Friday, December 15, 2017

Mistress Katja Minx Fetish Dominatrix Catwoman Portland

title pic Make Mine Minx

Posted by sadomasokitten on December 15, 2006

Sassy Minx

I’m continually on my toes while running with scissors through the world of porn filmmaking. As you know I’ve been makin’ a livin’ doing camera work (both photographic as well as videographic) for my dear friend Buck Angel. Did I mention that he’s been nominated as Transexual Performer of the Year by AVN? Or that Buck Angel Entertainment has been nominated as Up and Coming Studio by XBiz? Or that one of the scenes that I shot has been nominated for Best Outrageous Sex Scene by AVN?

I haven’t? Wow, that’s uncharacteristically humble of me.

So in order to feed the monster we must produce a very large amount of footage to be cut part and parcel into smaller bits that may have a similar theme running through them and packaged in a way that will make your heart and your naughty bits tremble. This means filming with a LOT of different talent (yes it’s time to take your medicine, grab a comfy chair and hold onto your hats).

The back story for those who don’t have any idea of what I’m talking about is this: Buck is a female-to-male transexual. He was born a woman and has transformed himself into a man. But he still has his female genitalia, fully-functioning and slightly enlarged from all of the hormones. He’s a big heavily muscled guy with lots of tattoos and facial hair – if you didn’t know his “secret” you’d never guess. He’s out to change the world of porn and if you’re looking for something a little different (that’s still sexy) you should definitely check out his DVDs.

So… porn filming. My rants on this have become somewhat legendary and for a good reason. Other than trying to film complex BDSM scenes, or film with (god forbid) another Domina, filming “straight” porn (I use the word straight literally for lack of a better word because the hour is late and my brain is fizzing) can be quite challenging. Throw in some time restraints, some communication issues, and some Viagra, and kids we’ve got a party on our hands.

This past week did not disappoint – it hit all of the major areas squarely in the bullseye and then pulled a few punches to the package.

Firstly, there is nothing like a speeding ticket to get your 8 hour filming day off to a great start. Thank you LAPD for keeping the streets safe (hey at least we were driving the right way on the road unlike some of your celebubots) and being concerned about my gas mileage.

Next it’s always a crucial thing to make sure that the studio that you will be using (or hotel room or vacant lot or ok wherever you plan to film and burrow) has been properly reserved. I felt that speaking with the manager of the studio the day before would be sufficient. Getting that human touch, the calm voice on the other end of the line reassuring you that yes, you have indeed reserved the entire studio for the entire day, and will you look at that it’s for tomorrow just as you thought it was and boy I can’t wait to meet you – ending with a flourish of “See you tomorrow!” makes a girl feel all warm and fuzzy – one less major thing to worry about.

Yes I know what you’re thinking here – how bad could it be? Why is she complaining? Surely things will go smoothly and a large, heaving orgasm will be had by all?

Ok sure. If that’s what you need to think then I tell you what. Stop reading now. End this fairy tale on a high note. Have a sugary snack and call me in the morning.

For the rest of you who realize that my life has been all about starring in my very own Grimm’s Fairy Tale, take a load off and sit yourself down a spell. Now this won’t hurt a bit…

I arrive a bit early – as is my preference – with a large amount of crap in tow. I have backdrops, my tackle box filled with tools, several bags full of sex toys that I’ve purrsonally chosen, gloves and cleaners, CDs, and the ever-important candy and diet Coke. Of course there is no parking available close to the studio door, so I drive around the block a few times until I find a spot conveniently located between the crunchy girl with the matted hair who is obviously living out of her burgundy colored van (clues – she had boxes and boxes of pieces of clothing both inside the van and outside which she was picking through and then using to tie up pieces of her matted hair into an even less-appealing version of the rats-nest she already had going, and at one point she was actually doing a version of the whore bath while sitting on the open side door of the van) and the asshole who had parked about 3 feet away from the building forcing me to back in and out, in and out about 5 zillion times until I could squeeze my car into the parking spot.

But drag my stuff down to the studio door I did, even arriving a bit earlier than I had planned, ready to get everything set up before Buck and the talent arrived, maybe have a few Hershey’s Kisses (yes I’m sure they’re thrilled to be mentioned here but all I can say is that the dark chocolate ones and the caramel filled ones are divine) and mark my own can of Diet Coke before the circus came to town.

