Photographic proof

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Time, distance and grief

It is 19 months since I’ve become a widow. I recently heard Ed Sheeran‘s visiting hours for the first time and the lyrics kind of blew me away. Unfortunately I am deeply practiced in grief. I lost my mom in 2001, my father in 2014, my husband in March of 2020, then two close friends at the end of August of last year. I hate that my daughter never got to meet my mother. Especially as I see aspects of her personality or talents that I know came from her. My grief over losing my husband has changed. Initially I was just numb, maybe just in shock, definitively depressed perhaps even nonfunctional as for months we went bed to couch, couch to bed. He died the week the world shut down so we were denied all of the typical rituals surrounding death and loss and grief.  There was no funeral, no wake. I didn’t sit shiva. I didn’t even put out an obituary for him, which in retrospect I totally could have done, but it never even occurred to me. Recently while lamenting the lack of having done anything to mark his death, a friend told me it was never too late. 

I began this post in October of last year, but never went back to finish it. It languished in my drafts for 10 months. We finally did a Celebration of Life for my husband this past March. It was wonderful  to hear stories and how beloved he was and it lifted something from my shoulders. I’m now two and a half years out from losing him. My life has begun to come together again. Our daughter is happy, healthy, emotionally self aware and thriving. 

Over a decade ago I read the most eloquent and resonant description of grief on a reddit thread where the question was "My friend just died. I don't know what to do." I've pulled it up on my phone and shared it with countless people whenever grief and loss are discussed.  Here it is in its entirety, Thank you Gsnow, whoever you are:

“Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, so best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.”

Post-(?)Pandemic Update

So much has changed since my last post. Of the greatest note is that I am now a widow. My husband had a heart attack the week the world shut down. Enough time has passed that my grief has settled and my energy is focused on embracing and living the life that I am grateful to have. Somehow my daughter is now 8 years old. #mominatrix. We’ve just moved and as I unpack and set up our new home, I’ve been updating my wishlist. I’m taking Niteflirt calls and in person sessions on a very limited basis again. #hamptonsdominatrix

Fetish Origins and the Ghosts of High School

Almost every sexual fetish seems to stem from a pivotal event in childhood.  I've heard countless stories from my clients over the years about the seductively dangled high heel or the sister's underpants or playing under the table surrounded by stocking clad feet. I've recreated those scenarios many times.  Recently however I heard from a high school classmate of my own.  A moment that I don't even recollect has been seared into his memory and provided wank material for nearly three decades.  It seems we were 16, sitting on a couch.  I slipped my boots and socks off, tucked a leg beneath me and caught him ogling my bare foot.  He says I locked eyes with him, looked down at my foot, back at him and gave a devilish grin.  He felt busted and embarrassed, but thoroughly titillated. And my immaculate, large feet have figured in his fantasies ever since.  When he reached out to me and said "I need to ask you a question" I was certain he'd seen an ad or stumbled across my site and wanted to check if it were actually me.  But he hadn't.  In a drunken haze he wanted to know if I remembered catching him staring at my bare feet 28 years ago.  I still don't recollect that incredibly important moment for him, but I know he never expected my reply: "No!!! I don't. But that's hysterical.  I've been a prodomme for 25 years.  I have size 12 feet.  Foot fetishists are my bread and butter!"

I’m not a financial Domme, but...#tipme #paymyrent!

I’m not a financial Domme, but I do have a $16 per day latte habit. Perhaps you should sponsor that. I’ve always spent my $$ on experiences. When I lived in the city I took taxis, then Ubers everywhere. Got massages and facials regularly. Even now, my grooming budget is obscene! I regularly have my eyebrows/pussy/legs waxed, speaking of "sponsorship" I don't think EWC does gift certificate (idiots!) but a prepaid wax pass or unlimited package would make a lovely tribute/gift/tip. #tipher #tipme #paymyrent (Jacq the Stripper is a god damn genius). I accept cashapp, venmo and giftrocket.  Amazon gift certificates are great, and when I'm flush, I LOOOOOVE them, but let's be realistic, my landlord, doesn't accept them. Dying my hair (come on now, did you really think these fantastic shades of red were natural?!?!), eyelash extensions, manicures, pedicures, chiropractic services--I am all about #selfcare these days--all cost $$$.  I drive a 2001 explorer. Sure I find nice cars sexy. Maybe one day I'll learn to drive stick and get an Aston Martin. Lol. In the meantime if it gets me from point a to point b without costing me too much $/annoyance with repairs I really don’t care. Though I must say (type?) those suicide doors on Teslas are HOT. Maybe I should go hybrid and do my part for the planet. Anyone own a car dealership? I’m sure we can work out some kind of barter. Lol. Essentially I have always prioritized experiences over things.  I don't own any property (hoping to change that in the next few years!) but I've seen a fair amount of the world. My daughter had a passport before she was a year old. As I dip my toes back into the pay for play and public lifestyle scenes, I really need potential slaves to understand that my daughter and husband will always and forever take priority over you. 

