Mistress Matisse's Journal

It's Day Two of Anniversary Weekend around here, and Max and I are being so mushy and lovey-dovey with each other that I'm sure any normal person would be mildly impatient with us. Luckily, there are no normal people around here….

Last night we dressed up and went to dinner at the Metropolitan Grill, which was great, and then we staggered home, having consumed so much animal protein that at one point, I felt compelled to make a "moooooo" noise at Max. And then we got into bed and cuddled and fell in a coma-like sleep. All according to plan.

Tonight, though…Well, as John Cleese used to say, "And now for something completely different!" But you don't really want to know the intimate details about whatever nasty, dirty, evil things Max and I are going to do tonight, do you? No, you're far too pure and high-minded, I'm sure. So I won't sully your pretty ears.

Plus, I don't know.

But it will be intimate, kinky and intense, because that's what Max and I specialize in. So while I go consider what I need to be doing to prepare for that, here, for your reading pleasure, are a few interesting links…

Dealing With Jealousy in a Poly Relationship
Actually, there are some good pieces of information and advice all over this little site…Worth browsing, especially for the new poly person.

An account of bizarre client session from The Postmodern Courtesan. I've never been in this exact scenario, but it has an absolute ring of truth to it, because I've done some equally weird situations.

Don't do this. Just don't fucking do this, no matter what they say, no matter how much money they offer, no matter how hot they are or how sexy you think the idea is. Just don't fucking do it.

Today is the fifth anniversary of my first date with Max. Not the first time we met, or the first time we went out for coffee or had dinner, but our first real date. Our first scene, in other words.

I was married when I met Max, and I'd lived with other lovers before my husband, both male and female. I have some sweet memories of all of them, and I loved them all.

But I'd never been in love until I fell in love with Max.

And I knew it. "Being in love is just a cultural construct," I used to say. "The whole mythology of being in love was invented by people who were just trying to rationalize their rampant hormones, and the idea of what love is supposed to feel like has been co-opted by Madison Avenue in it's quest to sell us useless crap."

Lust? Oh, I believed in lust. Desire, attraction, chemistry – all that stuff.

And sure, I believed in love. "Love is patient, love is kind…It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs." That was a love I recognized. And the love that comes from shared ideas and beliefs, and from making a history together. But it was a calm, orderly love - a love that never once got out of my control.

I'd married a man based on that kind of love. He was a smart, attractive guy, we had a lot of common ground socially and culturally, we had some similar goals, and when he proposed to me, I remember cool-headedly considering the notion and deciding, "Yeah, this would be a good idea."

Well, it wasn't, actually. But that's another story.

I'd been seeing Max around the scene for a year or three before I started getting to know him. And I'd say we'd progressed to the point of being…not friends, quite, but "good acquaintances" when something unusual happened.

I was having a party, and Max was there. It came time for him to depart, and he walked up behind me to say thanks-and-good-night to his hostess, like the polite guy he usually is.

I was wearing a leather bra, so my midriff was bare. And Max walked up behind me and put his hands on my waist, on my bare skin.

Now, understand - that's not done, in my circles, unless you're quite intimate with someone. To this day Max can't quite say what made him decide to do it.

But the strange part was – I liked it. Any other person, any other time, I would have verbally flayed someone for doing that. I do not like being touched by people I'm not close to. But I remember turning my head and looking at him and thinking, that feels nice. I just stared at him, without saying anything, and he stared back at me, and ladies and gentlemen, as ridiculously corny as it sounds, it was like something passed between us.

After a few seconds we kind of blinked and stepped away from each other, and he told me goodnight, and I made the proper replies, and I watched him walk away and thought, I want him to do that again. I want him to touch me again.

That thought gave me some trouble, I assure you. I had to sit still and ponder that for a while, because it sure hadn't been in my game plan.

But after some dancing around the subject, I took Max out to dinner and told him I wanted to play with him.

So there was a date. And then another. And then another, and the weeks and then the months flew by, and…And…And…I was behaving exactly like every stupid romantic movie/book/poem I'd ever sneered at. My heart beat faster when I saw him. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach. I saved every card and flower he gave me, I leapt at the phone like a jaguar when it rang, I slept with one of his shirts in my bed so I could smell his scent, and you could almost have convinced me that he could change water into wine, because when I was around him, the very air seemed as if it was laced with something intoxicating. In short, I was lovestruck, baby.

