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.

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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 a friend 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 I was 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.

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.

As God is my witness, I am going to blog again soon. Like, within 48 hours. Highlights will include:

• My thoughts on performing at The Naked Girls Reading

• Things a beautiful woman said to me while we were naked. (And not at the reading.)

• My thoughts on IGNITE Seattle and why polyamory would be a great topic for that.
  

• The concept of wingmen (or women), and on the Pick-up Artist philosophy and books in general.

Indulge me just a bit longer, faithful blog readers, and you shall be rewarded.

I’m excited about what’s happening in my dungeon today: I’m getting the carpet swapped out! No, that's not some bit of sexual slang, I mean carpet. Kinky, huh?

Okay, maybe it's not sexy to you. But I’m very happy with my place. Buying my own house was an extremely big deal to me, and I’m still pleased and proud of it. I love having a place I own to play in, it makes me feel way more private and secure than I ever did in rented spaces. I have a strong sense of “mine!” about my house. It’s an extension of who I am.

That being the case, I’m constantly seeking to improve it. Last year, I renovated the whole first floor, and part of that was removing a wall between two rooms to make them into one bigger one. The main playspace has thick black carpet, blood-red walls, and a black ceiling. I actually brought the black paint down around the top edge of the wall, to a picture-rail style of molding that’s about six inches from the ceiling, and the result is that the room seems taller than it is. It all looks very sharp, and nicely finished.

Except that one-third of the newly-redone space was still carpeted in the same deep gold carpet as the rest of the house. Can you say clash? It’s been driving me crazy, looking at it. But, as remodeling always does, the whole extravaganza cost me more than I’d projected. So I gritted my teeth and waited until I could afford to pull up the gold carpet and put in the black without feeling guilty about a not-absolutely-necessary expense. Which would be – now!

I have other plans as well, but my other projects are all on the main floor. First is getting my terrible crumbly popcorn ceiling sheet-rocked over. (It’s less mess than scraping it off, I assure you.) Hopefully I can have my unbelievably big, ugly, 70’s faux-river-stone horror of a fireplace mantle taken out at the same time, and the boys can sheetrock that, too. And some new lighting fixtures, some new sliding doors, and a new coat of paint – and I think that’ll probably be most of my remodeling budget for the year!

The stage-by-stage remodeling will probably be going on for a couple more years – I still have two more really dated-looking bathrooms (think: avocado green cabinets and glittery metallic-bronze tub surrounds) and a kitchen that’s pretty beat up. But that’s all right. I’m connected to this space, in a way that I haven’t been to any other. I love my house, and it loves me right back. I’ll give it anything it wants.

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.

I know people who are the opposite: friendly and prone to chatting with anyone who crosses their path. Usually I just shrug and dismiss it as a matter of personal style. Occasionally, though, I think: Huh, other people seem 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.

I finally saw Inglorious Basterds over the weekend, and a couple of people asked me what I thought of it, so… Spoilers/plot discussion follow!


It dragged a bit, mostly at the beginning. The opening sequence with Nazi officer Hans Landa and the French farmer, for example, could have been tightened up considerably. Still, there was always a payoff at the end of the scene. Was I the only person who watched Landa drink that glass of milk, and remembered Samuel Jackson drinking the Sprite of the boy he’s about to murder in Pulp Fiction? In Tarantino movies, people who come into your house and suck down your beverages are most likely about to kill someone.

The actor, Christopher Waltz, has won awards for the role, but I actually found Landa a little too cheerfully, charmingly evil. He needed a touch more menace for my taste – a little more Christopher Walken, or perhaps John Malkovich.

Loose end: Later, in the strudel scene, did Landa realize that Emmanuelle Mimieux was actually Shoshanna Drefuss? I was unable to tell. I thought he did, when he drank another glass of milk, but it was never made clear.

Emmanuelle Mimieux was, of course, a tragic heroine. And beautiful - Tarantino made Melanie Laurent look like a gorgeous young Ingrid Bergman in the shots of her preparing for the premiere. But will those girls ever learn: once you've plugged the villain and he's down, go shoot him again in the back of the head! As soon as I saw the oh-so-smug Frederick Zoller fall, I thought “He’s going to sit up in a minute, all bloody, and shoot her.” Which was sort of academic, since (I think) she and her lover were planning on dying in the fire anyway. But still – if you’re going to kill the bad guy, kill him very, very thoroughly.

