am a professional and lifestyle dominatrix. I nearly always say both, even when it would be most appropriate to simply say I am a professional dominatrix. I am not seeking personal playmates at this time, my dance card is quite full thank you very much. Why do I feel I need to disclose to strangers that I am also a lifestyle domme? I will own that this is largely my baggage. My concerns about how I am perceived. Unlike most of what I carry though, unlike the things I have done the work to unpack, this bag has gotten heavier not lighter the longer I carry it. Strangers contact me every day. I am not complaining. I am fortunate to be as busy as I am. When I open an app, or go to Fetlife and see that I have dozens of messages, I know my week is going to fill in as I wish. The breakdown on those dozens of messages though, 50% will be pictures of genitalia. No words, just close-ups of the family jewels. Oh I bet your family would be so proud of you. Those get deleted. I appreciate the simplicity of those messages. I do not have to guess at what they are hoping to find & I feel no obligation to even say they have the wrong number. About 10% will be perfect. Hello I am so & so. I am hoping to schedule a session, my interests are X,Y, and Z. Hooray! An easy to identify potential client. The other 40 percent? Their messages tend to be too flattering, they try too hard, share too much and still I can not decipher if they are hoping to hook-up or to engage in a professional scene. Goddess, I humbly submit to your superior beauty and wisdom, please use this useless submissive as you see fit. I should just hit delete. My calendar is full enough that I could just hit delete. What if they're just new though? I love new to the scene clients. To find them, I endure the others that also begin that way. The ones who stumbled across a pretty picture, skipped over 90% of my profile and jumped to the conclusion I am a sadistic, nymphomaniac who would be honored to beat the ass of a stranger. A kinky hook-up, isn't that what you're here for Mistress? A tribute? What's that? A fee? I don't have to pay for sex. Oh there isn't sex involved, well than what am I paying for? Oh so this is all about the money for you, that's awful. Now I have to spend time reminding myself I have 20 years in the scene, they do not. This is my calling, my vocation, my art. This is magic. We can't expect the muggles to understand it.   
I went to a tiny Catholic school (of course I did) for middle and junior high school. My history and literature teacher in seventh and eighth grades (yes that tiny, 1 instructor, 2 subjects for 2 years) would open and encourage amazing, thought provoking discussions. It has been over 30 years, I do not recall where this particular conversation began. I just hear a piece of it, I have thought on it so many times. Somehow we were talking about Larry Bird; this was Massachusetts in the mid-80s, conversations about #33 of the Celtics was pretty common. What I recall is Mr. D saying that Larry Bird had a basketball court in his home, and that is how you can tell he loves what he does for a living.
It is midnight. I am in my bedroom, typing from my bed. Dreamer and Dancer are hanging on either side of my window. They will not be swung against a body in this room. My sexiest shoes are arranged in a manner I find pleasing on a shelf to my right. I just took a call from a subbie girl, not my sub, but a sub who had a question about a scene thing. I am texting with my boi about his day and encouraging him to get a good night's sleep. This is my home. This is my down time. I am surrounded by the things I love, and so many of them are the tools of my work.