Mistress Matisse's Journal

Hi. So, yeah - I'm not blogging so much these days. Who knows, this blog may live again some time, but not right now.

If you're new here, check out the archives for seven years of articles about sex, BDSM, sex work, polyamory, and various other topics both sacred and profane. The last few years have tags, or employ an advanced Google search to find keywords. If it has to do with sex, I've probably written about it.

I twitter here.

My articles appear in the Seattle weekly newspaper The Stranger, and the complete archives of those articles are available here.

There are links to the right for my professional website, the Flickr feed, and various other bits of goodness about me. You can email me: MistressMatisse at gmail.com

If you've been a regular reader of mine - thank you! Your support has always meant a lot to me, and it continues to do so.

The latest column in The Stranger, about the way one should measure one's success as a top.

And an answer to a question about collars and the subtleties of BDSM relationships.

Under My Protection and Collars of Consideration

I saw some questions about this on a kink community board I’m on, so I’m using them as a blog-prompt for myself.

Q: When someone says, “So-and-so is under my protection”, what does that mean?

That phrase may or may not mean that two people involved are playing together. The general translation of that sentiment, in my mind, is: “I’m fond of this person, and either because of his/her newness to kink, or just general emotional issues, I perceive her/him as being vulnerable to predatory personalities. So go ahead and chat them up, it’s all good, but just be aware: you fuck with them, you’re fucking with me. And you don’t want to fuck with me.”

Your mileage may vary, of course. But that’s more or less what it means when I say it.


Q: What is a Collar of Consideration?

A tiresome bit of pretentiousness? Collars of Consideration, indeed. What am I, a kinky seminary or something?

Oh, all right, I don’t really mean that. I mean: I don’t do that sort of thing myself. I don’t generally use collars very much at all. (Although they are pretty to look at, and sometimes useful, too.) Some other people place a lot of meaning in them, and that’s fine. And whatever you want to call them is also fine with me - as long as you don’t pretend that there is some sort of universally agreed-upon BDSM system of ranking the person wearing them according to the title of the collar, or its color, or its material, or anything like that, because there is not.

I suppose you could say a “Collar of Consideration” might be the kink version of a Promise Ring – the people involved are engaged to be engaged, if you will, in a committed D/s relationship. That would be my take on that.

As always in BDSM, when in doubt, politely say to the person you're talking to, "I don't want to be rude, but I'm not sure I understand the etiquette here - can you tell me what that means, exactly?" That'll pretty much cover you no matter what.

(Originally published April 2010)

Labels: advice, bdsm dynamics, column

I have neglected the blog lately, so here's a bit of catch-up. A Stranger column about Why Nerds Rule The BDSM Community . And the one before that, about How Not To Have An Open Relationship.

Now, the podcasts. I know you like the podcasts, I read all the emails you send me about them, and that is great, because TwistedMonk and I like doing them. There have been technical problems, but Monk has wrestling manfully with the issues for months. It has been crazy-difficult to get iTunes to update the data, but we think - emphasis on the think - we have it all fixed. (With the fabulous assistance of another sexy podcaster.) So I'm publishing a fresh one to my hosting site to test it out. Please cross your fingers that iTunes recognizes it and updates the listing on their site. If not - well, back to the drawing board.

Labels: advice, bdsm dynamics, column, kinky life, polyamory

Been missing my podcasts? They are soon to return, but meanwhile, enjoy me on Dan Savage's podcast, Savage Love!

Labels: links, podcast

Another of the Blog Greatest Hits: Occasionally the tables are unexpectedly turned on the the Mistress...

***

So I got handled by a lot of strange women yesterday. And I spent a lot of money for the privilege, too.

Let me back up a bit. I have had hardly anyone booked to see me this week. Usually when it’s slow I try to shake the tree a little, entice some more people into my clutches. But this week I just decided to say the heck with it and let it be slow. I have been taking care of a lot of little personal chores, and I decided to book a bunch of time-consuming girlie-maintenance stuff. I have a facial today at the Calidora Spa in U Village, for example. I like the facials I get at my dermatologist's office, but you have to book so far in advance there, and of course they have no evenings or weekends, so I thought I’d go see if Calidora was any good. Wish me luck that they don't do something terrible to my face.

But yesterday I got a manicure and pedicure at this little salon near The Big House, called Hoa. I’ve been getting my nails done there for a few months now, and they’re very nice.

They were particularly nice yesterday. I am a heavy tipper, especially with spa-type service stuff. If you’ve ever hustled for tips as a major chunk of your income, then you know how really happy it makes you when someone is generous, so I am. I think word has gotten around about that at Hoa. They always massage your legs up to the knee when they give you the pedicure, and they usually massage your arms up the elbow. But I got what seemed like an extra-long foot and leg massage, and the girl doing my hands was rubbing up my arms, to my shoulders, and then my neck. It was extremely blissful.

I said as much to the girl massaging my shoulders. Many of the ladies there do not seem to speak a whole lot of English, although it’s sometimes a little hard to tell. But she understood my smile and my sigh, and she smiled back at me and rubbed more firmly. Seeing us, the girl doing my feet smiled too. I mentally added another five dollars to both their tips.