Brad Pitt and his Basterds, on the other hand, were nothing if not thorough. I wish they’d gotten more screen time. I am lost in awe at how well Pitt did with his part. “Aldo The Apache” was such a cartoon-character of a role, with the accent and the scar and the hillbilly imperturbability, it would have been easy to push it into sheer burlesque.

But Pitt was able to make Aldo work, somehow. I’m amazed at how Pitt was able to contort and hold his face in that odd, bulldoggish expression. Did he have prosthetics on his chin and forehead to give him that look?

(The character of the English officer, Lt. Hicox, was actually much more of a cartoonish, stiff-upper-lipped Brit, although I had a sense that Tarantino did that on purpose. And I did not even recognize Mike Myers in his little bit as an English officer.)

Quibble: The scene where Landa slips the shoe, Cinderella-style, onto Bridget von Hammersmark’s foot and thus identifies her as a traitor was good – but I would have liked it better if the shoe had not fit. Remember: there was another woman in the tavern, the young barmaid. It could have been hers. There could have been a big build-up of tension and then – the shoe obviously isn’t her size. Hammersmark would have breathed a sigh of relief, thinking herself safe, and then Landa would have killed her anyway. That’s how I would have done that scene.

Can I just admit how much I loved that Tarantino used the “Cat People” theme song in his movie? That’s such a great, cheesy, slick eighties-pop-ballad. Was it anachronistic? Maybe, but the whole damn movie is alternate history anyway, so why get hung up on little details like that? I remarked to Monk, “That song was on a lot of my early ‘sex mix’ tapes.” He replied, “Honey, that was on everyone’s ‘sex mix’ tapes.”

So I don’t think it’s my favorite movie in the world, but I enjoyed it well enough, and I think, basically, it’s Quentin Tarantino. If you like Quentin, and you’re all right with brutal, violent imagery, and you’re in the mood for a movie that has nothing at all to do with actual history of the Nazis and World War II, then you’ll probably like the film. The man has a definite style, and I have to admire him for doing what he wants, exactly the way he wants.

The Weather Outside Is Frightful

The Mistress is cranky about the heat. I know, I know, I don't like snow, either. So persnickety am I.

I admit that the heat is easier in some ways - I can drive in it, for example. And it hasn't yet made my power go out.

But while I can feel sexy when it's snowing outside, I cannot feel sexy with a constant trickle of perspiration running down my back. It's like wearing a latex catsuit, all the time. And while dewy women can be alluring, the charm of that wears off quickly. Like after about half an hour or so.

Still, at least no one provokes me into a towering rage by cooing at me about how pretty the heat is. I should find all those snow-loving, "Oh look, it's just like a postcard!" people and torment them by talking about how wooooooonderful record-breaking, 100-degree heat is. Walking in a summer wonderland!

I am gearing up for a busy seven days, and they’re going to be rather split-second in terms of timing. And somewhat schizophrenic in nature.

Today is easy. I'm about to spend some private time with a friend, and then I’m doing dinner and silliness and kinkiness with a group of my pals. But soon, who should arrive but - my dearest mamma. Which is all well and good, except that I’ll have to do a quick reversal of role.

You seem, my mother is a sweet, gentle woman who loves me very much. She would never raise her voice or argue with anyone. She wants nothing except that the people she loves be happy.

Occasionally, though, my mother gets ideas about what, exactly, would make someone happy. And once she’s decided that - oh, you better just get out of the way. Because she is a five-foot, one-hundred-pound force of nature with a southern accent, and she is simply not going to stop until she has brought about whatever set of circumstances she just knows will be best for her loved one.

I have developed a sort of emotional Aikido for dealing with my mother when she’s on one of her campaigns. You know - don't hurt her, just redirect her momentum. But I pick my battles. Whatever it is, unless you're highly skilled and really invested in not doing it, you should just choose to go along and be made happy by it. Believe me, it’s much simpler if you don’t struggle.

Fortunately, I think she exhausted a lot of her making-people-happy-whether-they-like-it-or-not mojo on my brother’s wedding in May, and besides, now she has a whole new set of people (my sister-in-law’s family) to interest herself in.

