BDSM RTV MEDIA NEWS!!!!



19 june 2010




Flavor of the Week: Mistress In Training Jessica Woods
Did JESSICA WOOD have what it takes to become a dominatrix?


Source: www.nypress.com  - New York Press - USA


BEING A DOMINATRIX was never my intention, but when I went to get tattooed at my friend’s apartment, I figured out quickly that I was on a job interview.


I first met Mark Danger when he was dating a girlfriend of mine. She ended up turning on him, buying a gun and moving back to Los Angeles, but Mark and I remained friends. I was living on the Lower East Side and he lived a few blocks away on Clinton Street.

I knew Clinton well because it had been one of my dope spots, but now I’d been clean for years and was on the street for a different reason; I needed another tattoo-and Mark was just the man to do it. We’d decided it’d be best for me to come to his apartment since, in 1996, tattooing was still illegal in Manhattan.

Mark lived with his new girlfriend, who worked as a professional dominatrix, and when I walked into their apartment that day, Mark’s girlfriend was there. She looked up at me from her typewriter, and her eyes lit up. Besides being a famous dom, she was also a very well-known author of fetish and S&M books. “Hey, you’re hot, young and blond, how much you making at your job?” asked Mark’s girlfriend.

She was something. Fire engine red hair down to her waist, huge breasts, tiny waist (in corset) and 7-inch, black stiletto heels. She walked over to me and circled like she hadn’t eaten in awhile. “Nice to meet you, too. Mark, you here?” I said peering around their dining room table. I was still out of breath from the five-flight walk up and now I was nervous I’d have to be alone with this lady. “Mark’ll be right out… What was your name, darling?” She had a voice like Catwoman, deep and smooth and suddenly I wanted to relax and get to know her. “I’m Jessica, it’s nice to meet you finally. Mark’s told me so much about you.” I felt dwarfed. “He sure didn’t tell me you were such a dish,” she said, sounding like a Russ Meyer movie. “You guys used to do the horizontal mambo or what?” “Well actually I was friends with Mark’s ex, but ended up staying friends with him. I mean it’s not like we hang out, but I’ll always get a tattoo from him.

“Awww, ain’t she nice?” Mark finally appeared, giving his girl a smack on the ass and me a big bear hug. I cut the hug short and nervously sat down. “Vanessa was excited to meet you, Jess. I told her you do stand-up comedy. Vanessa thinks maybe you’ll do a joke about her being a dominatrix, but I told her nah. Am I right, Jess?” “Yeah, you’re right.” Last thing I wanted to do was make fun of a woman who wields a whip or a man with a rap sheet longer than his girlfriend’s hair. “You OK, kiddo? You know I just like to mess with ya.” Mark was sweet. “I’m fine, let’s get to tattooing!” I loved getting tattooed; the sound of the machine, the smell of the ointment and even the pain at points. Mark was finishing up a piece on my left hip. The tattoo took seven hours and 10 cigarettes and during that time, Vanessa and I talked. A lot. It seemed I was the perfect candidate to be a dom. Not only was I young and pretty, but I didn’t have any close relationship with my family. All I needed was a plastic shirt and a pair of pleather pants and I was going to make big money.

“Vanessa, I don’t know if I’d be good at the whole thing. I mean I’m kinda goofy and might screw up. I would hate that.” “You could never make me look bad,” she told me, and I believed her. I believed her so much so that I ended up investing in a pair of black pleather shorts, and a rubber T-shirt with red piping. I already owned black 6-inch stilettos.

Tattooed and broke was how I was living and I wanted out. Perhaps being a dom was what I needed. It might even make me more confident in the other parts of my life. It was settled by the end of my tattoo: I would meet Vanessa Saturday night at The Vault, a fetish club on the West Side. There was no sign, just a metal door painted black.

Tattooed and broke was how I was living and I wanted out. Perhaps being a dom was what I needed. It might even make me more confident in the other parts of my life.

I was an M. I. T., or Mistress In Training. I have to admit I was freaked the fuck out. I’d done phone-sex, had some time on stage doing stand-up and even scored drugs in the dead of night in shit neighborhoods, but this was different. I had the clothes, now I needed the confidence. I drank a bottle of champagne, did a gram of coke and figured this was as confident as I was gonna get. So I pulled on my pleather and jumped in a cab.

“Over on the right side here, please.”
Shit, I thought. “Is this all right, miss?” the cabbie was nice, but I needed practice. “If you’re dumb and blind. Pull all the way to the curb!” I felt strange yelling at a stranger. I wanted to let him in on what I was doing, tell him I usually wore sneakers and told jokes.

Instead, I climbed out of the cab, adjusted my shirt and marched up to the steel door. The bouncer was a cross-dresser. “OK mistress, you’re in, no cover charge.” I smiled and then remembered my role, “Yes, that will do.” I had to think of another line to use or everyone was gonna catch on that I was an imposter.

A man in his late sixties wearing a diaper approached me and got on his knees, “ Oh, mistress may I please bring you something to drink?” I looked around for help. My dapper diaper dude was still waiting for my reply. I looked down at him crouched over his banker beer belly, the cold cement floor against his knees and I realized I didn’t have it in me to torture.

I snuck out without finding Vanessa, but I kept the pleather. C