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First, a perhaps-surprising (or perhaps deeply unsurprising) truth: I was raised in extreme religion.

I grew up in a sub-culture where I wasn’t allowed to show my shoulders. Skirt length was policed. Romance was verboten, and forget about sex.

I didn’t kiss anyone until I was twenty-one.

I didn’t have sex until that same year.

I didn’t realize I was into women for another decade.

And I (obviously) didn’t explore kink until I’d already unraveled years of indocrinization just to get to vanilla.

Before I got to kink, though, before I advanced from whatever-the-hell-comes-before-vanilla, what I did do was volunteer at a church during my university years. And when I graduated, I was told there was good news: they were making my volunteer position into a full-time position. They wanted me to officially apply.

I was over the moon at the time. Still deeply indoctrinated and entrenched, I applied.

And I waited.

And waited.

And I kept doing the job pro-bono, kept putting in the labor, the time, the emotional work, with no news, no call, no interview.

Finally, I broke and asked: was I supposed to get a call? Have they put the position on hold?

The pastor was sheepish. Then honest: The board had thrown all the women’s resumes in the trash without looking at them.

Pause and take that in.

A woman was good enough to do the job for free. But how dare she want a job title and salary. How dare she want to be paid for what she did. Wasn’t the internal satisfaction of my volunteer role enough?

They even had the audacity to ask me to keep filling in until they found a man to take the job.

As you might guess, I left.

Left the position. Left the church. Eventually left religion altogether.

It was a journey to freedom, but with a heartbreaking gender lesson early on its path.

But Pandora, you might be asking…why are we talking about this in your kink journal?

The answer is that those same boring old men and their same boring old attitudes are alive and well here in kink. And we need to talk about it.

Ever since I started taking pro-domme engagements, they’ve been showing up in increasing numbers to try and put me in my place. Men I don’t know, have never met, have no connection with whatsoever. They are enraged that I dare to not only be kinky, not only be domme, but get paid for doing it.

Quelle horror!

“GET A JOB!” they all-caps in my comments before I block them.

“SCAM,” one man took the time to write on every single thing I posted. Literally coming back to hate-read my content daily.

They are outraged. It is gendered.

And like the church decision-makers, this outrage is not because I am doing the thing. It is that I am not giving it (all) away to them for free.

Plain and simple: entitlement.

Never mind that I do provide them with free content that they probably jerked off to right to before screaming at me in my comments. Never mind the years of lifestyle femdom. Never mind that the journal entries they are screaming at have nothing to do with payment and everything to do with my kink philosophy, also shared for free.

They are enraged that I have the audacity to put anything behind a paywall. To do anything for money. All of it should be free! All of it should be theirs!

(And much like my conservative uncle who rails against social security and collects his check every month anyway, I guarantee you every one of them would happily accept money for kink if they had the power to do so. They’re not mad because they wouldn’t take money for kink; they’re mad because they think women owe them kink for free.)

The funny part, is they think they’re different. They think they’re liberated. They think kink saved them from narrow mindsets of church and society.

Look at us, broken free of society’s limited viewpoints!

[Insert snort-laugh here.]

Sorry to break it to you, baby, but you’re not different.

You’re just those same boring church deacons, this time with your dicks out. Which is kind of worse.

Even more hilarious is how you think it’s dominant to follow me around like a puppy and comment on every one of my posts. You’re that hard up, dog? You don’t have anything better to do? Tell me no women are in your DMs without telling me no women are in your DMs.

Wasting your time reading posts you hate and commenting on them every day? Omg soooo dominant. So confident. Well done, alpha sigma whatever-the-fuck new title y’all made up for yourselves this week, bro! High five! I bet all your fellow incel bros are so impressed by your quest to get blocked by all the hot women on this site.

In short, if you’re enraged by women minding their own business and doing work they love: work on your misogyny. Examine yourself. Do it QUIETLY. Those women don’t need to hear from you about your quest for basic human decency.

Let women get paid for their labor (of ANY kind). Because, good news! Ignoring things that aren’t for you is free.

And in case you need me to say it meaner to get it through that concrete skull: move along, sad, lonely boy. Time to go jerk your micro-penis while wishing you could afford me. 😘

Some of you want to know why I ask you to fill out a form instead of starting with a conversation. And I get it: for you this is one of just a few conversations you might have with potential goddesses. It’s vulnerable and exciting and thrilling. And being asked to fill out a form can feel sterile to some. Distant. When the last thing you want is distance.

But here’s the thing:

It’s not fun for me to ask 10 or 20 or 50 people per day what time zone they’re in and how they found me. I’m not excited to talk to random strangers. My inbox if full of them. And right now, that’s all you are to me.

You might be the best fit, the most amazing sub, a person I would love to play with—but I don’t know that yet. And every conversation is a demand on my time, which means the more convos I have, the more tired I am—and the less enthusiastic.

When you fill out my form, you answer all the boring, important questions (time zone, age verification link) and you get to tell me the less boring things: your kinks, your experiences, your hopes.

