Regular readers might be under the misconception that I single out the Daily Mail, of all publications, for sustained, irrational hatred.

I don’t. Firstly, my hatred is completely rational. Secondly, other publications are also pretty shit at times.

This week, the Mirror shat out a feature on “Women Who Kill”. Of course, the stereotype of the murderous female can be sexy and alluring, and in films, television, novels and BDSM erotica, the image of the dark, deadly femme-fatale has long been fetishised. Unfortunately for the Mirror, real killers are rarely attractive. This is why they nicked a photo of a beautiful woman off the internet to illustrate an article about prolific, early 20th century serial killer Vera Renczi. The woman concerned is actually Morgana. She is a photographer, artist and model and – as far as I’m aware – hasn’t killed anyone, but has done lots of gorgeous retro, corsetry and fetish-clothing photographs that are a joy to peruse. The Mirror will issue an apology in tomorrow’s edition. Here’s the original photo on her Facebook page, here’s her website, and here’s the Tabloid Watch article that further explores the Mirror’s utter fuckery over this issue.

Here’s part of a brilliant blog post by Kate Belgrave: “My Average Life as an Average Whore”. It makes many subtle and thought-provoking points, but also highlights something I’ve said many times before about the contradictions within the sex/kink industry when it comes to power play. During discussions on the old UK Mistresses Forum several years ago, one or two potential subs would criticise Pro-Dommes for exclusivity, high prices and not running their lives and businesses in the same way as any other competitive service industry would, with quantity of clients over quality. Yet if spent my days doing lots of things I didn’t want to do, on someone else’s terms, no matter how much money I might make from doing so, then I’d be just as unhappy as I was in the low-status, low-wage jobs I had throughout my teenage years. If Pro-Domination meant that my own power was merely a service-based illusion for the sake of someone else’s hard-on, I’d hate my job. Sadly, many of the chaps who voiced criticisms on the old forum might never understand why.

From Kate Belgrave in 1998:

“…Now he’s lying in front of me, resting his head on his round, rather hairless arms. I sit on his back, as he asks. I stroke his neck, up and down, with the balls of my thumbs.

And so it is that I begin again to try to decide whether or not I care about this work. I look at my hands on his sticky skin and try to gauge my reaction to the stickiness. I look at him. He’s terribly short. His hairless little feet come nowhere near the end of the bed. His suit pants, when he had them on, looked as though they’d been cut off at the knees.

But it is a lovely suit – beautifully sleek and expensive-looking, much in the Winston Peters style. It is only a pity that this attention to appearance doesn’t extend to the far reaches of his physical person. He stinks. In the shower, he ran the soap down his barrel chest once. He stood under the water for a bit and then he got out.

I notice that between his buttock runs a deep, yellow-brown line which seems to be set under his skin. He has the same odd colouring

between his toes and in the corners of his mouth. It’s odd – it’s set under his skin, like a tattoo. It’s mould, shit, or hereditary – I can’t work it out.

‘Touch my bum,’ he says suddenly. The pillow muffles his voice, so he speaks again. ‘Please touch it.’ I watch my hands as they move towards his backside. I touch him. Straightaway, he moans and starts jerking his backside around. He strikes me as rather theatrical. I try to remain seated on his legs. He’ll roll over onto his back soon.

Then suddenly, he asks me a ridiculous question – ridiculous because it’s utterly unnatural, theatrical. He’s been rehearsing it. He’s lifted it from some movie or other that he’s seen about relationships, or women, or whores.

‘How does it feel having all the power?’ he asks…”

Full article here.