The magical thing was – it was mutual. We were lovestruck. We couldn't stop talking, kissing, touching, fucking, playing, and everything we did together was magic. We neglected responsibilities, missed social events, ignored our friends, blew off work, and didn't sleep because we were so wrapped up in each other. When we were apart, we burned up the phone lines, and the emails flew thick and fast.

I was completely out of control - and I liked it.

I remember talking to Miss K and saying, "I'm so crazy about this guy. I mean, I'm – I'm in love with him. I'm really in love with him."
She stared at me. "We've been friends for eight years…and I've never heard you say that before - about anyone."
"That's because I've never felt this way before."
She smiled. Miss K is a romantic. "Well - how does it feel?"
"It's the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me…And it's also the scariest."
"Yeah," she said, nodding slowly. "That sounds like you're in love."

And we still are...

I made an flip remark in a post Tuesday about not running a dating service. It's true, I'm not. But sometimes I amuse myself thinking about doing just that.

It would be a highly selective service, this fantasy business of mine, and I'd only accept clients who I felt displayed the utmost sincerity in their desires. Maybe I'd even audition each client by playing with them, just so I'd really be able to tell prospective match-ups all about them. Finding the right person might take a while, but eventually, I'd hook them up with the pervy partner of their dreams.

I'd able to tell all the sweet single submissive men who are looking for a Mistress how to present themselves, how to charm and delight her in that first meeting, what to say, what to do, how to win her. And I'd know how to attract single dominant women to my business, because, after all, I've been one.

But it wouldn't just be Mistresses and male submissives - I'd take all kinds of clients. Dominant or submissive, male or female, whatever. As long as you're kinky and you met my requirements, I'd do my best to find you a partner.

But my requirements would be stringent. For starters, you'd have to be at least somewhat active in the BDSM community, because I think it keep our kink in perspective to be around other perverts on a regular basis. You learn that you are neither the biggest and baddest, nor the smallest and meekest. You learn that everyone starts out not knowing shit, everyone makes mistakes, and everyone's kink evolves and mutates over the years.

I'd probably reserve the right to demand a fashion and grooming makeover, if I felt the situation called for it.

There would be a reading list of BDSM theory, history, and famous fiction, and maybe even a written test on these things.

(It is not lost on me that these three requirements are also things I set out as rules when I take on a personal submissive. I may be a control-queen, but hey, I'm a self-aware control-queen.)

Whatever your preferences might be, you would have to pass a basic competency test in that arena.

And I think registered Republicans would pay double, because finding a partner might lead to them having children, and I feel that there should be some kind of environmental impact fee for that.

There's only one small problem with this appealing fantasy: I'd go bankrupt, because there's no money in this. But it's a lovely idea, and I'd be very, very good at it. I mean, it's quite similar to what I do now: I have a select clientele, I get people to tell me about who they are, and what their desires are, and then, working together, we fulfill those desires.

But I swear I must have been a matchmaker in a former life. Even now, I've got a femme lesbian friend, a top, who's looking for a butch bottom, and I'm going to be helping her with that…And I know two other pretty women who are looking for dominant men, and I think of them when I meet toppy guys sometimes, wondering, Hmmn, would she like him? Maybe I should introduce him to her…

So that's one of my fantasy careers – running a kinky matchmaker service.

I had a busy day today - one client earlier, and the gym in the evening, but the afternoon in between was devoted to...shopping.
Even though I am a somewhat girly-girl, I don't always like shopping for clothes. I have to be in the mood. And today I was, apparently, because I spent a fair amount of money.
But I got cool things - boots, and a cute jacket, and a bunch of other stuff. There's a big pile o' Nordstrom bags in the bedroom, and Max wants a fashion show.
So, be sure to go read the newest column, which is a thinly-veiled account of a party I went to over the weekend. See if you can spot one of the blog-comment regulars in the piece...
And also, everyone please go over to Monk's blog and read the really wonderfully sweet piece he's written about his wife. It's their anniversary tomorrow. (In an amusing coincidence, it's my anniversary with Max on Friday.)

The Most Common Mistake

Ring ring!

Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, is this Mistress Matisse? I wanted to see about making an appointment.
Me: Okay, have I seen you before?
Caller: No, I've never done this. I've seen escorts, though.
Me: Well, that's fine, but what I do is different – you do understand that, right?
Caller: Yeah, yeah, I've looked at your webpage.
Me: What's your first name?
Caller: Mark.
Me: Okay, Mark, why don't you talk to me a little about what you're looking for in a session?

