Mistress Matisse's Journal

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

A link to my latest Stranger column: an interview with Sex At Dawn author Christopher Ryan, about life after one's book is published.


And, a little word-rant of mine, first written in 2004, polished up a bit and presented for your amusement.
BDSM Word-of-the-Day: Domme. Noun. Pronunciation: 'däm
Domme is a made-up word, the faux-Frenchified and feminized offspring of the abbreviation, "dom", which of course means "dominant". Both dom and domme are used as nouns: "he's a dom," or "she's a domme". But be aware that both words are pronounced exactly the same way: they rhyme with the name "Tom". "Domme" is absolutely not pronounced "dom-may" or "dom-mey".

Even aside from some people's cringe-inducing tendency to mispronounce this word, it isn't one of my favorite terms - it just seems clunky and affected. When I came out into the scene, people used the words "top" and "bottom" as flexible generic terms to indicate someone's dominant or submissive role or behavior, and I still use those terms a lot, even though they've fallen out of vogue. I was taught to use "Master" and "Mistress" mostly as terms of specific address, and only occasionally as descriptive terms.

Another thing: a "sub" is either an underwater boat or a sandwich. I realized this word has drifted into mainstream culture, and I'll cut non-BDSM folks some slack about using it, though I may wince slightly. But for someone involved in the scene, using the word "sub" to refer to a person is extremely gauche. I really feel that there is no punishment too strong for people who say or write "subbie" as a pseudo-cutesy way of saying "submissive".

Also undesirable is saying "subbing" to refer to either a status or an activity. "Chris is subbing to Pat." Don't say that. You could say, "Chris is Pat's submissive." Or, "Chris is submissive to Pat." Or if you are speaking of a scene rather than a ongoing relationship, you could say something like, "Chris is submitting to Pat tonight at the party."

One last word rant: Dom-i-nant, when used in this context, is a noun. If you are a person who likes to be in control, you're a d-o-m-i-n-a-n-t. When you are playing with your partner, you dom-i-nate them. That's a verb. As you can see, they're spelled differently, and that's because they're two different words. If I see one more personal ad or profile saying, "I'm a dominate Master," I'm going to give someone an enema with a pureed Webster's dictionary.

Language is a beautiful thing. Words are very important. So don't fuck with them or the Mistress will kick your ass.

Original version published Tuesday, May 25, 2004

Labels: column, kinky life, writer's life

I realize I'm cannibalizing myself here a fair amount lately. What can I say? I have phases where I want to write a lot, and then phases where I don't as much. My real life is so extremely delightful lately that I'm just busy living it.

Be assured I'm not going away. I have collected a number of stories that will see the light of digital day sometime in the future. I have a pair of Stranger columns in the chute that I'm quite pleased with, so those are forthcoming. And there's always my Twitter for 140-character bursts of whimsy, fashion-porn, and occasional bits of (I hope) brilliance.

And, now a story I've told before. It came to my mind over the weekend, as some female pals and I were talking about sexual approaches that were doomed to fail.


What Not To Say

In spite of sometimes-considerable provocation, I try not to talk too much here about the recent, real-life bad behaviors of people I encounter. At least not so that they could identify themselves - it just seems too unkind. I have a lot of power in this forum, and I try to use it only for good.

However, there are exceptions to that rule. So while this is not my story, it's from a reliable source, and it's so breathtakingly bad that I had to say something.

Not long ago, a woman I know moved to a new town - not Seattle - and she went to a munch where she knew no one. A man there introduced himself and was very friendly to her, as men will be. In fact, one might reasonably say he was hitting on her.

Nothing wrong with that, exactly. He just didn’t do it very well, you understand. Apparently he was a bit too forward with the social touching, for example. I have met this man myself, and I have my own observations of his social skills, and what she said lined up with my impression of him. But my friend is a laid-back girl, and so she just shrugged it off.

Okay, fast-forward: the munch is over, she’s leaving, and he’s walking her to her car. And with no obvious pretext whatsoever, he turns to her and says, “So where are you on your cycle?”

She looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Are you close to your period? You just look kinda puffy, like you’re retaining water.”

My pal told me this, and my jaw dropped open in disbelief. “No, he did not say that to you. He did not.”

She closed her eyes and laughed a little, ruefully. “Yes, yes he did.”

Sweet Jesus Christ. I was dumbstruck with astonishment by this tale. I cannot believe that any man past the age of toilet-training would be so stupid as to actually say this a woman. I mean any man, to any woman, at any time, ever. Neither Max nor Monk would dream of ever saying something like this to me, even though there have been times when I was retaining so much water that I should have had a freaking salmon ladder built over my abdomen. If you have a female partner, yeah, sometimes you can tell when her body looks a little different. But only a flipping idiot would remark on the matter to his or her beloved. The correct response, if your girlfriend says, “Do I look puffy?” is “No, sweetheart, not at all.” If really pressed, you might squint thoughtfully at her and say, “Well, maybe your boobs look a little bigger. Otherwise, nah, you look great.”

That’s how you handle it with a woman you’re intimate with, and it doesn’t seem like you’d have to be real clever to figure that out. So I am astounded at the thickheadedness of a man who thinks it’s cool to tell a woman he just met, whom he is hitting on, that she looks puffy. I mean, what are you thinking? How could anyone imagine that such a remark would endear you to a girl? Saying that kind of thing to women is a really good way to grow cobwebs across your cock.

It's barely possible that this man thinks he's such a True Dominate Master that he can say things like this and women will find it acceptable. He'd be wrong, of course, but it's the only even-slightly-comprehensible explanation I can think of. (I suppose he could be a menstruation fetishist, but he didn't say so, and that still wouldn't make the remark any less horrifying. )

Ready for some extra-bonus-wrongness points? This man is himself a rather large fellow. Nothing wrong with that, but if you’re going to go around telling women you just met they look puffy, you invite their examination of your figure, and if it speaks of a lot of high-sodium snacks, it makes a girl think, Well at least my puffiness will go away in a couple of days, buddy.

Super-extra-bonus-wrongness points: when they got to her car, he tried to kiss her. I am so not making this up. I am not. I could not have made this up if I tried. It’s so wrong. (She dodged it, thankfully.)

No, she didn’t tell him he was a prat, she’s too polite, and plus the whole thing caught her off guard. But you can bet she’ll be avoiding him in the future.

Now, I don’t know that this fellow reads this blog. I hope he doesn't. But in case he does: yes, I’m talking about you. I am sure you’re mortified by this. However, note that I did not name or describe you, or mention the city, and I could have. Unless you tell them, no one but you, the woman involved, and me know that it’s you. Your best response would be to keep quiet and learn something from this. I don’t think you’re evil, but I think you’ve done some socially inappropriate things, and yes, sometimes you’re gonna get called on that. It’s a growing-up process. You seem active in your pursuit of the ladies, so here’s my advice: Your hands should be kept more to yourself until such time as a woman makes it clear she wants you to touch her. And your unflattering and too-intimate remarks on a woman’s appearance should remain unsaid forever.
(First published: Tuesday, April 01, 2008)

Labels: kinky life, relationships