So I’m sitting there is this big black massage-chair with the rollers going up and down my back, with one girl massaging my feet and legs and another lady massaging my arms and shoulders, thinking, “This is like sex.” And then I thought, “Actually, this is like being the client of a sex worker. And I am totally fine with that.”

An hour later I emerged from Hoa, fingers and toes gleaming, and went to Nordstrom to just quickly return a bra I’d bought online that didn’t fit. Or so I thought.

I gave the bra and receipt to the salesgirl. She said, “Did you want to get something else?”

I replied, “Well, I’m looking for a bra with a really smooth line for under tight knits. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Have you been fitted here before?”

I admitted I had not.

Well, that would never do. Ignoring my unfinished protests, the salesgirl conducted me to the dressing rooms, led me into a little cubicle and closed the door, brandishing her tape measure. “Let’s just have you take off your shirt.”

Meekly I obeyed. She turned me around and lassoed me with the tape. “First we’ll just get your rib cage measurement.” I could feel her breath on my hair.

“Okay,” she said briskly. “I’ll be right back with the Measuring Bra.” I wondered if the Measuring Bra was like The Sorting Hat. Was it going to sing a song about my boobs?

She returned with a beige lacy bra that looked like something my grandmother would have worn, with big high cups. I must have looked dubious, because she said, “Oh, it’s just the Measuring Bra. We’ll find you some different ones. But let’s just take you out of that bra and put you in this one.”

I thought, I just laid eyes on this girl ten minutes ago and she’s telling me to take off my clothes. And I’m doing it. Is this how people feel when they come see me?

I took off my bra. The salesgirl - or Mistress Underwire, as I was beginning to think of her - eyed my breasts and held out the Measuring Bra to me. I have never had anyone hold out a bra for me to slide my arms into, it was sort of strange. I had to step up fairly close to her to get all the way in. Hi there. Nice perfume. Then she turned me around and hooked me up in back.

“Now I want you to just bend over at the waist.”

Okay…. I’d heard about this, actually, bra fitters telling you to bend over. So I did. It was a small room, not much bigger than a closet, and my ass bumped into her hips slightly. In the mirror, I had a glimpse of her standing up close behind me, adjusting the straps, as I leaned forward. I have a mirror hung next to my spanking bench in my dungeon, and I see myself in that position with people a lot – only I’m the one standing up straight. But not, until now, had I ever seen anyone posed like that in a Nordie’s dressing room.

She had me stand up and turn around. The Goddess Of Uplift studied my breasts thoughtfully, tugged at the sides of the bra slightly, and then said, “Let me just…” And stuck her hand into the cup and repositioned my boob. Then she put her fingers under the cups of the bra and shook my breast gently. And then she did the same with the other one.

Now, I wasn’t upset by this, you understand. I was quite clear it was all in the line of duty. But – you have to admit it’s a bit funny. Maybe it’s just me, but I couldn’t help thinking, Um, yeah, you’re playing with my breasts, there. Just sayin’.

I think it would have been different if I’d come in expecting that. But since I didn’t, I was a bit bemused by having a strange woman dressing me up in lingerie and arranging my boobs - which she referred to as "breast tissue" - to her satisfaction.

Of course, I'd been wearing the wrong size bra. I think you always are when you go to a bra fitter. I thought of myself as hovering between a big B cup and a small C. But according this lady - no, that was wrong, I should wear a D. Which is hard for me to fathom, but okay, bring them on, I'll try them.

So the Demi-Cup Domina went away and came back with an armful of bras, and matching panties for everything, plus some yummy blue lace lingerie, since I’d mentioned that to her. And she tugged and shook and got me properly strapped into everything. She was a positive whirl of Nordstrom-ly helpfulness, in a sort of just-do-as-I-say-and-no-one-gets-hurt sort of way.

I’m kidding, really. She was fine and she found me a lot of stuff I needed. Obviously one doesn’t tip salespeople, but I hope she gets a nice commission off me.

She’d probably make a really good dominatrix, though, if she ever wanted to go that way.

Originally published May 2008.

Labels: blog greatest hits, kinky life

I’m expecting a bit of heat from the blogosphere about my Stranger column on Ms. Nickie Blue’s recent video for Kink.com. Here’s a few points that my 500-word-limit didn’t allow me to make...

Yes, I did trade some email with Nickie Blue. She’s a lovely woman, she seems like a charming person, and I wish her the best in her career.

I have some thoughts about the video as a piece of erotic art, separate from the offstage controversy. But I will save my review of the video, lest those remarks get mixed up with this.

Whether people think Ms. Blue is, or is not, a “real” virgin because she’s had anal sex doesn’t matter to me. She says she hasn’t had vaginal penetration before, and I am certainly not going to contradict her. For one thing, that would be mean-spirited and presumptuous. For another, I watched the video of her having sex with Mark Davis, Jack Hammer* and James Deen. There are certain unmistakable facial expressions, noises, and body language that any woman who has ever had and/or seen uncomfortable vaginal penetration will recognize. They are not easy to fake convincingly, and Ms. Blue displayed them exactly. That was a not a woman who’s had lots of vaginal sex just flexing her Kegels. So I’m just fine with her identifying herself as a virgin.

