Mistress Matisse's Journal

I wish I had something terribly interesting to say. However, I don't. Besides: don't get stomach flu, because it is no fun. But I'm assuming you already knew that.

I was so pleased about getting back to blogging 4-5 times a week, too. And then I got derailed.

Today, I'm working on a Stranger column, and a FilthyGorgeousThings.com piece, and when I get them sent off later this week, I'll have time to blog in more than just a placeholder fashion.

Monk and I plan on recording some podcasts next week, and I'm pleased to say that I've been invited to be on Dan Savage's podcast soon, too. So stay tuned for all those amusing things. I shall return.

A new Stranger column about types of tops.

Now I'm off to have some early-birthday festivities with Armani... bye!

Labels: column

I’m working on a Stranger column about my overall experiences of shooting with the Kink.com site, EverythingButt.com. But today I’ll just answer some of the questions that people have emailed me about it.

Why EverythingButt.com? Because the director, Lochai, is a pal of mine from the BDSM scene. I ran into him at Folsom Street Fair, and he asked me to come model. And I actually do a lot of ass play, so it seemed like a good fit, if you’ll pardon the expression.

What exactly did you do in the shoot? There’s some spanking, and a lot of really pretty ass-fucking. I think it’s a very sexy shoot that will appeal to people who like sensual dominance, and even people who may not think of themselves as having a specific fetish for anal play, but who like to see beautiful women having kinky sex.

Did you know the submissive? No, I had never met Bobbi Starr. I’d seen pictures, so I knew she was quite lovely, but I had no idea what to really expect from her, and from the overall scene. I did not know what the theme of the shoot was going to be until that morning. That’s how it usually works in porn. But it was a type of scene I like, and Bobbi was great.

Will you have pictures/video from the shoot? Yes, I’ll have some images. I don’t think I get video clips, although kink.com always has free trailers.

Are you going to model for of the other Kink.com sites? I don’t know. I haven’t been invited to. If one of the other directors asks me – or if Lochai asks me back - then I suppose I’ll decide when it comes up.

Are you going to model for any other BDSM porn sites? I might, if someone asked me, and I had a good feeling about the company, and the concept of the shoot. I’d be hesitant to do a BDSM porn shoot where I didn’t know any of the people involved in the production. So I don’t say “I would never…” But I’d have to be quite sure we were all on the same page about things.

I want to be a porn model! How much did you get paid? How much I got paid is between me and the IRS. But Kink.com posts their general pay rates here.

Did you see lots of other hot and kinky things happening while you were there? Nope. I saw a few other models walking around in the halls and such, but nothing kinky. It’s not like being at a play party.

One random thing I noticed: porn people seem very, very concerned about santorum. Like, very. I myself have been playing with people's asses for a long time, and I am a little casual about it. No, I am not into scat. Yes, if you want me to play with your ass, you should definitely clean it up. (I cannot tell you how many boys I have seen over the years who did not even wipe themselves properly. I’m serious. I think little boys do not get trained about wiping themselves as much as little girls do, or something.

Here’s how you do it, gentlemen. While you are still sitting, wipe, and then look at the toilet paper. Is it dirty? Drop it, get a fresh handful and wipe again. Repeat this until the paper shows no smudges. Is that clear? The while you’re sitting part is important because it means your ass is more spread open and thus easier to clean.)

So we’ll assume that the outside of your ass is clean. If you just want a few fingers or a smallish buttplug, not too much deep, serious fucking, then cleaning the inside is pretty simple. One of those disposable enemas is probably fine. They’re in the drugstore, usually less than a dollar. They have some chemicals in them, and some people don’t like that, so if you don’t, dump out the fluid and refill it with lukewarm water. Do this at least an hour or so before you want to play, because sometimes small amounts of water don’t come out right away. So if you do the anal-douche and then immediately fuck, that water will come out on your partner. Not the end of the world, but not what you planned.

For more advanced fucking, more advanced cleaning techniques are required, but that’s beyond the scope of today’s post.

But Ms. Bobbi Starr clearly knows those techniques, because her ass was as clean as a whistle throughout a four-hour shoot - and some very large toys. I would not have been surprised or upset by a little bit of schmutz. Shit happens, you know? It's not the goal, but it’s sometimes the price of admission. You do want to be aware, because shit can be gritty and make anal fucking uncomfortable, but otherwise – that’s what black towels are for. Change your gloves, change the condom, wipe it up, whatever – and keep fucking.

(And yes, wash up carefully afterwards. But you should be doing that anyway.)