Just to make these few days even more fraught with the possibility of comic mishaps, my partner and I also have Midori staying with us. We love her, and she is the best and easiest house guest imaginable. She travels so much so has it down to a science, and she has a knack of flowing into a busy house so smoothly that you hardly now she’s there.

She often stays with us when she’s in town. In fact, my mother and her husband have met Midori at our house before. So when I told my mother Midori would also be here, she replied, “Oh, yes, your friend from San Francisco! She’s so nice, and so pretty. Tell me again, what does she do for a living?”

“Um…she’s an artist. Yeah. An artist. So, is there anything particular you’d like to do while you in Seattle, Mom?”

It used to be that this sort of worlds-colliding would have been flatly impossible for me to manage. But I’ve gotten more relaxed lately about people from my various worlds encountering each other. Still, some things challenge even my ability to keep a lot of balls in the air. Keep your fingers crossed I don’t send them all flying in the wrong directions.

Highlights From A Family Wedding

So every other Seattle sex blogger – and several from other places – have blogged about how great SEAF was. The Thursday night party certainly was lovely. But since I spent the weekend in Orlando, Florida at my brother’s wedding, guess what? I’m writing about that instead.

The whole event was very nice. The dress I picked out, after all that agonizing, turned out to be perfect. I wasn’t a bridesmaid or anything, thank god. I have pals who have impressive collections of bridesmaid’s dresses, but I’ve never been one, and I see no reason to break up that winning streak now. I instructed my brother very firmly that I was not to be given any official role in this wedding other than guest.

I actually haven’t been to that many weddings, period. So this was my first exposure to some of the silly wedding-reception traditions I’ve seen in movies, like throwing the garter, lots of teary speeches, a DJ who plays cheesy music and tells everyone what to do, ect.

It was also my first experience of a wedding reception that went on for hours. And hours. With an open bar, and a lot of toasts. Everyone, including my mother's rather prim sister, got pretty well lubricated. (Watching my sweet but staid aunt dancing to “The Humpty Dance” was an experience I’m not sure I can do justice to with mere words.) My brother’s wife is Italian, and her family is very nice – and very Italian. Her mom reminds me of a petite Mercedes Ruehl. I think they have a greater ability to handle alcohol than my Anglo-Saxon family.

But they like my brother, so that’s all fine. I remarked to the Mercedes Ruehl-ish mother of the bride that my brother was a sweet man. She replied, in a heavy Jersey accent, “A sweeta man nevah lived!” With the accompanying palm-out, wrist-snapping hand gesture. Seems he’s got his mother-in-law firmly in his corner.

The other amusing thing about the weekend: I hadn’t thought about the fact that my brother would naturally invite a bunch of his childhood/teenage pals to the wedding. Since my brother is two years older than me, that means: people I also know from my childhood/teenage years. To include - the first guy I ever dated. More specifically, the first man I ever had sex with.

The night I arrived at the hotel, I walked into the bar where everyone was meeting up, and thought, “That guy looks familiar, who is that?”

And he grinned at me and said “Oh, fine, don’t recognize me.”

I about fell down on the floor. I was not expecting the first person I saw to be my teenage sweetheart. I met him when I was fourteen, we started dating when I was not-quite-sixteen, and I haven’t seen him since I was about twenty-one. We did have an email exchange not too long ago when, through some social channels, he made the connection of “my old girlfriend” to “Mistress Matisse.” I was pleased to hear from him then, and he was highly amused by my career choice. He’s married to a really sweet woman and they have two adorable children. I’m so glad he’s happy.

And you know what? Spending a little time around him reinforced my opinion that he was a good choice for me as a young girl. Looking back now, I can see where he exercised self-discipline and integrity towards my virginal teenage self. He had a reputation for wild behavior among his male peers, and he was by no means a seventeen-year-old saint with me. But he was a gentleman about the things that mattered, and I respect him for that. I’m glad I had him for my first lover.

We had a lot of fun kidding around and catching up. And we agreed that while we’re both different people now, we are also still, in many essential ways, the same people we were then. He was teasing me over something at one point, and when I reacted, he said, “Oh how cute - you still do that thing where you stomp your foot and try to scowl.”