This is the place where a lot of calls go wrong, and this caller seems likely to be one of them. His tone of voice is the tip-off; he's talking in a fast, almost impatient-sounding voice, like he wants to hurry the conversation along. But I will not be rushed when I'm assessing a possible client. You'll stay on the phone with me until I decide you're okay – or not.

Caller: I'm looking for strap-on play.

Uh-oh. This caller has just placed himself directly under the sword of Damocles. I try to steer him to safer territory.

Me: Mark, you did say you'd looked at my website, yes?
Caller: Yeah. I mean, not every page or anything.
Me: Okay, Mark, are there other things you'd be looking for in a session?
Caller: No, just the anal play. You do that, right?

Now, dear readers, let us pause and reflect. Rules, they say, are made to be broken. And who among us has not broken a few? You there, sir, smoking a joint. And you, madam, driving over the speed limit. And you there, with the shifty look about you – just where did you get that Cuban cigar?
So it will not stun any of you to know that, yes, I occasionally break a few rules myself. But the hallmark of the adroit rule-breaker is subtlety and good judgment. I possess both those traits – it's the secret of my success.
This man, on the other hand, has called up a complete stranger and is asking her to do agree to do something illegal. Not subtle, and not good judgment, either. How do you think you'd respond in her situation?

Me: No, I can't do anal penetration for money. That's considered sex, and it's illegal.
Caller: You can't do that?
Me: No, I don't do sex for money.
Caller: But that's not really sex.
Me: Well, the DA's office seems to think that it is. Perhaps you might call them and speak to them about that.
Caller: So you really won't do it?
Me: That is what I've said.
Caller: Do you know anyone who does?
Me: So you're asking me to refer you to someone who does do something illegal? No. If you want to talk about a session that involves something else, we can discuss that.
Caller: No, I just want – oh –

Click.

He hangs up. I'm relieved, because I didn't feel like going around and around in the "but I really really want you to…" loop another three or four times, as I often have to do. Moral of the story: when venturing into foreign lands, learn the customs and speak as the natives do.

From The Mailbag:

Dear Mistress Matisse,
I've been reading your blog. It's okay, but you need to tell more stories about your clients and about sex. Why don't you tell more juicy details?

Because unlike some ladies who blog about their sex work careers, I am not anonymous. I use my working-professional name, and I show my face. So I'm an identifiable person – as I've mentioned in other posts, it's getting to the point where strangers recognize me in public – and thus I have to live with the real-time repercussions of everything I say. Discretion and diplomacy are called for.

I'm looking for a mistress to play with. I'm not really into what you're into? I'm into forced feminization. I live in the seattle area. Do you know of a mistress in the seattle area that's into this?

Well, yes, I probably do, although I don't always inquire closely into other people's fetish tastes unless I'm planning on playing with them myself. But I'm not running a dating service, sorry.

my mistress Mataisse
i spend very long time with yr home page i find it very very nice ad u r very very buety i like to be yr servant ad kiss ad lick yr nice feet
yr feet servant…

Always nice to know those for whom English is (sort of) a second language are liking me…Gotta teach them about that F7 thing, though…

As The Hit Counter Turns...

Spins around wildly, more like...That's how you know you've been mentioned on Belle's blog. So I'll have to look in my "blog topics" file and pull out a appropriately ridiculous phone call to tell you about later today...

Wormwood Thoughts

It's been a busy weekend for me, but after brunch at the B&O today I was flipping through - yes, I admit it - the Seattle Weakly, and reading their piece about drinking absinthe.

Now, I very rarely drink alcohol - meaning, about three or four times a year. (Although Roman showing up for dates with champagne upped that average a bit lately...) It's not because of any moral position, I just don't care that much for it. And I also have a pretty low physical tolerance for alcohol, so even one or two drinks affect me rather strongly. A very drunk girl, giggling and singing, can be amusing enough in, say, one's first year or two at college. After that, it very swiftly becomes much less cute, in my opinion. One wants to limit that kind of behavior to a private setting, with one's very dearest friends, about once every five years or so.

And I associate absinthe with a lot of fin-de-sicle ex-pats living in Paris, and I did have the vague idea that it was poisonous. But this line describing the (supposed) effects of absinthe struck a bit of a chord with me..."the dragging murkiness you get from beer or vodka is replaced by a sensual alertness that’s generally foreign to heavy alcohol consumption."

Well, that sounds somewhat appealing, since that dragging murky feeling is one of the other reasons I generally do not drink. Hmmn, I may have to try some of that stuff, just for the hell of it.

Oh, and nothing to do with absinthe, but a sweet intoxicant just the same - some very lovely thoughts about talking dirty...