Instead of 5 or 10 or 15 minutes of back and forth, I can read your whole application in seconds. And chances are, I will something exciting in it.

You’re a fincuck? I love it.

You’re into tease and denial? Yes, please.

You want to play dress up with me? Let’s go, darling!

When I read the application, I get excited. And when I come into your DMs afterward, I’m already excited to talk to you.

This starts our conversation on a totally different foot. I know what questions I want to ask. I know where our kinks align. I probably already have ideas about how I’d toy with you.

The conversation will be 100% better for both of us. It will be, in short, the conversation you hoped to have in the first place.

On the other hand, if we aren’t a fit, I can say that and wish you well and neither of us wastes more time. I might even refer you to another goddess who is a better fit (I’ve done it before). Win-win.

So when I ask you to fill out my form, understand that this is not a way to keep you distant. It is a way to get myself excited, save time, and connect with the right people.

If you think that right person is you, filling out the form is best thing you can do.

Reminder: age verification ensures you aren’t accidentally playing with minors! This keeps kids safe (which should be your priority) and keeps you out of prison.

Here we go.

STEP ONE: Download the Yoti app on your phone and follow the instructions to create your account.

STEP TWO: Either upload a valid government ID OR use their facial age estimator.

(Note that they do NOT share your ID with anyone. You are in control of what information you share and with whom.)

To upload your ID, go to ID documents and choose Add.

Choose your country from the list and then select which document you want to upload.

Then you will be asked to scan a photo of the front and back of the document (or specific pages in the case of a passport). The app walks you through the process. Make sure your photos aren’t blurry or you’ll be asked to re-do this step.

STEP THREE: Once your details are approved, you can share them with dommes, content creators, and anyone else who needs age verification.

You only go through the ID song and dance one time and now you just click a couple buttons to share. This makes your life easier and everyone safer. Win-win.

Back on your home screen, tap SHARE at the top right of your screen.

Choose what info you want to share (most dommes just want birth date). Anything you don’t want to share, just don’t check the box. You can easily retain your anonymity.

Click CONTINUE to generate a link. You can then send that link to the person requesting AV.

Boom! You’re done. Simple and keeps the community safe and you stay in control of what data you share or don’t share.

Why Yoti?

Yoti is simple to use on both sides, accurately verifies age, keeps you as anonymous as you want to be, and means less hassle for me.

Someone recently asked why I chose my goddess name. Why did she resonate? Why am I her?

There’s the obvious reason of course: The Pandora of myth opened a jar that unleashed chaos and evil into the world. She’s a troublemaker, unforgettable. She’s the villain of men’s stories, the origin of feminine manipulation. Men fear her. They’re drawn to her.

The stories describe her as a “beautiful evil” (hell yeah) and “sheer guile, not to be withstood by men.”

To me, when stories use this language, they aren’t really telling me about an evil woman. They’re telling me about one who didn’t do as she was told. One who was powerful. One who stood out.

When you read the stories, you find that she’s be written and re-written, villainized and changed and willfully misunderstood over time. She started with no name. Then Pandora. She opened a jar. Then she opened a box.

Taking her name is a reclamation. A refusal to accept that what the men who wrote these stories called evil was actually evil. I believe it was power. I believe it was willfulness. I believe she was curious. And she didn’t let others stop her, dim her, take her power.

Pandora also knew her worth (“no helpmeets in hateful poverty, but only in wealth”). Another reason for the men of her time to villainize her.

And if this answer feels too erudite, there’s also that delightful, hilarious secondary answer that involves Pandora’s famous box unleashing chaos and the double-entendre that implies here.

Yesterday, I took over a man’s life.

It was the first time we played together. His first time exploring some of his kinks. And my first time exploring others.

I hadn’t cucked anyone before and had always wanted to (spoiler: it’s as fun as I expected). He was still finding the edges of his humiliation kink—where kink hit actual pain.

I told him, as I do with everyone, to choose a safe word. And then I told him if he used it, I would immediately stop what I was doing and check on him.

He didn’t think he’d need to. He told me to be as mean as possible.

And then within the first couple minutes, the safe word appeared.

I stopped. Checked in. Then continued without the element that had triggered the word.

And because he used his safe word, because we both experienced the pause, the care, the ability to exit and re-enter a scene, we both felt safer.

I could trust that he would enforce his boundaries. Which gave me more freedom to play. To know that I wouldn’t accidentally do real harm to someone who was quietly allowing it.

He could trust that using his safe word works. Not in theory but in practice. He could explore with freedom, go deeper, allow space for new things, knowing there was an escape route.

I tell you this story because it’s a reminder of the power of safe words. Not just to give the sub a way out of pain or trauma triggers. But to build trust with your domme. To give her permission to push harder, go deeper, find the edges of your joy where it turns to something else.

They are a trust tool that works both ways. A relief. A freedom.

Knowing that I can trust this sub to tell me when it really hurts means I can sink deeper into play.

What a gift.