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Inside THE BONDAGE ROOM:

I've never cared for artsy types who take themselves too seriously. They have a built-in rebuttal for anyone who does not admire their work. One photographer told me I was "too redneck" to appreciate his self-masturbatory documentary about himself, his life, and his art. I laughed and told him that I was glad of it if that was indeed the case. He continued to hire me for years afterwards and would alternate between flattery and insults during my posing sessions to try and throw me off balance emotionally. It never worked and I think he knew my mind was always on the clock as I posed patiently for his endless photos and listened and responded to his chatter. He grew to both hate me and respect me more and more. One year he asked if I would be a live model at a "performance" that he was staging. It was a nighttime event attended by other people who were remarkably similar to himself. The kind of people I never have to see unless I'm paid to work with them or for them. At the beginning of the show he had his photo assistant blindfold me and begin tying me up with coarse rope. I wore nothing but a red satin corset, black panties, and high-heeled black pumps. The photographer began shooting me in front of his audience and interspersed his picture-taking with a loud soliloquy about the vulnerability and desperation of the nude model who would do anything for money. Later his assistant made various changes such as inserting a ballgag into my mouth, removing my blindfold, and forcibly altering my pose. With each repositioning the lighting would change and more picture-taking and monologue-delivering would ensue.

Afterwards I noticed that the small crowd seemed enthralled by the performance. I collected my $500 and went home. I knew the photographer had intended to debase me during the course of the evening. He was out $500. Some of his photos are on display inside the Bondage Room in last Saturday's Playhouse update.

-- XXOO Tanya