On one level, I have no problem with Ms. Blue creating her porn-star brand around her virginity. It seems obvious that from a business standpoint, she’s going to need a new schtick soon, but that’s not a major problem. I re-invented myself in the sex work industry half a dozen times or more – most sex workers do. I respect Ms. Blue’s acumen in identifying a marketable feature of herself and capitalizing on it. She’s clearly tenacious and driven, and those are very good traits indeed for an entrepreneur.

But I also have a strongly held opinion that sex work, like BDSM and polyamory, is advanced sexual behavior. It is not a place to learn the basics. It is not a place for virgins.

You see, in business, there is something called opportunity cost. That means: the cost of an alternative that must be forgone in order to pursue a certain action. It also refers to the benefits you could have received by taking an alternative action. And in sex work, an opportunity cost can be emotional.

So I’m not saying oh, virginity is this sacred thing. But people generally benefit from learning to do new, emotionally-loaded, intimate things in a low-stress setting, with people they trust. Ms. Blue will incur an emotional opportunity cost for experiencing vaginal penetration for the first time in a highly stressful setting with men with whom she did not choose and with whom she had no emotional connection.

Only a woman who has a certain amount of sexual experience can make a reasonable judgment on how she will feel about, say, having sex with a stranger. Or having sex in front of an audience. Or both. A sexually inexperienced woman has no basis for predicting how she’ll react emotionally in the situation. Thus, it’s unrealistic for her to expect to be able to regulate her feelings about it, either in the moment or after the fact. (Of course, even having sexual experience is not a guarantee it’s going to be a positive thing for her.)

So I hope Ms. Blue’s emotional opportunity cost for this performance was low, and that her gain from it, both in terms of her paycheck and boosting her future career, is high. But that will be the result of luck rather than an informed opinion, and luck is not something she should rely on in this game.

Something I observed in reading other sex workers writings on this: Sex work activists don’t like to talk about the emotional costs of doing sex work very much. I’m sure it’s because it would be easy for anti-SW readers to perceive us as saying that sex work is emotionally damaging to women. That’s not at all what I’m saying.

But sex work is one of the many jobs which requires what sociologist Arlie Hochschild called "emotional labor" and emotional regulation. Sexual emotional-intelligence, in other words. For some women, sex work speaks to a particular set of talents and skills we possess, and the challenges of it are, overall, interesting and positive for us. For other women, that’s not the case.

So you should not do porn, or any kind of sex work, to explore your sexuality. A happy and emotionally-healthy sex worker is someone with the tools and the desire to facilitate other people exploring their sexuality. As you go along in sex work, you’ll learn what particular types of sexuality you most enjoy participating in, and gravitate towards the appropriate setting for that. But getting into corporate porn to "explore your sexuality" is rather like joining the military to explore your issues with aggression and formalized hierarchies. You certainly will get an education, but it’s unlikely to be a smooth and enjoyable process.

Virgins aspiring to sex work, think it like this: Actors rehearse, athletes train, and musicians practice. If you want your sexuality to enrich the lives of other people, and you want to be happy doing so, learn your skills in private. Then go forth and make the world a sexier place.

Labels: sex work

I continue to mine my own archives to bring ya'll some long-form amusement... This is a story about what happens when women cruise each other. Originally posted Saturday, February 05, 2005.

Maybe I Should Get A Septum Piercing Or Something…

Because I must look too normal. I realized this last Wednesday evening when I was changing clothes in the locker room at Gold's on Broadway after my workout. A woman I'd not seen around before walked in, set down her bag on the next bench over from mine and started getting her gear out.

She was a very butch woman – I mean, so butch you might have mistaken her for a guy. Unless, of course you'd spent a lot of time around butch women, the way I have. Most of my female lovers have been pretty butchy. I've always enjoyed that feminine-blending-into-masculine energy. And then I married a transman, so I'm well-acquainted with all the shades of gender expression a female-bodied person can achieve.

I was struck by this particular woman because she very closely resembled an ex-lover of mine, whom I just saw last week for the first time in – god, it must be well over a year. Frankly, although I wish her well, it's always a little unsettling for me to see her. (Especially when she flirts with me, as she did last week.) This woman and I went through a couple of rather tumultuous cycles of breaking-up/getting-back-together, and while I wouldn't exactly say she broke my heart, she chipped it a bit. It was a highly emotional connection for me, and while it's been about eight years since we broke up the last time, seeing her still arouses in me an uncomfortable mix of affection and pain.

So I suppose this woman in the Gold's locker room must have seen me glance at her a couple of times, and maybe she caught an odd expression on my face, because she turned to me, and said in this half-defensive, half-condescending tone of voice, "Yes, I am a woman."

Christ, I thought, do you have me pegged wrong. Aloud I said, "Yes, I was just thinking you look kinda like my ex-girlfriend."

She had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed, muttered something vaguely apologetic and retreated to the bathroom stalls.

But I thought, God, do I look that straight? That's scary. Okay, I don't have a labrys tattooed on my ass, but still… And I know butch women get a lot of shit for walking around in the world looking and acting like they do. But for god's sake, we're on Broadway, in the queer Mecca – lighten up, sister. I hate to think how you'd have reacted if I'd been cruising you.