The First Boyfriend was not, by any means, submissive. But I told him, “You know, I can recall telling you about sexual fantasies I had about women, and about kinky stuff. You were extremely cool and supportive about all of that, even stuff that wasn’t about you, or anything you would be personally into. Thank you for that.”

“Of course I was.” He looked genuinely puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Yeah. A very good choice for my first sexual partner.

The Bindings Project - Teaser from Aaron Nanto on Vimeo.

This is a teaser for Monk's show at SEAF. It's going to be great!

What am I doing this weekend? Well, while ya'll are all basking in the glow of great sexy art and going to workshops by Mark Yu, I am going... to Orlando. Yes, it's my brother's wedding. I could kill him for picking this weekend, but - c'est la vie.

So watch for my Twitters about the Shakespeare-on-the-Gulf family-comedy that will no doubt be transpiring in Mousetown. But at least I get to catch the Thursday night show. Yay!

I have a new column up, about something I noticed on my visit to a swing club a few weeks ago...

***

A sad emotional event for me: I had to let my kitty go yesterday. She was my much-loved companion for twenty years. I really wanted to keep her with me longer. But I soon saw that no matter what I tried to arrange for her comfort, it would selfish of me to do that. So she had a quick, painless and peaceful passage - in my arms, at home, where she felt safe and loved. I'll miss her terribly.

I'd like to thank all the people who offered me support and suggestions for her health while she was alive, and the many people who have sent me messages of condolence about her passing.

I had planned to actually write something for today, but I wound up taking my elderly and irascible cat into the emergency vet last night, and I didn't get home until about 3am. It's my hope she'll be okay soon. Watch the Twitter feed if you want up-to-the-minute updates on that.

And for now, enjoy the newest installment of the web-series about polyamory, Family.



EDIT: Apparently YouTube doesn't like poly, or something. The video got pulled, I have no idea why.

2nd Edit, later: And now it's back up on Youtube. Weird. But, okay, whatever.

So my blogging has been a bit off this week, as you may have noticed. You see, I've been being topped by Mistress Lateral Epicondylitis. It's the first time I've ever bottomed to her, and whoo, she's a bitch!

In less formal terms: I have had a bad case of tennis elbow. Like, ow. Serious ow. It started in December and it's been bugging me ever since. What brought it on? Who knows. I had a massage therapist work on it at Kinkfest some, and he earnestly informed me it was too much flogging and caning. That's a pretty thought, but I'm inclined to think a lot of time on the keyboard could have something to do with it.

So I've done massage/ice/brace/ibuprofen and still: ow, all the time. So yesterday I said, "I have had enough of this. Okay, Doc, shoot me up." And got a cortisone shot.

It's my hope that I'll soon be able to type again without discomfort, but right now, my arm is a little extra-sore from getting it poked with several needles. (Even though he was very gentle and careful. But yes, all the people I have stuck needles into can chuckle.)

If not, I'm going to have to start doing a lot more photos and podcasts to keep ya'll entertained. And learn to use my left hand to flog people. Anyone want to stunt-model for that?

You know how you go out of town and you forget about all the not-fun stuff you left hanging in your absence? Or is it that somehow, in a not-really-rational part of your brain, you think that little kinky elves will come while you're away and do all those tedious chores? And then you come home and there they are? Yeah. I hate that.

Like what? Like Ikea, that's what. I have a list of household stuff I require, and none of it needs to be spendy, so Ikea it is. (I know, Miss K, I know - you're going to be mad that I didn't take you with me. But I have to go today, and it's going to be just as quick-and-dirty as an Ikea run can be. Pray god the rug-rats aren't out in force on a weekday afternoon.)

Also, I have to find a dress. Oh, Matisse, you say, you have dozens upon dozens of dresses. Why would you possibly need another one?

It's true that I have a ridiculous number of dresses. But this is a very particular kind of dress. It's a going-to-my-brother's-wedding dress.

I said that to my partners, and they both replied, "What, you can't wear one of those Herve dresses?" Typical men. No! Of course not! Good lord, my mother would keel over if I wore one of those skin-tight, bodda-boom, bodda-bing numbers to a family wedding. (Not that I am not seriously lusting for some of the Spring 2009 offerings.)

