Saturday, October 16, 2004

The Week In Review

Warning: This entry contains some rather graphic descriptions of advanced SM play. Skip this one if you squick easily…

I was talking to a client on the phone this week - a guy I genuinely like, but who tends to be a bit bratty at times. He wanted a next-day appointment.
"Oh, no can do, sweetheart, I'm booked up until – let's see – next Tuesday."
He sighed in exasperation. "Now, Matisse, what are we going to do about this schedule of yours? You're far too busy."
"Well," I replied slowly, "I could try to be less good at my job, or less physically attractive."
He doesn't say anything.
"Or, I could raise my rates. I'm guessing that would free up my schedule some."
He makes a doubtful "mmmmmm" noise.
"But I'm sort of guessing most people would rather that I didn't do any of those things."
We agreed that he'd prefer calling earlier for an appointment next time to any of those other three options.
This was a tough week to try to get to see me, because I had two different 3-hour sessions booked, and that's a chunk of my work-week gone right there. I'm actually developing a small group of multi-hour guys who see me very regularly, and when I add up the number of client hours I book per month, and the percentage of those hours that I spend with that small handful of boys – well, it's just interesting, that's all.

This was a big week for "cock-and-ball torture", otherwise known as CBT. (Although, really, that's true more often than not around my dungeon.)
I don't really like the word "torture" in this context, it sounds too third world country-ish - but I have to admit that some of the stuff I did this week would probably make Amnesty International blanch.
I did a really lovely scene with my carpenter, Mr. Wood, who makes my dungeon furniture. He's a wonderful, talented, deeply kinky man, a masochist, and we've been trading our respective skills for about five years now. Sometime I marvel at the fact that his dick still functions at all, because I have done some really insane shit to it - at his request, and with his encouragement, you understand. Mr. Wood has taught me a lot about advanced CBT, and while I know some other guys who are heavy CBT fans, Mr. Wood is in a class by himself. I've beaten his dick until it's all black and blue, I've hung ten pound weights off it, I've stepped on it wearing heavy spike-heeled boots, I've stuck it so full of needles it looks like a pervy pincushion, I've crushed it in a vise, I've put metal rods the size of a pencil down it, and I've electrified it so intensely I felt sure that if I stuck a GE bulb in his mouth, it would light up a la Uncle Fester. (Photo links available upon request – but don't be faint of heart.)

This week I've been a little extra-concerned about the general health and well-being of Mr. Wood's dick, because when we were playing the other night, I got a shade too enthusiastic with the violet wand, and burned the head of his penis with it, right next to the piss-eye. Whoops.
I became aware of this when I looked down and saw this small round thing that looked like a rather big drop of pre-ejaculate on the tip of his dick.
Hey, wait a minute, I thought. Mr Wood doesn't drool.
Then I realized, oh shit, that's a blister.
He wasn't too worried about it, but I know how burns can get infected if you don't take care of them, so I reminded him about that several times. I'm quite fond of Mr. Wood (really - I am!), so I can't have him getting some nasty flesh-eating bacteria thing.
So that was the CBT highlight of the week, but as the days went by, I spanked cocks, I squeezed balls, I poked, pulled and electrified, and I put (many, many) clamps on that special bit of helpless dangling flesh. It was rather a festival of penis persecution around here.

I'll now wait, with amusement, for the comments of terror and horror to begin – since I know all you squicky kids read this entry, anyway…

Friday, October 15, 2004

Update: The new Control Tower is up. And now, a small pre-emptive strike to avert some of the hurt-feelings emails I will surely get: Boys, this column is not about you. (Unless you actually are the Professor, which I doubt.)
As I say in the first line of the piece - most clients are wonderful people. So if you are a client, or a potential client of mine, the fact that I occasionally write about some of the exceptions to the rule should not, in any way, suggest to you that I don't like you or that I wouldn't like you.
Conflict makes for an interesting story. That's why really sweet guys who treat me wonderfully are actually less likely to get an article written about them. (Which is something to remember if you'd prefer to stay out of print...)
Okay, first off: I don't know why my newest column hasn’t yet appeared in The Stranger website. Emails have been sent, but I have no control over the process, and no information, either. Hopefully it'll be up soon…

But this should amuse you in the meantime - especially if you're a woman! One of those, "God, I wish I'd written that," kinda rants ….

I promised someone I'd post this link, and now I cannot recall who. Sorry about that, whoever you are, but here it is: One of my self-portraits (that I actually wound up making a bit of money on, amazing!)…My back on a book jacket.