I related this story to Max over dinner, and then we recalled another women's locker room story of mine that's rather at the other end of the scale. We used to work out at Olympic Athletic Club in Ballard, and they have a big, sort of open shower/hot tub area in the women's locker room. Now, Ballard's not a big gay area, but one day when Max and I were working out, I spotted two cute women who were clearly queer, and lovers. One of them I'd describe as a tomboy-femme, and the other – well, let's call her butch-of-center. Nice, I thought, and then went on through my workout.

Later, I got undressed in the locker room and went down the tiled passage to the showers. As I walked, I saw the two cute lesbians sitting in the hot tub, facing me. Now, contrary to porn-video fantasy, women rarely cruise other women, and almost never jump each other in places like, say, gym showers. But still, these two women were most certainly…watching me walk towards them. I could almost hear the strains of "Standing on the corner, watching all the girls go by…"

I took in the fact that they were looking at me, and I happened to be in the mood to play along. So as I walked towards them, I let the towel I was sort of casually holding up to myself slip down a bit to see if I got any reaction.

Definitely watching me. That's nice. Now, the showers are arranged in a semi-circle around the hot tub, so when I got there, I stopped about three feet away from the tub and let the towel fall away from my nude body completely, as I paused to wrestle with the complex issue of just which shower stall I should go into.

Hmm, let's see – that one? (Perform180 degree swivel, toss the hair, arch the back a little bit.) Or, no, maybe that one over there? (Turn back the other way, shoulders back, deep breath.)

I watched from the corner of my eye - they both had smiles well-laced with sensual appreciation, and the butchy one giggled slightly, which caused her girlfriend to jab her in the ribs with her elbow.

Without quite making eye contact, I let a slight smile hover around my lips. Then I hung up my towel on a hook and stepped into one of the stalls.

But - what's this? It looks like someone left a bottle of shampoo in here. Huh, imagine that. Gee, I wonder if it belongs to anyone…

I stepped back out of the stall and took a few steps towards the women in the hot tub, holding out the shampoo bottle. I made eye contact with them, smiled slowly, and then said, in my best magnolia-blossom drawl, I asked, "Is this ya'lls shampoo?"

The butch woman stared at me wordlessly for a moment, like she'd been struck by lightning. It was charming. Then, as if reflexively, she shook her head and said, "No."

But the minute after she said it, she sort of squeezed her eyes closed and put her hand up over her face. You could see her mentally kicking herself and thinking, "Fuck! Why did I say that?"

The femme gave her an affectionate, pitying smile and said to me in velvety tones, "Oh – I'm not sure… Can I see it?" and held out her hand to me.

So I walked closer to her, letting my hips sway a trifle more than is my custom, bent over the tub slightly – barely audible intake of breath from the butch – and handed the femme the white plastic bottle. As I hung over the water, the steam rose gently from the tub, misting my face with warm, dewy beads. She turned the bottle over in her hands a few times, and then looked up at me.

"No, I don't think it's ours," she said. But she didn't hand it back to me. She just looked at me.

It's hard to say what would have happened if we’d been alone. Based on my experience of how non-casual-sex-oriented most women are, I can't really make myself believe these women would have seriously made a pass at me – but I suppose anything's possible.

However, we were not alone in the locker room, and at that moment, another woman walked into the shower area. I cocked an eyebrow and smiled at the femme, who gave the tiniest shrug and smile and handed me back the bottle. The butch woman sank a little lower in the water and grinned sheepishly at me from under her wet bangs. I went and took my shower, and when I came out, they were gone. A droll and gently erotic little exchange that left me smiling.

Labels: my non-kink life

Just to show ya'll that I have not abandoned you: a repost of a scene Jae and I reminisced about the other day - spanking the Bicycle Man. The photos are not for the faint of heart.

Smack

Now, not everybody I see is into heavy intense sensation. But I do have a handful of boys who like it as heavy as I can dish it out.

I’ve written about this kind of scene before, and that may have been what prompted a gentlemen I’ll call the Bicycle Man to come see me. Like the guy in the column, Bicycle Man also likes impact on the ass, just as hard as I can do it. (I can actually get him to the "enough" point, though.)

There are so many different pleasures in BDSM - I could never settle for just one. But there is something viscerally satisfying about hitting something as hard as you can, and since I’m a sadist, I particularly like it when that something is a nicely responsive human body.

And since I’m a generous person, I decided that Jae should meet Bicycle Man, too. I'm strictly a gym queen when it comes to athletics, but Jae played softball in high school and college. Golf, too. She’s got a serious swing.

The three of us had a great time. Wanna see? (The usual disclaimers apply…)

Me lining up the stroke.

She swings and…

The bounce-back.

I do sort of bat like a girl, though, don't I? Jae has great follow-through.

We did catch one stroke just at the moment of impact.

But Jae and I are sure we could capture still more spanking art, so the Bicycle Man will just have to come see us again sometime…

(Original Post: Tuesday, April 17, 2007)

Labels: bdsm techniques, Jae, scenes, spanking

I've been really bad about not updating recently. And this URL is due for a big overhaul soon, so if you see it changing, don't panic. The content will not be going away, it'll just look different, that's all.

