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The Mistress Lynx Experience



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2257 Legal Notice <click here>

<The records required to be maintained pursuant to 18 USC s. 2257 and 28 C.F.R s. 75.1-75.8 are kept in the office of the producer:

Custodian of Records:  J. Jordan 
Plum-Bottom Productions
3680 Clarke St.
Oakland, CA 94609

The date of production is Sun, March 4th, 2007.
* All performers on this site are over the age of 18, have consented to being photographed and/or filmed, have signed model release and provided proof of age, believe it is their right to engage in consensual sexual acts for the entertainment and education of other adults and believe it is your right as an adult to watch them doing what adults do.>

 

 [ABOUT ME]


Mistriss Lynx remixes her life with your fantasies for mass consumption.

At your fingertips awaits a world of debauchery, decadence, high style, and cultural irreverance.

This is not a toilsome life of quiet desperation.  This is Mistress Lynx.

If you’re not into big words, this is the bio for you:  I fuck your pansy ass.

 [FAQs]

Q:  Are you an agency?
A.  Absolutely not.  I am an independent consultant.
 
Q:  What was that word you used to describe the moments outside of thought?
A.  Syncope.

Q:  If I want to give you a gift, what do you like?
A.  I am asked this quite often.  Click <here> to supply me with Russian ceramics, Louis XIV furniture, or weekend reservations to your city’s finest Deco accommodations.

Q:  I have a legal question for you.  In the Book of Ezekial, I’m not sure whether Tyre is “lawless” because the worship of profit has made Tyreans pay less attention to God, or whether it’s lawless because Tyre’s merchants cheat their customers.
A.  It may be useful here to note the etymological differences among words the classical languages used to signify what we call “law.”  In Hebrew, ‘torah’ derives from the verb ‘horah,’ or ‘he taught, showed.’ To discuss this more, click <here>

Q:  I can’t afford you.  What should I do?
A.  Suffer, pansy boy!

Q:  Are you a man or a woman?
A.  No.

 [BLOG]

2.24.07

I had the sweetest client today.  It’s really pathetic; he comes by every few months and just wants to look at me.  He did a little foot worship, did a little body worship—he just pats my legs and says, ‘oh you’re so strong, what do you do to get so strong?”  I told him I dance, and then I danced for him.  Nothing sexy, nothing sleazy—he just wanted to watch me move.  I bent over a few times so he could look at my asshole, and that was it.  And then he does this thing where he likes to get off on my back.  I gave him a piggy-back ride and he rubbed up against me, through all those layers of clothes, until he came.  I play that whole game, too, of doing exactly the right thing and pretending that I don’t know what I’m doing.
   
I started him off with a massage.  Then I told him to get on my back.  He asked, “Why?”  “It’ll stretch your spine out,” I said.  So then I started bouncing him up and down (to get him off faster, you know), and he asked, “What are you doing that for?”  I’ve got him on my back, his legs around my waist, and I tell him, “Oh, it takes the pressure off my back, so that my legs take the weight.” 
   
He bounced faster and faster, until he shouted, “Oh...oh, you’re so good at that!”

3.4.07
I had the roughest time with a client today.  He wanted me to do a humiliation scene.  The thing was, he’d been arrested a lot for exposing himself, and he’d gone to a doctor to get himself chemically castrated, so he didn’t have those urges anymore.  Now he wanted me to tell him how sick and twisted he was.  Sex in public is no big thing to me; I think it’s great as long as it’s all consensual.  This guy would go into college libraries and jerk himself off in front of university girls.  Ooh—like they haven’t seen a penis before.

It was really hard for me, because I had to come up with all these insults that I don’t really believe.  I just used all the insults I could remember that people give to queers.  ‘So sick, so dirty, so unnatural...’  All that shit.  He didn’t want me to do a therapy session.  That’s not what he was there for.  He wanted me to humiliate him.

So I made him re-enact it, show me what he’d done.  He got done on his knees, and made it so only one person could see what he was doing.  I’m afraid I gave him more ammunition to use against himself.  “It’s not enough that you had to get yourself arrested,” I said, “now you go to the doctor’s office to get attention there.”  I could see on his face when I said it that he hadn’t thought about it that way before.  Instead of being the flasher at the library, now he’s the sicko at the clinic. 

I didn’t really want him to make that connection in his mind, because it is better that he’s getting the hormone treatment, since sex in public isn’t sustainable when you get yourself arrested again and again; so I told him that, after we were done.  I don’t want him to feel so bad about what he’s done that he’ll stop getting treatment, but I don’t want him to blame himself, either.  So he’s a pervert.  At least he’s doing something about it.