No, I need something a Nice Southern Girl would wear to a summer wedding in Florida, in May. You may well imagine that I actually don't have a closet full of such ensembles.

And I'm mildly annoyed to see that my darling brother and his (very nice) wife-to-be have scheduled the ceremony for 6pm. Any well-brought-up lady knows that there's a big difference between what you wear to a daytime wedding, and what you wear to an evening wedding, and 6pm awkwardly straddles that divide. Sigh.

I'm unclear on whether the ceremony is being held in a church. But the bride is Italian, so I bet it is. So there's that, too.

Thus: something not black or white, and sort of evening-y but still not too sexy. Sleeveless is fine, perhaps even preferable since it's going to be hot. But nothing strappy or way low-cut, and the skirt should be not terribly tight and at least near my knee. And yet, with all that, not impossibly dowdy.

I could really use those elves or magic fairies right about now.

Over the years, I’ve gotten used to some wild swings in my activities and surroundings. This weekend was one for the books, though. On Friday night, Armani and I had a very luxurious and decadent day and night at a local resort, with 90-minute massages, Chateaubriand, a hot tub, lots of wine - and lots of other things.

Saturday morning we woke up to snow – quite a lot of that, too. Now, I don’t know what it is, but it seems like whenever Armani and I leave town for a getaway, some dramatic weather-related thing happens. Like the ferry ride that we took in the windstorm of ‘07 – yeah, that ferry! Just our luck, we seem to stir up Mother Nature.

But Armani is a talented man, and he got us down off the mountain and delivered me home at noon. Whereupon I discovered that the cleaning people I had engaged – the highly trained team of professionals who were going to remove the heavy layer of nasty post-construction dust that was coating every single surface and every single object in my whole house – were not coming. At all.

So I was looking at a busy week starting Monday, with lots of people coming to see me, and a very filthy house. So guess what I was doing for nine hours alone on Saturday and for another four, with Monk, Sunday? Yeah. I looked like a chimney sweep on Saturday, only grayish-white instead of black.

People did offer to help me Saturday, but I’m hard to help sometimes. Certain types of things I can easily give clear directions about, but some things – well, I know how I want it done, but the effort of conceptualizing and then clearly communicating exactly what to do and why to do it that way? Oh, I’d honestly just rather do it myself. Unwillingness to delegate - it's a failing of mine. Control issues, me? Why would you ever think such a thing?

If the team had come, I would given them the keys and walked away - and then come back later and re-done whatever they didn’t do right. But directing another person, moment-by-moment for hours, in a huge and vaguely defined task, that’s actually composed of ten thousand tiny little tasks? Oh, no. As exhausting as it was to do alone, I would have been twice as stressed trying to do it and simultaneously manage someone else.

So Monk came on Sunday, when I had a clear and specific list of things I needed him to do, and that’s just exactly perfect. This is why I don’t have “apprentices” - and what a silly term that is - or personal slaves. I do not enjoy labor management - even the labor of people I’m very fond of.

Am I Or Not?

Cool reader Trix recently alerted me to the fact that I was quoted in this book: Yes Means Yes! Visions of Female Sexual Power and a World Without Rape. Sexy blogger/author/editor Rachel Kramer Bussell wrote an essay entitled: "Beyond Yes or No: Consent as Sexual Process" in which she talks about consent as an ongoing activity.

The quote is from a Stranger column I wrote called "The A Word", which can be read in all it's ranty glory here.

This is what RKB said...

"It benefits both halves of a couple (or coupling) to know what the other is into.... As dominatrix and sex columnist Mistress Matisse wrote in The Stranger, "Some of the pleasure I take in kink is the continual seduction of consent. I love the fact that I can get my partners to let me to do things to them that they never thought they'd let anyone do--and better yet, I can make them like it. That's hot."

So I bought a copy, naturally, and yep, there I am. I'm flattered and pleased, of course. But it's sort of strange to see myself referenced in a feminist anthology. Not bad, just... strange.

People ask me, "Are you a feminist?" And I usually say something like, "Do you think I am?"

Sometimes they say, "Oh yes, definitely!"

And I smile and say "All right then, I am."

Sometimes they say "No! Women like you are antithetical to feminism."