Meanwhile, the two most recent Stranger columns, for those of ya'll who missed them. Why Don't Men Wear Strap-Ons? and What's In/What's Out 2011.

Happy New Year!

Labels: column

Two important points before you read this. One: in this blog post, I make some sweeping, gender-based generalizations, and I make them in a somewhat tongue-in-cheek manner. I am aware that not every man or woman feels, thinks and acts in the ways I mention. This is a light-hearted blog post, not a feminist manifesto, so don’t get your gender-neutral panties in a twist, please.

And two: naturally every man of my acquaintance is an exception to all these statements. Naturally I’m not talking about any man I have ever known personally here. My goodness no.

Dear Mistress Matisse

I'm a 27y/o submissive bisexual woman in a D/s relationship with a dominant man named Tom. We were both fairly inexperienced when we met, and sort of stumbled into finding out we were both kinky. It's been really great. We're well matched and are enjoying trying out every little thing our perverted minds can come up with.

However, part of my sexual history has been pretty unpleasant. I was in an abusive relationship for nearly two years, and I had crappy experiences when I was growing up due to a combination of naivete and skeevy bastards. I've dealt with it in therapy and I certainly don't consider it as defining my sexuality. But it is there, and anyone I get into bed with gets a disclaimer: I have triggery points, and although I want to enjoy myself with you something we do may hit them. This history doesn't really have anything to do with kinky sex, and working through it has been more about learning to trust partners in general than anything else.

In getting closer to Tom I've shared more of that history with him. However, he hasn't ever really dealt with this sort of thing before- he grew up a bit sheltered, and has never been close to someone who's been working through, say, depression or trauma. Dealing with this freaks him out a little, and he doesn't really know what to do. It's not that he doesn't want to be there in the event that I need him, and I've said that I would tell him what I need in the event that something does come up. Honestly, it's happened just once in the time we've known each other (nearly a year now) and most of the time all I need is a cup of tea and some time alone/a hug. But it's the idea of psychological instability, no matter how minor, that unsettles him.

But since I talked about that part of my history (and really not anything near what I would consider the worst of it) he's been treating me differently in session. It feels like he's holding back and not doing everything that he wants to. I think that he's worried about bringing up bad history, but it's pretty frustrating. I don't want him to treat me with kid gloves- that's hardly the point of this endeavor. But it also makes me feel like he doesn't trust me enough to tell him if something's getting too intense, or as though he feels like he needs to take responsibility for my feelings. While I love that he doesn't want to hurt me (in the bad way) I really don't like that. He's said that he doesn't want me to ever get to the point where I need to use my safeword- that part of being a good dom is being able to know if something's getting too intense, that him crossing that line would be a personal failing on his part (and yes, he used the words 'personal failing'). I disagree - sometimes shit happens in session. It's not pleasant, but you move along and get back on the horse, assuming that things haven't been royally fucked up. And I wouldn't be playing with him in the first place if I thought he was the kind of person with whom things could get really bad.

I really like this guy, but I'm not sure what to do about this. Is it an intimacy thing that needs to happen over time? Am I missing something really obvious? Any advice would be greatly appreciated.

This is not a wildly unusual situation. You’re both new at this. He’s still building his confidence as a top. Most people have to do that when they first start out, that’s normal. There’s not a magic-bullet answer for this, it’s simply a matter of time and experience.

You may, in all innocence, have overshared a bit and spooked him. It makes a top - especially male tops - nervous when you spend a lot of time telling them about how you might freak out if this or that happens. Believe me, everyone has their triggery points. We know this is emotionally intense stuff - that is why it’s hot. If it's true that all you’d need is tea, space, or a hug, then in the future, go light on the foreshadowing and just ask for that if it comes up.

I do think there’s a broader context to this, although you may not care for my ideas on the subject. But here goes: consider the possibility that you’re overthinking this - and that you’re being a bit controlling, too. You talk about wanting him to trust you – what would it look like if you decided to trust him, and his process? What if you said to yourself, “Okay, I want Tom to feel and behave this certain way, both because it would align with my wishes and because I think he’d like it too. But he isn’t choosing to do that. However, he communicates to me, both verbally and by continuing to do scenes with me, that he is enjoying what we do. I’ve told him what is true for me. Now I am going to stop second-guessing him and trust that he is the best and highest authority on what’s best for him right now.”

Luckily, whether it’s his nerves or you being too controlling, or a combination of both, the solution is the same: stop trying to do anything. Whatever is in Tom’s head is not yours to deal with. The thing you have complete control over is your own behavior. So you can choose to play with him, or not. You can ask for certain activities, or not. And then you can accept that Tom is the sort of top, and the sort of man, that he is. Or – not.

Here is where I go off on a tangent that’s not directed at the writer herself, but more at the culture in general. The idea that a woman can change how her male partner feels about things annoys me. Of course, I don't think anyone should try to control any other person's feelings, regardless of gender. But I get a lot of letters that sound much like this - and they are always from women. Men have their own brand of bad habits (Lord knows I have discussed them extensively here), but I just cannot imagine a guy writing me this sort of letter.