Oh, this is really funny -and it's some local talent, too! I Screw Republicans.

Speaking of screwing and Republicans...I hope that arrogant bastard gets barbequed. Read all about Bill O'Reilly's tawdry little sexual (harassment) fantasies. God, they're so…banal.

Thursday, October 14, 2004

Word Whores
Now and then I'll coin a phrase while talking with a friend, and something about the phrase will catch our fancy, and it'll become a staple in our conversations. If it's a particularly useful expression, it'll seep into conversations I have with other people, and once I've explained it's exact meaning to them, they may pick it up and begin to use it. Thus is a small private lexicon born…

The most successful example of my private vocabulary is the phrase, "Not my dog." About a million years ago, (not really, it only seems like that ) Miss K and I and our then-partners were watching a movie together – "The Pink Panther Strikes Again". There's a scene in which Inspector Clouseau (Peter Sellers) walks up to a hotel desk. There is a clerk sitting behind the high desk, reading a paper, and there's a dog tied up to the front of the desk. Inspector Clouseau looks at the dog and asks the man, "Does your dog bite?"
The man answers, "No, Monsieur."
Clouseau bends down to pet the dog and it growls and bites him. "I thought that you said your dog does not bite!" Clouseau exclaims in great indignation.
The man leans forward over the desk and peers down at the dog there, and then says to Clouseau, "Oui, Monsieur - but that is not my dog."
Miss K and I thought that scene extremely funny, and somehow also, profound. And soon thereafter, the phrase "that's not my dog" entered our conversation. When Miss K and I began saying that, we meant: "If you blunder into a negative situation because of your own badly-made decisions, don't come crying to me to take responsibility for it."
The discussions we use the phrase most often are about jealousy: "Oh, she's upset that I'm dating her ex-lover? Hey, that's not my dog."
Codependent behavior: "Look, if her boyfriend wants to play video games all day instead of looking for a job, that's not her dog, she should be focused on her own career."
And unreasonable expectations: "Your client was mad because he couldn't get a same-day appointment with you? Definitely not your dog."
A number of my other friends have picked up on this phrase over the years, and even my mother, who is a therapist, liked it and now uses it with her clients, a fact I find very entertaining.

A recent addition to the private lexicon: "a princess moment". This one came into being in a conversation between Roman and I. When you have a princess moment, you're sort of having a moment of jealousy or envy, but it's been so heavily leavened with a sense how really, really silly you're being that you have to laugh at yourself even as you think, "No, no, don't you understand? I want that! It's all about meeeeeeee! Me me me me meeeee!" This phrase is especially applicable when a) the person you're being jealous/envious of has in no way taken anything away from you in obtaining their good fortune, and b) you're already so loaded with good things that, Christ, you probably couldn't even handle any more. Complete disregard of both those facts is essential to the princess moment, as is the total awareness that your emotional response is rooted in the unrestrained Id of a two-year-old. It's an example of having two contradictory emotional responses at one time. You just have to laugh about it.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

Interesting article in the New York Times about the call-girl industry. It's not too far-off from how I experienced it, although I always worked locally, and the pace was nothing like what's described here. The agency-owner I worked with for the longest - about three years - was also fairly high-strung, although not as bad as the woman profiled for this article. And like this woman, she was also quite good at her job. (And she still is, from what I hear.)

The part about the owner outing an errant girl to her boyfriend and family was rather chilling, though. No one I ever worked for ever did such a thing – at least, not that I know of. And I think it's a bad idea. Unless an agency is paying protection to the police – something that may be more common in NY, although I understand it's rare here in Seattle – an angry ex-employee could easily turn the tables on an agency and call the cops on them. Simple prostitution is a misdemeanor, but pimping – well, that's a felony. And if you're running credit cards and crossing state lines - oh, now you've got the IRS and the Feds to talk to, and I'm sure that's a conversation I wouldn't want to have.

Yet another reason, as if I needed one, to be a one-woman show…

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Absurd Phone Call Of the Day

This was so absurd that I almost suspected it of being a trumped-up troll…

Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
(There's a sound of music or a TV or something in the background, but no one speaks.)
Me: hel-looo?
Caller:….oh, uh, yeah, hi.

This guy's dead in the water already. He cannot even manage to conduct a phone call properly – when he called me! Plus, he sounds too young – early twenties, I'm guessing.

Me: Can I help you?
Caller: Uh, yeah, do you take credit cards?