So I’m standing in front of the door, stuff in tow, and I ring the bell. Hm. No answer. That’s odd. Must fuss with my pocketbook (If you said that Katja is from NYC based on her use of the word pocketbook you’d win a prize!) to find my cell phone to check the time. Well ok, I’m a few minutes early. Maybe the studio manager is caught in traffic. Maybe he’s been pulled over by the LAPD. But wait… what if he’s actually in the studio sleeping or something? Why not call (I thought to myself out loud) and dialed the number. Yes that sinking feeling sweeps over you when you hear the answering machine in both your ear and in your other ear. Then you hear your voice as you’re leaving a message on said machine, with only a locked door in between you. Ok, I guess that theory might have been wrong, why not relax a bit – remember you’re early – of course they’ll be here. We reserved the studio yesterday, by phone, purrsonally, with all of the assurances that all would be ok.

Ten o’clock comes. Then ten thirty. I’m not terribly eager to call Buck to tell him that the studio is still not open, and I’m still thinking that purrhaps it’s a simple case of Los Angeles traffic (because of course it couldn’t be my fault). Ten forty five Buck arrives, wondering why I’m standing in the street with bags full of sex toys and candy (you add your own wisecrack here, go ahead I dare you). I tell him that the studio is locked, and the manager is nowhere to be found. We both leave mildly nasty messages on the machine and hunker down.

It is too late to cancel the first talent that is scheduled – she is supposed to be here at 11 am. And she is driving in from Orange County. And we cannot reach her by cell phone. And the maze of streets that comprise the Artists District of downtown LA are freakishly difficult to navigate for someone who doesn’t know where they’re going.

And the damn studio is still not open, nor any manager sightings.

The talent arrives, and joins our little merry band. We all are channeling our inner Bitch Queens, for it is difficult to think of anything else other than our predicament. What will we do? Can we film somewhere else on such short notice? Just how do you sneak several trannys and a cart full of lighting equipment (and of course all of that candy) into a nice hotel?

Our minds are racing and our stomachs are grumbling. We actually wait there until 12-fucking-thirty before we decide to at least go get something to eat. Of course that means driving away (I’m afraid that burgundy van girl will annex my car as a porch or a lavatory soon) and dragging all of my crap back to my car. But what else could we do? So rather than trying to find 3 all-new parking spots in downtown LA on a weekday during lunch hour we drove out to Silverlake and the Good Microbrew on Sunset. At least the food is good, we can sit and bitch.

After sitting and bitching for a good hour, we try the studio on Buck’s cell phone. Surprise surprise, the manager is there (ahem, why didn’t he call us?) and is extremely apologetic. Freaking out might be a little closer to the exact emotion, but you get the idea. It’s the end of our meal and our morning talent has to drive back to Orange County but we might still be able to salvage our evening talent (who we were not able to reach by phone all day and were very nervous that he was going to show up despite our repeated messages that the stupid studio was locked and we had given up to present offerings to the goddesses of sandwiches). So we drive back to the studio.

Yes he’s freaking out, yes he’s kind of scared, yes he has a novel excuse for “forgetting” our booking – he was supposed to quit that day. Sure Sherlock, do what you need to do but you could have given us a call…. Luckily Buck was in a slightly more social mood than I was so he chatted with the guy as I set up the studio for our shoot. Much chocolate was quickly consumed. Music was blasted, lights and backdrops hung from the chimney with care, you get the idea.

And then – after all that drama – the talent arrives along with the videographer (this scene will be specially shot on an incredibly cool camera that shoots video that looks like film – for the special upcoming Buck Back Mountain release), everybody gets naked, Buck gets fucked so hard he’s kind of laughing and crying at the same time, the money shot is captured, and we’re all happy campers. Doin’ our happy camper porno dance. Simple.

But before we can really breathe properly again we realize that we’re going to have to reschedule all of the other talent we had planned on using that day for the next 2 days as they are Buck’s last days in town. How will we do it? Will we be risk-takers and try to use the same studio again? Will we opt for the unexciting yet oddly comforting rental of a crappy hotel room? And most importantly, WILL THE CHOCOLATE LAST?

Tune in again – a different Cat time, but this very Cat channel, for the answer…

Katja Minx

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