I place the blame on women’s magazines, publishing all those stupid articles about Ten Tips For Fixing Whatever The Hell Is Wrong With Your Man! It’s sort of borderline when said fixes are purely external. I have known and loved men who I thought really needed a different haircut, or some clothes from, say, the current decade. That’s minor stuff, and some men are happy to have a woman tactfully offer help with such things. Some aren’t, and then you have to either deal with it or not. But he couldn’t be that awful, or you wouldn’t be with him in the first place, right?

However, I strongly disagree with the idea that a woman should try to redesign the inside of a man’s head. If you want a romance with someone who thinks just like you, date other women. Men are different from us. Really. Their view of the world is neither better or worse than ours, it just – is. I myself think men are sort of like the Federal government. They do certain important jobs really well, but it’s best to keep their official duties simply defined. As far as I am concerned, the duties of the men in my life are: lift heavy things, defend me from hostile insects and rodents, tell me that I’m beautiful, and make with the sexy.

Perhaps there are some refinements to those tasks - cooking dinner, helping me with my taxes, clearing paths through crowds, et cetera. But I think with men, it’s best to stick to job requirements that are observable to the naked eye. If you tell a man what you wish to have done, he’ll either do it, or else he won’t. But if it's something both of you can see, then it's easier to discuss. Telling a man you want him to feel differently is hard to measure, and doing so rarely yields a satisfactory result for anyone, in my experience.

Again, I’m being somewhat flippant in how I’m expressing this. However, I am serious when I say: it is a mistake to try to get someone to change how he thinks and feels. If you don’t already like how he thinks and feels, then why are you with him?

So you want a tip, ladies? Here’s a tip: take the man, or leave him, just like he is. You want to fix something around your house? Re-upholster your couch. Or clean out the gutters, or organize your spice cabinet, or whatever. But fixing up a man? Bad idea.

Labels: advice, bdsm dynamics, letters, relationships

I have something for both the poly people and the kinky people today. And if you're both, go you!

Seattle people: My darling Max is teaching a class this Sunday from 2-5pm: Rope Bondage 201. Like all of Max's classes, it will be partly about techniques, and partly about the abstract elements of a scene. And it will be wholly awesome, so you should go. More info, here.

And: the latest Stranger column, about unproductive behaviors that certain types of male/female couples fall into, when seeking a woman to join them. How Not To Be A Dunning-Kruger Couple.

Labels: advice, bdsm dynamics, bdsm techniques, column, Max, polyamory, relationships

As I muse today about how the important people in my life have a habit of evolving outside of the boundaries I anticipated placing around the relationship... Please enjoy a story about me, Max and Jae, originally published here, in July 2004.


Me, Max, and Jae

As Max and I approach the fifth anniversary of our first date, I’ve been thinking about the fact that if my submissive, Jae, didn’t have such a big clitoris, Max and I might never have gone on that date at all.

Max and I had been encountering each other socially in the BDSM community for a while before the thought crept into my head: You know, he’s actually sort of attractive. I examined that idea with surprise, because Max belongs to a group of people I had, until that time, regarded with a distinct coolness. He’s a heterosexual male dominant.

Understand, it wasn’t that I thought that all straight male tops were jerks. Just most of the ones I’d met. As my acquaintance with Max progressed, I liked him more and more. But I was baffled—his behavior didn’t match my concept of a straight Master. He never engaged in verbal pissing matches with other dominants over who had the biggest kinky repertoire. He didn’t act as if every submissive woman was his potential conquest. And he didn’t leer at Jae and me with that sleazy can-I-watch? energy when he saw us together at parties. There was something almost irritating about his refusal to be an overbearing twit. Being sexually attracted to a walking, talking challenge to your assumptions really isn’t the most comfortable state of mind.

Jae noticed. “That Max guy—you like him, don’t you, Mistress?”

I shrugged. “He’s okay—I mean, for a breeder-boy top. But it’s easy to be cool when you’re just chatting at an event. I bet he’d be different if he was playing.” As I said the words, an idea formed in my mind. “Yeah, I bet he would be different. And I think we should see for ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I should set up a little test for Max. Sure, he’s Mr. Suave if we’re just talking, but I want to see what he’s like when he’s playing with a cute girl.” I gave Jae a meaningful stare.

She grinned. “I’m game.”

So, a few nights later at a play party, I asked Max to help me do some rope bondage—his specialty—on Jae, as part of a longer scene between she and I. Unaware of the undercurrents, Max agreed and we decided we’d tie Jae to one of my favorite bondage props, a six-foot, solid wooden stretcher.

I took her aside. “Okay, are you ready?”

She nodded. “Want me to get naked?”

“Yeah. No, wait—let’s give the guy a break, there’s absolutely no way he’ll be able to maintain with your coochie in his face. Leave your panties on.”

“Whoops,” she said. “I’m not wearing any.”

I rolled my eyes. “I should have known. All right, I think there’s a stray pair at the bottom of my toy bag, go dig through there and put them on.”

She went off, and Max and I set up for the scene. The plan was to essentially lace Jae to the board with ropes, so that we could then stand the board up and lean it—and Jae—against the wall.