So that’s my philosophy. But not in porn, no no. Every time a toy came out my co-star’s ass, there was a whole little flutter with the director and the camera crew about "Is it clean? It's not dirty, is it?"

I was like, “No, it looks fine, but hey, it’s no big deal.” However, my view was clearly the minority. I briefly wondered if it was a legal issue of some kind. I know there are some elements in porn that, theoretically, make prosecutors more likely to tag you with an obscenity charge.

But that seems unlikely. I was left with the assumption that kink.com – and porn people in general - know what their viewers like, and they know what the viewers get turned off if they see. And seeing anything brown was clearly a no-no.

Which would explain why the bathroom in the Armory has shelves and shelves full of disposable enema kits – both the pre-filled kind and empty single-use bottles – for free use by the performers. Art does not imitate life when it comes to anal sex in porn.

Labels: bdsm techniques, kinky life, links

Last Night
I want you to imagine an enormous warehouse. Huge. Big enough to comfortably house, say, a DC-9. It might be even bigger, but the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling only dimly illuminate the raw and rather dirty walls and concrete floor, so the furthest corners simply fade into unmeasurable blackness.

There’s some detritus here and there – pallets, tarps, boxes – but it’s mostly empty, except for four cars parked in the center of the room, and in one far corner, an RV. A gallery runs around the perimeter of the room, at second-floor height. The lights don’t reach it, so it’s impossible to see what – or who – is up there.

And in one corner of this vast, chilly room, there’s a hot tub. And in that hot tub, quite alone, and naked, is me – lounging against the jets and smiling to myself at the oddity of it. Here I am, in what is arguably the kinkiest place in town, and I am engaged in that most vanilla of all the pseudo-sexy experiences, hot-tubbing. Alone. Edgy, huh? Not so much.

I am choosing to ignore the fact that there is a security camera nearby, and there is a security guard sitting, with a bank of screens in front of him, just a few hundred feet away from me. He’s around a corner, out of sight, but there is no door between us. But what the hell - if the camera is on, and he sees me - well then, he sees me. It seems silly to cavil, when after tomorrow, he’ll be able to very easily buy much better quality images of me. (However, he has been strictly polite and professional to me, not so much as a flicker of anything else, even when we had to go exploring together to find this hot tub. He himself was unaware that it here, and while his English seems fluent enough, he literally did not know the meaning of the phrase “hot tub”. He seemed a little confused even when I pulled off the cover and showed it to him, splashing my hand in the water. But he shrugged and left me to it.)

Soon I will get out, dry myself, and go up the stairs and down the long hallway to the little dormitory-style room I was assigned and go to bed. My shoot doesn’t begin too early, but I have a feeling the building will come to life tomorrow morning and be a very different place than the silent, echoing place it is now.

Labels: kinky life, travel notes

Okay, I know, it's totally teenage-girl to blog about my horoscope. I might as well go buy a Twilight t-shirt, right? (Not that I don't know some grown women who have one.... Ahem. Not naming any names or anything. And I have nothing whatsoever against fluffy fiction. But god, those books are boring fluffy fiction. I'm just saying.)

But Rob Brezney is so cool. And I'm convinced that sometimes, he lives under my bed and takes notes. This is what he says for Scorpio for the next seven days.

A 13-year-old girl shocked everyone by winning a plowing contest in England. Driving a 12,000-pound tractor and pulling a five-furrow plow, Elly Deacon did a better job than all of the middle-aged male farmers she was competing against. What's more remarkable is that she was a newcomer, having had less than a week's experience in the fine art of tilling the soil with a giant machine. She's your role model for the coming week, Scorpio. Like her, you have the potential to perform wonders, even if you're a rookie, as you prepare a circumscribed area for future growth.

Glad to know I can look forward to winning the plowing contest I have coming up. Heh.

Fashion Thoughts

I have no idea what to wear for this shoot on Monday. I am awaiting information about the overall theme of the shoot, but I don’t think there’s a role-play - like teacher/boss/evil cheerleader, etc - that requires role-specific costuming. I think it’s just a straight-up kinky scene, which is perfect.

So I can probably wear more or less whatever I want. (Kink.com does have their own costumes you can borrow. But no thank you, I prefer to wear my own clothes.)

I was gifted with these two extremely fabulous little numbers from Nancy Meyer, and they are the strong contenders. The black, or the creme.

I also don’t yet know if I’m starting off in street clothes, and then proceeding to something scantier. (And from thence to: nothing! Or at least, nothing of any substance. But I already have that outfit.) Or if I am just walking on in the one scanty outfit right from the get-go.