Oh, now he's past dead, he's a rotting corpse. If you can't put your hands on cash, I don't want to know you.

Me: No, I don't.
Caller: So, well, what other forms of payment do you take? Do you take checks?

You want to give a check to a sex worker? Who is this, Jerry Springer? No. I only take checks from guys I really like and trust who I've been seeing frequently for, oh, at least four years or more. That's a small club, and this boy ain't never going to be in it.

Me: No, it's cash only.
Caller: Oh, cash only, huh? (Sound of other voices in the background.) Um, well, like, could you call our friend and convince him?
Me: What? Oh, you have got to be kidding.
Caller: No, if you like, call our friend - he's like, our boss – and convince him to give us some cash we'll come see you.

There some requests that are so nonsensical that it's not possible - and indeed, not necesssary - to conduct myself like the upscale professional that I am. One has to just respond from a very basic level.

Me: You know, that's about the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. You're out of your mind.
Caller: (Laughs.)
Me: There is no way I'm calling anyone.
Caller: No?
Me: No.
Caller: Okay, we'll talk to him, and if we can get some cash, we'll call you back.
Me: Oh, please do. I'll be waiting by the phone.

Click. We hang up.

There are some really odd people in the world.

Sunday, October 10, 2004

Stars in Alignment

Sometimes poly is very complicated, but sometimes the stars just line themselves up in a way that makes things perfect for everyone involved. I wound up having a date with Roman yesterday, some of which was planned, and some of which was unexpected.

Roman and I had planned to go, on Saturday afternoon, to do a certain Top Secret Thing together. And believe me, my dear readers, it's killing me - but killing me - not to be able to tell you about this Top Secret Thing. My god, do I so wanna spill.

But I can't. Not until after Roman's wife's birthday. No speculation, please, she reads this blog. After the 28th, I'll tell you all about the Top Secret Thing, and believe me, it's highly amusing.

Okay, so after the Top Secret Thing, Roman was going to bring me home, and I was going to spend the evening with Max.

Now, I can tell you that the Top Secret Thing did not involve Roman and I fucking, and gee, I don't think Roman and I have spent more than about fifteen minutes alone together without fucking since this whole relationship started. Spending an entire afternoon in his company without (too much) sexual interaction - well, let's just say we were both painfully aware of holding our mutual sexual energy in check. But hey, this wasn't that kind of date, we had another agenda and we stuck to that, and we enjoyed each other's company, of course, and that's all, and that's fine. And we'll say a sweet good night to each other and go our separate ways. We're mature adults, and we can keep our hormones in check. Really.

So I'm in the car with Roman and I call Max to say I'll be home soon. He doesn't answer the home line, so I call his cell and leave a message. Shortly after I hang up, my cell rings.

It's Max. "So, remember how I told you I needed to talk to Maura about some things?" he says.

I laugh, because as soon as he says this, I know exactly what's happening, and what's going to happen. "Yes, I do."

"Well, I'm over at her place now, and we're talking. I actually might not be home for awhile."

"Oh, so you're not going to be home for awhile?" I say out loud. I'm listening to Max, but I'm also watching the streetlights slide across Roman's features as we drive. He keeps his face politely blank, as one does when one is pretending not to listen to someone else's phone conversation - except that in the brief flashes of light, I see one corner of his mouth curl upward slightly. I slide my hand a little further up his thigh, feeling the muscles flex as he moves his leg from the brake to the accelerator.

"Oh, it'll be about twelve, twelve-thirty?" I say. The clock on Roman's dashboard reads 8:32 in dim green numbers. The corner of his mouth curves still higher.

"That's fine, darling, I understand, you needed to spend some time talking with her." And he does, so I'm genuinely glad he's doing that. I'd be just as supportive even if I wasn't sitting next to a hot guy who's radiating sexual energy for me. I enjoy my time alone; I write, I read, I get a lot of personal stuff done, I try to get to bed early - all good things.

But, as luck would have it - I actually am sitting next to a very sexy guy. (And his wife is out of town, to boot.) What a lucky girl I am!

Max and I finish the conversation - in which he tells me he hopes Roman and I have a nice time, because he also knows exactly what's going to happen - and we make kissy noises into the phone and hang up. I shut off the phone and look over at Roman, who is still affecting not to have heard anything, although the grin is decidedly broader now. "So," I say in a playfully casual voice, "Looks like I have the rest of the evening free. Want to come in for a while?"

Oh, yeah. It was one of the times when poly is a very, very good thing.