She returned, wearing a black lace thong that I recognized as a pair I’d used as a gag in another scene. Doubtless a little the worse for wear, but perfectly serviceable as a fig leaf. Or so I thought.

Jae lay down on the board and we began to wind the ropes tightly around her body. Max displayed no particular interest in Jae’s near-nudity, directing his attention mainly to me as he talked about types of ropes and knots. I chatted back at first, but as we were tying her legs, I became distracted by a wardrobe malfunction. Not mine—Jae’s. Each time we wrapped rope around her legs and hips, the fabric of the panties was pulled more tightly, and it was becoming obvious that there was a small rip in the stretchy lace. And that rip was pretty much dead-center over her clit.

In a lesser woman, this might not be so bad. But Jae likes to call herself “well-endowed,” and while I haven’t gone around measuring other women’s clits to get a statistical sample, I think she’s right. I could already see a bit of pink flesh just barely contained by the fraying fabric.

“I think we should stand the board up, and then put some more rope through her legs, to support her,” said Max calmly.

Nothing in his tone or his manner suggested that he’d noticed anything unusual about Jae’s underwear, or, in fact, that he was noticing Jae’s body in any sexual way at all. I felt that now-familiar flicker of annoyance that he wasn’t living down to my expectations. As we got on either side of the board to lift it upright and set it against the wall, I thought, All right, cool cat. You’re doing good so far. But let’s see how you handle this.

Aloud I said, “Okay, why don’t you show me how to do it.”

He picked up a coil of rope and knelt down in front of the board, with his face roughly even with Jae’s waist. He threaded the rope through the handles of the board and then between Jae’s spread-apart legs, creating a harness for her lower body. And when he tightened the ropes in the creases between her thighs and the outer edges of the thong, it happened. The tension of the ropes overstressed the already-stretched fabric, and it ripped open to reveal Jae’s labia and clit, squeezed forward by the pressure of the ropes holding her in place.

So much for the fig leaf, I thought. The contrast between the black lace and the pink flesh was quite striking—I could not have drawn more attention to Jae’s clit if I’d painted red concentric circles around it. And with Max on his knees in front of her, his face was about six inches away from the target.

I crossed my arms and waited. Now he’ll say something stupid, I thought. How could he not? Her clit looks like Pinocchio’s nose, for God’s sake.

He finished tying off the line and stood up. “I think she’ll be okay for a while like that, but you’ll want to watch her to make sure it’s not too much pressure on her femoral artery.” He smiled at me. “Let me know if you need any help getting the board back down.” And then he walked away.

“Well, fuck me,” I said softly. I looked at Jae. “Did you see that? He didn’t even blink. Your pussy pops out like a jack-in-the-box and he doesn’t say shit. That’s impressive.”

“Maybe he’s gay,” said Jae, a trifle sulkily.

“Oh honey, it’s not that you’re not pretty. I think he just has very good manners.” And I think I’m going to have to reevaluate my whole position on straight male dominants.

An hour later, I found Max and handed him a coil of rope. “I think this is yours. And thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome. And thanks for asking me, it was fun.”

I smiled at him. “So, I was wondering, would you like to go do coffee sometime?"

Labels: bdsm dynamics, Jae, polyamory, relationships

I have a new Stranger column up, and I’m expecting some blowback from it, either on the Stranger page or elsewhere on the web, because I am pushing a hot button: I am suggesting that the BDSM instructors should not teach – or even demonstrate – high risk practices in short, beginner-accessible classes. So you should read that column first, because the rest of this post discusses it.

This column sprung from attending a breathplay class taught by Lee Harrington here in Seattle recently, part of which made me uneasy. Let me emphasize here that Lee showed us a lot of fun, no/low risk ways to limit or change the way someone breathes. Lee is a very engaging speaker/performer, and has a lot of good things to say about the psychology and theatre of breathplay. It was only part of the class troubled me, and that was the part with demonstrations of strangling, and the part where Lee put a plastic bag over his head and taped it around his neck.

The good part of this was how well Lee Harrington – with whom I’ve been acquainted for some years – took my criticism. He listened to my opinion thoughtfully and without defensiveness, and we had a really good dialogue about it privately. For now, he’s not teaching the class as a stand-alone offering. Handling criticism well takes grace and maturity, and Lee displayed an impressive level of both. I respect that a lot.

Breathplay is a touchy issue for BDSM people. Even the mere word breathplay is tricky. It’s a bit like the word “bondage” – it covers a very broad range of activity. Let me reiterate that I have no problem with the milder end of breathplay, either doing it or teaching it.

However, as with every kind of BDSM, there is a scale of intensity and risk in breathplay. And there are specific practices at the high end of the overall activity where the risk of harm is so high and so uncontrollable that I don’t think they should be taught to a general audience. Strangling people unconscious, or suffocating them unconscious with a plastic bag or some similar thing like plastic wrap, is very high risk. I think BDSM educators should be actively discouraging those behaviors.

And I don’t think it’s repressive, or a waste of time to do that. This is not about shaming people for their turn-ons, or preaching a just-say-no sermon. It’s no different than Max teaching people not to suspend people by just their wrists. Yes, it looks cool, you see it in the movies, and there are porn pictures of it online, but in real life, that’s likely to damage someone’s hands in a severe and/or permanent way, so he instructs people not to do that. There are other ways to tie people up that are hot and sexy and far less likely to result in physical damage.