And I shrug and say, "Then we don't have anything else to talk about, do we?"

Because I'm just not going to play that game. When I was a very young woman, I did a lot of college-based political activism. Mainly pro-choice stuff, and some GLBT issues, and then later, AIDS activism. I called myself a feminist, and I encountered other women who also called themselves feminists.

Now, no one woman - or any group of women - have sole ownership of that word. I know that. But at that time in my life, when the Feminist Sex Wars were still being fought in many circles, I met a lot of feminist-identified women who acted as if they did. And the very clear message I got from them was that I was wrong. The way I looked was wrong, the books I read, the kind of music I listened to - but most of all, the kind of sex I liked. My whole sex life was wrong, wrong, wrong.

I spent some time trying to reconcile who I felt I was with the message I was getting from those women. But I wasn't able to do that, so I walked away from the movement.

I still support the same values and causes I always did: equal pay, the right to an abortion, ect. But I decided not to devote time, money and energy to advancing the broader political philosophies of people who didn't accept me and my choices. You might say that I fight in some battles, but I decline to re-enlist in the army.

Yes, I know about the sex-positive feminist movement. I think the women who identify themselves as such are great people. But to me, if I have to qualify myself to say I belong to your club, then I don't want in. Take me as I am, or not at all.

I am not saying that I don't support feminists. I do. If you think I'm a feminist and wish to call me so, I'm fine with that. If you are a feminist, I'm happy to be quoted in support of whatever you're saying.

But if you're someone who thinks a woman like me - kinky, sex-working, high-heel-wearing me - can't possibly be part of your feminist movement... Then you're right. I'm not.

I have arranged a large part of my life around the fact that I am not a morning person. As in, seriously not.

However, sometimes one has to do things one does not like. So this morning I am up at 7am to go meet a designer at a showroom - down south of Auburn, for god's sake - to pick out stuff for the remodel.

Seven-a-m. That's the middle of the night, as far as I am concerned. I really believe that each person's body is wired to want to sleep at certain times and be awake at certain times, and it's hard for us to change that. My body? Wants to stay awake until 2 or 3 am, and then sleep until 10 or 11am. That is what feels normal to me.

So the Mistress is a bit cranky this morning. But I'll try to be amused by faucets and tiles and so on. Check the Flickr feed, I'll send some snapshots.

But really, who put the morning people in charge?

Okay, I am now officially obsessed with the whole remodeling/redecorating thing for my house. Ob-sessed. And what do I do when I’m obsessed with something? I buy a whole lot of books on the subject and start reading.

I had picked up a couple of decorating books and magazines the last few weeks, but today I made a special trip to the big magazine rack at the Broadway QFC and bought one of every interior-design magazine they had to offer. Wow, there’s a lot of them!

And then I went across the street to Bailey-Coy and bought a few more magazines, and I also bought this book: Domino: The Book of Decorating: A room-by-room guide to creating a home that makes you happy.

I had seen this book, but initially disdained it, because it does not have a big glossy photo of some fabulous room on the cover, and so what the heck good is that? And the styles of the rooms in the photos inside seemed all very modern, with lots of primary colors. Sort of first-apartment-ish, not at all what I'm thinking of.

But then I flipped through it a bit more and decided it would be helpful. It’s very step-by-step, room-by-room, and it explains a lot about why stuff works together, or doesn’t. It’s got lots of lists and charts and graphs, and I think it'll help me conceptualize what I want.

Much of what’s going to happen at the Little House doesn’t really fall in the “decorating” category. I’m taking out a interior wall to expand the playroom, and remodeling the adjoining bathroom. (And getting rid of that ugly mantle, which is this 70’s faux-rock horror. You know, those big brown stones that you could practically rock-climb on. Terrible!)

But doing that, plus some other factors, are inspiring me to pretty much redecorate the whole damn house - living room, dining room, ect. At least, until I run out of money. That’s a challenge, because I’ve never actually set out to decorate a house in any purposeful way. The furniture I have now is just random pieces I’ve picked up here and there, without any plan other than, “Oh, I like that - and hey, it’s on sale!”

