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It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’s requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery.
–The Man with the Twisted Lip, Arthur Conan Doyle

As is the case with so many things in this life, the search for a sissy maid has proven to be far more difficult that I ever imagined.

It’s all Viviane’s fault, you see.  I live in the middle of nowhere, so my only option is to drool with jealousy that I cannot attend her legendary teas.  But I’ve heard the tales.  I especially focus on the fact that her guests are cared for by one or more sissy maids.

And I think…I need me a sissy maid.

Just think of how marvelous it would be.  A couple times a month, on nights when the children are with their father, I could open my door to my very own sissy maid.  There she would stand, resplendent in her cute little outfit, tights and heels.  I’d kiss her lightly on both cheeks, hug her warmly, and invite her inside.

I’d relax in a comfy chair while my maid would putter about in the kitchen.  She’d wipe down the spills and drips, empty out the latest load from the dishwasher, and maybe even make some headway into the never ending pile of pint-sized attire which collects on the counter.

And then, she’d make me a sandwich.

I’d expect this sandwich to be a thing of beauty.  Layers of lovingly placed turkey breast and cheese would curl on a pair of fresh cut slices of bread.  I can almost hear the click of my sissy maid’s heels as she parades back and forth to the ‘fridge, fetching the mustard and mayo.  Would she slice up a fresh tomato to top her creation?  I bet she would.  I bet she’d add some lettuce, too.

A carved wooden tray hides in the back of a cupboard; a wedding gift, it’s gotten precious little use for serving meals to me, though it is occasionally employed for kiddie tea parties.  I’d instruct my sissy maid to place my sandwich on a plate with some sliced vegetables.  And a sliced, fresh peach.  And perhaps a doily.

This she would bring to me as I worked.  I’d barely look up at her as she placed the tray on the table before me.  “Thank you honey,” I’d murmur.  “Can you get me some tea?”

“Yes mistress,” she’d say, and the click of her heels would tell me it was coming.  I’d listen with extreme pleasure to the ice cubes falling into the glass, the silky pour of liquid, the slight squeeze of fresh lemon.  I’d hold out my hand in anticipation.

When I’d eaten, I’d type-type-type away as she cleaned up my mess.  In my imagination she hums as she washes and dries my dishes, just from the sheer joy of serving.

And then I’d send her on a quick round of light cleaning.  Feather duster in hand, she’d almost prance from the table to the piano to the picture frames, lightly stroking every surface.  I’d like her to vacuum too, but a regular vacuum would be too much.

Instead, I’d provide her with a Hoky.

When she’d finished, I’d beckon her to sit at my feet.  I’d stroke her hair (if she agreed) and tell her what a fine job she’d done.

I’d think it would be easy to find someone eager to take on such a role.  But I’ve had no luck so far.  I posted on my local Craigslist, but my post was removed for “objectionable” content.  I’ve harnessed the power of my favorite naughty dating site, making it perfectly clear that this was more of a fetish rather than a sexual request, but I’ve gotten only the standard offers to bang me so hard that come would shoot out of my pores — which, while it’s an almost unbearably attractive offer, is not what I currently require.

Sigh.

So where else does one look for a sissy maid?