In the same way, there are ways to play with breathing that are far less likely to result in someone being harmed. That’s what we should be teaching people to do. I have no illusions that everyone will stop doing intense strangling and suffocation. But I believe that the BDSM community can and should influence some people towards safer types of play.

For some people, the idea that they are deliberately and purposefully risking death is part of the thrill of strangling and suffocation. They feel it’s the ultimate expression of trust, although I don’t quite understand how it expresses trust when a lot of risk is beyond the conscious control of the top. Doing a scene like that - one where, if things go wrong, someone dies on the spot - is called edgeplay, and I admit openly it’s not my kink. But obviously if you like playing with the possibility of death, then safer breathplay will not appeal to you.

Fans of strangling like to invoke martial-arts masters as examples of how choke-holds can be done safely. To them I say: if you and your partner are, in fact, both martial-arts masters who have been trained in this, then yes, you can assess your risk differently. (I say both because being schooled in how to respond to a choke-hold in a way that minimizes damage is part of why that works as well as it does.) And doing even a properly-executed chokehold while alone with a sexual partner is still a different situation than doing it in a ring surround by judges and officials, and with emergency medical help standing by. But I acknowledge that some people have superior training.

However, the vast majority of people in the world - including me - are actually not trained martial-arts masters. For us, using martial-arts masters as an example for what’s safe in breathplay is a bit like using professional racecar drivers as an example of what’s safe to do while driving I-5.

So to my mind, if you want to be educated in how to apply chokeholds, then go to martial-arts school. It will take longer than two hours, for sure, and it will involve more effort than you just showing up and sitting on a folding chair. (And way more than - sweet Jesus - reading about it and watching porn of it online.)

But guess what? Gaining true mastery of any BDSM technique takes work. If you want to do high-risk play, but you care so little for your partner’s safety that you’re not willing to spend time, effort and money to learn as much as you possibly can about how to do it, then I don’t have much respect for you as a player.

I have some other thoughts about the culture of breathplay as a part of the BDSM community – there are a few curious anomalies about it that I want to discuss with some people I know and respect who do breathplay. And I’m actually pondering a follow-up column to this one, if I can get a Seattle-area martial-arts instructor to answer some interview questions for me about learning and using chokeholds. So look for more questions and analysis about this in days to come…

EDITED: I think free-diving school would be the best way to learn about suffocation. Obviously it's slightly different being in the water versus having a bag over your head, but it's my opinion that the science of it would be similar enough to make that practice slightly less high-risk.

Labels: advice, bdsm dynamics, bdsm techniques, column

A random silly story…

Regular readers know I like champagne, and lately one of my favorite brands has become hard to find. Billecart-Salmon Brut Rose is it's name, and there’s apparently some issues with suppliers/distributors here in Washington. Very annoying. Thus, anytime I’m someplace that sells wine, I’ve taken to checking to see if they have any inventory sitting on the shelf.

Yesterday I was in the QFC on Broadway, buying some mundane items for the house, and I walked by the little glassed-in room where they keep the pricier wine. By chance, it was unlocked, so I stepped inside to just see if there was any of my pretty pink bubbly. I figured it was a long shot, but hey, worth checking.

I was studying the shelves of champagne when the wine steward - a dark-haired guy, rather nice-looking - walked up and politely inquired if he could help me.

“I’m looking for Billecart-Salmon rose. I don’t see any here, but if you have any bottles that aren’t out, I’ll take them.”

Now, sometimes when I’m in a non-kinky setting, I’ll say something, and without my meaning for it to, it’ll come out sounding rather… Mistress-Matisse-y. I don’t know why. An occupational hazard, I suppose. It wasn’t like I snapped my fingers at the guy or anything. I just accidentally dropped into a bit of the command-voice, you might say.

And he heard it. He paused in what he was about to say and regarded me quizzically, but with good humor. Then his eyes dropped to the item I was carrying tucked under my arm like a swagger stick. He made a small gesture towards it. “Got a big evening planned?”

I was carrying a toilet plunger. One of those really big ones.

Naturally I cracked up laughing. “Oh yeah, I have a hot date,” I replied, taking the plunger out from under my arm and brandishing it slightly. “And nothing goes with a plunger like Billecart-Salmon. I mean, obviously.”

He grinned. “Who could argue with that?” He then admitted he didn’t have any, and we spent a few minutes discussing the merits of other rose champagnes in a slightly frisky manner. I held the business end of the plunger and used the handle as a pointer as we looked through the shelves.

Him: “Have you tried the Henriot rose? I think it would go well with plungers.”
Me: “Hey, I only have this one. I’m not that kinky.” (Yes, I said that. Sue me.)
Him: “Well, there’s the Laurent-Perrier. I think that’s so good you should have proof of birth control when you buy it.”
Me: (laughing)
Him: “No, seriously. Even if you’re alone.”

So there you go. Carry an odd accessory, cop a Mistressy attitude, and you’ll get lots of personal attention from wine guys. Just don’t buy any Billecart-Salmon, because I want it.

Labels: my non-kink life