The Big House is done in mostly sort of a contemporary style, with a lot of nice Danish teak pieces. I like that fine, but I am feeling a desire for a different look at my house. Something more classic/traditional, with some antique pieces, and a bit of a French/Italian feel to it. Warm and sexy and a little exotic. But not fussy. I do not like busy, cluttered spaces, with little chachkies everywhere. Some people do that look very well, and live with it comfortably, but not me. I want surroundings that are pretty, but I also like clear surfaces and some negative space for my eyes to rest upon.

So, the actual remodeling hasn’t even started yet – you know how these things go, twice as much and twice as long as you originally planned. But I’m excited about the process just the same.

I’m about to start having some remodeling done at the house where I have sessions with people. I’m a little nervous about this. This is one of those things where deep inside my head, there's a voice that says "Hey, you're not allowed to do this. Telling people to tear out bathroom fixtures is a grown-up thing to do, and you're not really a grown-up, you're just pretending to be."

I felt that way when I bought the house, too. Only - I am really am a grown-up, apparently. And thus I can authorize people to take a crowbar to that unbelievably ugly fireplace mantle in my living room. Thank god.

Fortunately, I happen to be friends with a contractor who is not only a good guy, but is also kinky, so he’s doing the work for me. And he's all right with working in the morning when I'm not there, and being done and gone for the day by the time I show up to be the Mistress. I think my pal Jerry gets up in the morning right about the time I'm going to bed at night. So that'll be fine.

Thus, on Saturday he and his partner and one of their guys showed up at my house to look it over and make some plans about what needed to happen.

So picture me in my playspace, with three big burly guys all dressed in smudged Carhart’s and steel-toed boots, stomping around thumping on my walls, peering at my plumbing, and talking about on-demand hot-water heaters. Sounds like a scene, doesn’t it? Not quite. Or at least I’m not sure who was topping who.

I completely trust Jerry, and I think the work itself is going to be fine, but we had a few let-me-correct-that-impression moments. I suppose that’s normal with these things.

For example, I expect that if you say the word dungeon to a non-kinky person, they automatically picture: cold, bare, industrial-looking room. God knows I have played in lots of places that looked like that, either because it’s cheap and practical for a public space, or because the owner liked that style. But it’s never appealed to me particularly. I’m not cold and hard in my scenes, I don’t want cold and hard in my décor.

So I had to clarify that a bit. We were all actually standing in my dungeon at the time, which is not at all cold or bare or industrial in appearance. It’s all red walls and black carpet and heavy velvety curtains - rather intimate.

I was talking about taking out a wall and putting in French doors to another room, and one of the not-kinky guys says, “Hey, you could put in a steel roll-down door, like on a garage!”

A steel roll-down door? Well, that would be perfect in a warehouse with concrete floors and eighteen-foot ceilings. But that’s not going to go so well in my house. I raised my eyebrow and looked at him sideways. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s the motif I’m going for.” I made a little look-around gesture.

He furrowed his brow. “Well, what are you going for?”

“Something more – feminine.”

“Feminine!” He let out a snort of laughter.

I put my hands on my hips. “Yes, feminine. I am a girl, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Jerry laughed too. “Oh, we noticed.” After that, they invoked the word “feminine” numerous times in discussing my design options, with an accompanying palms-up, wiggly-fingered gesture. So apparently I made my point about that. I doubt I’ll hear any more about garage doors.

I am not going to write about how much I hate snow.

***

If you know me – or you’ve been reading me for very long – you know that I am often a bit standoffish when I am unexpectedly approached by strangers in public. Call it good boundaries, or a suspicious nature, but I tend to mind my own business and let other people mind theirs.

However, occasionally it’s a good thing when strangers talk to me. It’s happened twice lately. Once was a very sweet girl introducing herself to me and Monk, in a restaurant on Broadway. She recognized us and came to our table to say hi, she was a fan of ours. She was just perfectly charming and appropriate about it, and we were pleased to meet her. So greetings go out to RhythmGirl.

The other occasion was different. Much less charming, but it definitely prevented me from doing something I shouldn’t have.

The day in question was December 30^th. I had some pre-NYE shopping to do at University Village. But it seemed I wasn’t the only one. It was mid-afternoon on a work day, but still, the place was jammed with people. Or more accurately, jammed with cars. I wasn’t trying to score Rock-Star Parking (meaning: ten feet from the door of your destination) but even in the furthest reaches of the lots, there were seemingly no parking spots available, and a lot of people cruising around looking for them.