 [LETTERS]

2.13.07

Mistress Lynx received this letter from a fan today:

“Dear Madame Lynx [how ignorant and presumptuous, already?],

I hear that you like classical music.  You might like to listen to the water that drips from my ceiling onto my pantry shelves whenever someone upstairs takes a shower.  Me and my three housemates have placed a stainless steel pot under the exposed pipes.  With an extended listening session, you can observe how the pitch of the drip changes.  My housemate Rob claims that the frequency lowers, making the pitch change from the piccolo range to the flute, but Rob also believes that Strauss was more talented than Brahms.  Please come visit our pad—I mean, virtual concert hall—and disabuse him of this notion.  Also, fuck our pansy asses.  We crave your abuse.

(Signed),”

“Dear (Signed),

Thank you for your letter.  I have to break it to you, though – your pleas for abuse are not pretty.  They’re ugly.  They’re ugly like shit.  You completely miss the point of the Mistress Lynx Experience.  I’m devoted to de-glamorizing the sex industry, because it’s been glamorized a lot lately, what with the Michelle Tea’s books and the Sex Workers’ Art Show.  That’s all great, but that’s not all there is to it – people tend to look at sex work as if it means you’re either a crack whore or were abused as a kid, either a lunatic who trips out on the sound of dripping pipes or a rock star.  Being a sex worker doesn’t make you a rock star.  It makes you a sex worker.

Sometimes I love my job and it’s the greatest thing ever; sometimes I fucking hate my job and if I have to do it for one more minute, I want to die.  Right now, though, I want to fuck your pansy ass.  Good job not spending your money on plumbing repairs.  Now you can afford me.  Way to go.

(Signed),
Mistress Lynx”

 [INTERVIEWS]

2.24.07

Today Mistress Lynx had a client who called to cancel. 

Mistress Lynx:  “I’m sorry you can’t make it.  Was it your wife?”

Client: “No, Mistress.  I have a cold.  I wouldn’t want to get you sick.”

ML:  “Very good, you little pansy.  Now, how could you go and damage yourself?  Don’t you know you’re my property?”

C: “I’m sorry, Mistress.  I went to visit my mother’s grave and it was windy.”

ML: “Where is she buried, Mount Shasta?”

C: “No, near the Richmond docks.”

ML: “Why is she buried out there?  You have my permission to speak freely.”

C: “Thank you, Mistress.  My mother worked as a welder in Richmond during World War II.  I can remember her going to work and taking my brother and me to a day care every day.  My father worked in the same shipyards and they went together.  I can remember her in her welding leathers and helmet.  It took years for the small white scars to fade off her, from the hot rolling slugs that fell as she welded overhead.”
ML: “How did you know?  Were you a little pervert who peeped on his mommy’s naked body?”

C: “No, Mistress, she told me.  She told me all about it.  ‘I weighted 118 pounds,” she said once, ‘so it was my job to scrub the flagpole.  I told them, “Why you wanna make me do that scaredy-cat job?” “Cause you’re the smallest and lightest,” they said.  They took me up there in a crane and dangled me into the center.  Yes, I went up to the flagpole, the very tip of the ship to weld.  Then I went all the way down to the bottom deck.  You squeeze through a little hole that goes down, you drag your line, your tools, everything goes down with you, and it’s dark...So this is how I worked, from the flagpole to the bottom decks.’”

ML:  “She told you all that?  You must have a very good memory for a pansy.”

C: “Yes, Mistress, I do.  I also have a head for numbers.  In fact, on the west coast, 25 percent of all shipyard workers were women.  At the Kaiser shipyards, 60 percent of the workforce were women.  They had 24-hour day care at 70 cents per day.”

ML: “Did your mommy tell you all this, too?”

C: “Yes, Mistress, she did.  She also said, ‘When I got my first paycheck, it was 16.80 and we thought that was pretty fine.  When the men came back, they didn’t know how to do the job.  They had to be showed.’”

ML: “Your Momma talked like that?  She was an ignorant wench, wasn’t she?  Don’t answer that.  Tell me more of what your momma said."

C:  “Two days before she died, she told me that, when her parents had lived in Nebraska, her mother had lived in a sod house.  I said, “Mom, you never did tell me that your mother lived in a sod house.”  And she replied, “I guess I hadn’t gotten around to just pass the word along.”

ML: “Did she beat you for being such an impertinent little boy?”

C: “No, Mistress, I had to mind.  I learned to do everything that had to be done.”

ML:  “This isn’t about you, you little shit, this is about your dear sweet Mother.  Why’d she stopped working in there if she was so good?”

C: “She said she just had to leave.  She didn’t remember if they gave her any notice or not.  We went back to Arkansas to farm for a few more years, until going to Michigan to build cars.”


How sweet.