One thing I do know is what I am not going to wear: A rubber dress, a corset, and thigh-high boots. Nope. I understand fetish-fashion classics, and that is indeed a classic look. Which is fine. Lord knows I have worn that precise outfit – and yes, been photographed in it – many, many times. Many. Did I mention many?

But I am bored breathless by it. So bored. It is not transgressive, that outfit. There was a time when it was, but now they dress models up like that for beer commercials. It does not get a lot more mainstream than that.

So, it’s not edgy. It’s definitely not comfortable, either, but that’s not the point. Fashion is not supposed to be comfortable. The point is that I don’t think that just because I’m a dominant, that means I must wear a very traditional “Mistress” outfit. Because what is the earthly use in being a sexually non-traditional person if we all have to dress alike?

Labels: fashion, kinky life

I have blogged before about how I am not one to be chatty with strangers. I can be a trifle reserved even in places where “the roof constitutes an introduction”, but with random strangers in public places, I am generally very aloof. Most of the time, that’s simply because I am preoccupied with my own thoughts. Or I'm just not in the mood to be social, and I am pretending I'm invisible. So I try not be out-and-out rude, but any attempts to strike up a conversation with me in a grocery store line or on a street corner will not flourish. It’s just…how I am.

Max is the opposite. (So are several other people I know, like Traveler.) He’s naturally friendly and prone to chatting with anyone who crosses his path. Usually I just shrug and dismiss it as a matter of personal style. Occasionally, though, I think: Huh, he seems to enjoy those conversations, so maybe I’m missing out on something here.

But I should know better, because somehow that talking-to-strangers thing just never works out well for me.

Latest example: The other day I had an errand to run in Nordstrom Medical Tower. It’s a tall building, and it can be a long elevator ride from the lobby to the upper floors. Two women got on the elevator with me. And for some reason, I consciously decided that I would emulate Max and be friendly to these two strangers.

(You’d think I’d know better. I have had several notably bad – if amusing in retrospect – encounters with people on elevators. But no, I never learn.)

Thus, I said, “Good morning.” For me, that is a wildly effusive thing to say in this situation.

One of them, an older lady who reminded me a bit of my own grandmother, smiled and said good morning back, and observed that the sky looked as if it might rain later. I agreed that it was indeed rather cloudy.

My other elevator companion was a stocky, thirty-something woman, wearing glasses with thick, dark frames, and a white lab coat over office attire. Her black hair was straggling out of a haphazard-looking bun, and she had a tangle of three or four ID badges on brightly-colored lanyards around her neck. She was carrying a thick stack of file folders in one arm. She murmured a response to my greeting and began fiddling with her folders.

My social duty done, I pulled out my Blackberry and started scrolling through Twitter posts. The older lady got off the elevator, leaving me alone with the lab-coated woman.

The doors closed. Then I heard her make an impatient sort of huffing noise. I looked up and met her black-framed gaze inquiringly. Is one not supposed to be text-messaging in elevators now?

“Oh,” she said in an explanatory way, “I just had a very bad encounter with someone.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, rather automatically. What, the old lady? Me? No, she’s talking about something else.

“People can be such assholes, can’t they? Goddamn it.”

Whoa, swearing. Is that a conventional response to someone in an elevator saying good morning? Seems like we’re upping the conversational stakes here. Not in a good way.

I made some noncommittal noise, nodded sympathetically, and turned my face down towards my phone again. We’re done talking now, all right? The numbered buttons next to the door lit up and then went dark, one by one, as we ascended. Not very quickly, though.

“I mean, it’s the end result that matters, right? What’s best for the people involved?”

Unwillingly, I looked up at her. She was shifting from one sensibly-shod foot to the other, and clawing ineffectually at the locks of hair that were hanging around her face. She made the huffing noise again, pressing her lips together and blowing air out her nose in irritable little bursts.

“Really,” she said, speaking more quickly, “it doesn’t matter is everyone else thinks you’re crazy, right? If it’s for the best? Even if everyone else thinks you’re absolutely fucking insane?”

Um, yeah – it actually might matter if everyone else thinks you’re crazy. Because, you know, you might be. And here I am, in the damn elevator with you. I just hope one of those badges around your neck doesn’t say License To Kill on it.

When I choose to engage in it, I am rarely at a loss for polite social chitchat, but being in an elevator with an angry, swearing stranger who is proposing that insane ends justify insane means – well, that stumped me.

Just then, the elevator emitted a ping! sound. Saved by the bell. I said something like, “hope that works out okay,” slipped sideways through the doors as they were still opening, and made my escape down the hall.

You see, this is what happens to me when I say good morning to people.

Labels: Max, my non-kink life