So around and around I went, getting more and more frustrated, until after about fifteen minutes, I saw some people getting into a car in my aisle. They were on my left, so I put on the turn signal, and sat waiting for them to pull out. It took them a few minutes to organize themselves, but I wasn’t impatient, I do that too. I just waited.

They eased back out of the spot, and as they did, a little car came zipping down the lane, squeezed past the emerging car so tightly I expected to hear sheet metal scraping, and pulled into the space. My space.

Now, I expect anyone who drives has had this happen to them at some point or other, and it’s happened to me before. But it’s one thing when you think that maybe the other driver really didn’t see you.

This woman did. I know she did because when I saw what she was about to do, I laid on the horn. Twice. In some cities, that might be taken as a friendly hello, but in Seattle, that’s practically a declaration of road-rage. As the driver turned in front of me, she had her head twisted unnaturally far to the right, so I couldn’t see her face, and she wouldn’t have to look at me. She knew exactly what she was doing.

And rage is an accurate description of my response. I do not think of myself as having a quick temper, and I can overlook a lot of annoyances. But occasionally…I just snap. And it was just so blatant, and so depersonalizing. I mean, I doubt if that woman would have physically shoved me aside to get ahead of me in a line at QFC. But since we were both in cars, it was like I wasn’t really a person. This kind of thing is what gives car-drivers a bad rap.

As fate would have it, another car pulled out just a few spaces down. I parked my car and got out and let me tell you, dear readers, I had blood in my eye. I looked around and spotted the other driver walking rather quickly away, and I walked after her, adrenaline surging through my body. I had some very choice words for her, and I was going to deliver them, loudly. I did not care if she went into the fanciest store in U. Village, she was going to get an earful from me. I imagine I looked like a woman who was about to Start Something, because I was.

I was closing the distance between us when directly into my path hopped a small older woman. She was dressed in what I call Bellevue Peasant style – boots, long full skirt, poofy sweater and lots of scarves and jewelry. Sort of an expensive earth-mother look.

Her voice, however, was not small.

“Oh, my dear, oh I SAW what happened, oh my goodness I can’t believe that woman DID that, that is the rudest thing I ever SAW!”

I paused, and she kept talking, in a fast New York-ish voice, without seeming to draw breath. “You were there waiting, and she just – unbelievable! I think she got her driver’s license by correspondence course or something, I mean, honestly! Did you see her face? Vacant! I REALLY think she’s not all there!”

We both looked after the offending driver, who was still within view, and possibly even earshot, given the strength of my sympathizer’s voice. She had a soft knitted beret pulled over short dark hair, and the wrinkles around her dark eyes, as she shifted her gaze back to me, made her look wise and maternal.

“And I know, I know,” she went on. “You want to say something to her, and I understand, but you know, just let it go, let it go. Someone like that, pah, an idiot, she’s not worth bothering with, really.” She waved a diamond-ringed hand in dismissal.

I made some noise indicating my unsatisfied outrage, and she continued the soothing opera of abuse. “I know, it was SO unbelievably rude, inexcusable. She’s an absolute moron. But you have to just let things like that go. You’re a better person than that.”

I took a long breath in and out and relaxed my shoulders. “All right. All right. You’re right. I should just let it go.”

She patted my arm. “That’s the best thing. Don’t let it ruin your afternoon. It was stupid but now it’s over. You’re a better person.”

I smiled at her. “Thank you for saying that, it really helps.” And it did. I was still annoyed, but I wasn’t seeing-red angry anymore. “You’re very kind to do this.”

I wished her a pleasant afternoon and turned and walked in the opposite direction. And in retrospect, I am glad I didn’t vent my not-unreasonable wrath on the other driver. I had other things to do than give driver-etiquette lessons, and somehow I doubt those lessons would have been gratefully received.

So if you’ve the rude idiot who parked your blue car in this manner on the day in question, a nice lady saved you from an unpleasant confrontation. I wouldn’t count on her following you around, however, and the next person you offend may not be as easily placated as I was. Even if you don’t care about other people’s feelings, you might think about whether you want to be inviting such experiences upon yourself.