As a year round resident of the Hamptons, there are definitely many elements of small town living. I’ve warned my regular clients that they may encounter me in the wild and that any type of public play is strictly prohibited. This is basic common sense. Particularly if I’m with my daughter, approaching me with a “Hello Mistress!” or calling me Octavia (you never thought that was my given name did you?) is entirely inappropriate. I’m totally fine with a hello or any other friendly greeting—that’s up to you, as a sexworker for 25 years, I’d NEVER out a client in public. And since I have a $16 a day latte habit, you may always feel free to sponsor my morning coffee. It seems the coffee shop is where I most often run into clients. Twice in the last week. Hamptons Coffee Company gift certificates make a great gift/tribute, hint. Hint. 

I am now officially accepting new clients again.  I was so certain that new photos were an absolute necessity, after all, I'm now 43 and my last shoot was at least 8 years ago if not longer.  Upon going over the images, I realized that though these new pictures were shot June 2018, they easily could have been from 15 years ago.  I essentially look the same. See if you can tell which images were just taken and which are old enough to drink! Also note, you may want to mute your sound as the app required a sountrack. Enjoy:
Mistress Octavia Arena by Slidely Photo Gallery

Just a heads up Cleveland and Chicago February 2018

I am approximately 80% retired.  I rarely see new clients in NYC, but could never deny my oldest and most loyal slaves the opportunity to worship My size 12 feet or serve Me in their appropriate capacities.  That said, I'm going to be in Chicago next week for the first time since 2006 and since I had such a great time playing when I was there last, I figured I would make myself available for a few very limited and select appointments.  To be considered, send an email to mistressoctavia@gmail.com and tell me if we met when I was last in Chicago, a bit about you, your interests, fantasies and experience.

Books! Books! Books!

I finally pulled my bookshelves and books out of storage and set up a corner of our living room as a little book nook/reading area. My husband is bewildered at the amount of joy this simple act has brought me. As a lifelong bookworm, I just missed my books! They've been in storage since our short lived move to SF 6 years ago! It was like greeting old friends as I pulled them from the boxes. Now I suppose it is possible that there's a box of books still sitting in our storage space that I missed, but my big surprise was the titles that just aren't there. The very first how-to books I ever read on BDSM (penthouse forum letters excepted) were S&M 101 by Jay Wiseman and Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns by Philip Miller & Molly Devon and NEITHER of them seem to still be in my collection, thus they've been promptly added to my amazon wishlist.  I did find that I own more "sexy books" than I had realized.  A combination of erotica, BDSM how-to and more intellectual sexual theory take up several shelves.  I'm going to have to do a culling before our extended family is in the house for our daughter's birthday.  I'm thinking it will be fine to leave the sleeping beauty books, but perhaps The Family Jewels will need to find a more discreet spot in our home.

A Decade of Anticipation

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My site is gone, but...Instagram! Twitter!

As you may or may not have noticed, octaviaarena.com is no longer my website. It's some link farm that has absolutely nothing to do with me. You see, I never owned my domain. A friend registered it for me and then (very kindly, I might add) hosted it for free for approximately 15 years. The unfortunate part is that I never even had the chance to renew it when it expired this last time as it was out of redemption and owned by someone else by the time I realized my site was no longer live. So...that kinda sucks, but I'm a grownup now and will be taking care of registering a domain and hosting my site myself.  I suppose new photos were in order anyway. That will happen along with a new site at some point, but in the meantime, I've joined Instagram and Twitter. My handle on both is @MsOctaviaArena

I feel like I left you hanging with my pregnancy....

My daughter is now two and a half. This kid had stories before she even came out of the womb! She was conceived on our one year wedding anniversary during the Hurricane Sandy blackout.  I did not discover I was pregnant until we were 19 weeks in (no, I am not an idiot, I just have PCOS and a very irregular period). She then made her grand entrance into the world via emergency c-section 9 weeks early. Basically, to my knowledge, I was pregnant for 12 weeks. She is so smart, utterly adorable and amazes me nearly every single day.  She is also healthy, but her first year was pretty intense.  To put it succinctly, she was (is?) medically complex.

She was born with a birth defect that required three surgeries in her first year.  She was hospitalized four times and underwent full anesthesia four times before she was 7 months old. Her genetic anomaly is called Imperforate Anus and means that she was born with her tiny baby butthole sealed shut. Modern medicine and surgical techniques are truly miraculous because unless you caught sight of her colostomy scar, if I didn't tell you, you would never know.