Dinner with Miss K…

"So, I saw a guy the other day who said he'd seen you," she said.

This happens more often that you'd think. Guys who have had a good experience with one type of sex work are more likely to consider experimenting with other avenues. Thus, if someone I know well is curious about call girls, I'll tell him about friends of mine. (I do not make recommendations to guys I don't know, however, so don't call me up and ask.) And my friends are likely to nudge guys my way, if they seem right for me. Call it professional cross-pollination.

"Oh yeah? Who was that?" I asked.
"John," she says blandly.
I give her a look.
"What, you don't know immediately who I mean?" She's giving me a hard time. "You know, John, in his forties, five-ten, medium build, brown hair and brown eyes. That John." She looks at me all innocent-like.
"You think you're funny," I tell her. "But you're not." This description would fit at least one-third of all our clients – and of course, whenever someone calls who claims to know us, he'll invariably try to jog our memory by describing himself just like this. It drives us mad. If you've six foot five, or you have tattoos over 3/4s of your body, or you have eyes of two different colors, then sure, a physical description will help us remember who you are. Otherwise, save it for the DMV.
Both Miss K and I are much more apt to recall snippets of conversations, so it's better to say things like, "I'm from Florida, and we talked about how you grew up there, and how we used to go pick oranges off the trees, and now it feels strange to buy them in stores." That's the type of little detail that will probably help. What also doesn't help, by the way, is telling me something like, "We did some bondage and some spanking, and then you gave me a golden shower." Dear man, I do that several times a week. Unless I tell you, "Wow, I've never done that before!" assume it's SOP for me and thus will not be a useful mnemonic.

"Okay, okay…Yeah, John, in his forties – really! – kinda slim, he's from Oregon and comes up here on business, he's got straight black hair he combs to one side, kind of a nervous manner, and he never, ever makes eye contact with you. Ever."
"Oh, right! John!" I know exactly who she means. "Yeah, he is kind of the nervous type. I thought it might just be with me, though. So he's the same with you?"
"Yeah, and it drove me nuts. He was really quiet and still, and he wouldn't look me in the eye, and I couldn't tell if he was having a good time or not."
"Yeah, he is very…inward, with his energy. But I thought he was sort of sweet, I liked him."
She shrugs. "I'm not saying I wouldn't see him again. But if he comes back he's gonna have to loosen up some."
"Honey, he's Norwegian. I don't think he gets a lot more emotive than that. Remember Bill the Norwegian? He was the same way."
"Oh, right. Norwegians – oy." She shrugs, abandoning the idea of loosening up men from chilly climates.
"What's he like as a straight date?"
"Aside from the quiet thing and the no-eye-contact thing?" She considers. "Fine. Takes his weight on his elbows, and makes sure the condom is still on before he pulls out afterwards."
"What more can a girl ask for?"

And This Would Be My Problem Why?

Ring ring!
Me: hello?
Caller: Is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes…
Caller: Uh, hi, I have a question I was wondering if you could help me with?
Me: Okay – what is it?
Caller: It's sort of a problem, really.
Me: O-kay, what is it?
Caller: I don't really know if you're going to be able to help me at all.
Me: Well, my psychic powers don't seem to be working today, so we'll never know unless you actually tell me what it is.
Caller: Oh, right, okay. So, uh – I've been seeing this Mistress, right? I saw her a couple of times, and it was okay – I mean, not great, but she told me she was right about to get a really cool dungeon, with a lot more equipment, except she was in kind of a money bind, right?

Oh, I'm hating this story already. I bet I could tell him the rest of this sad little tale, and probably more succinctly.

Caller: So she asked if I would pre-pay for the next couple of sessions, and I said okay, and I gave her the money. But when I called her again, her phone number had been disconnected.
Me: Mm-hmm. Have you tried emailing her?
Caller: Yes, but it bounced.
Me: Okay, so what is it that you want from me?
Caller: Well, I was wondering if you could tell her to call me. Her name is Mistress FlimFlam.
Me: What? Honey, how would I tell her anything? I don't know this person.
Caller: She said she knew you.
Me: Well, she lied. I've never heard of her.
Caller: But she said she knew you!
Me: (heavy sigh) Look, I have no idea who this person you're talking about is, but it's entirely possible that she has been in the same room with me at some fetish event. It's even barely possible that she's been introduced to me by a different name. It's a small town for kinky people. However, she's no friend of mine, and I certainly don't have any information about her whereabouts.
Caller: But she's got my money! I pre-paid for three sessions – five hundred dollars!

Five hundred for three sessions? Apparently one of your cut-rate dominatrixes. Why am I not surprised?

Me: Well, you have my sympathy, but I think you're just out of luck.
Caller: But- but- can't you do something? Like, ask around or something?

He's taking an unattractively whiny tone here, and I don't like it.

Me: Honey, I'm a pro dom, not a private detective. No.
Caller: I thought, you know, you'd want to take care of this, since you're, like, a big deal around here and stuff.
Me: Uh - no. No, I can't say I have the slightest urge to "take care of this".
Caller: Because it will make you other pro doms look bad, you know. I thought you'd have some kind of code of honor about it.

Oh great, whiny and manipulative - my favorite. And this notion that pro doms would somehow be self-policing sounds like his wank fantasy. I can see the porn DVD box now - "Teaching The Bad Mistress A Lesson" or "Pro-Dom Gang-Bangers Enforce Discipline".

Me: No, it's your problem - you shouldn't have given her the money. Consider it an expensive lesson learned, and next time go see an established Mistress instead of some fly-by-night wanna-be.
Caller: But it costs too much money!
Click.
I hang up.

Things I Do When Max Is Away Overnight

1) Come home and leave my stuff in a trail all over the house – my shoes, clothes, various bags I was carrying, my opened mail, my unopened mail; everything just gets flung down wherever I happen to be.
2) Turn up the heat, because he's always hot, and I'm always cold. Yes, even in June.
3) Play music he doesn't especially like very loud.
4) Sing along with music he doesn't especially like very loud.
5) Do a few of my old favorite stripper moves in front of the mirror to see if I still remember how.
6) Talk to my cat.
7) Eat ice cream out of the container.
8) Pet my bunny.
9) Hog all the pillows and covers.

So, anyone else see the freaky sky flash late last night? I was sitting in my office working on some writing stuff. There's a large window all along the wall to my left, and suddenly I saw the whole sky just light up. It was very weird. I thought we were being attacked or something, or that a large plane had crashed. Then I heard a few distant bangs - a bit like far-away fireworks on the 4th of July. I opened the window and sat there staring out for a while to see if it happened again or if I heard anything, but there was nothing else.
Apparently it was a small meteor...At least that's what CNN says. I'm sure conspiracy theorists in the area are already having a field day.

Brief car update:
The Camry-Solara - forget it, way too big.
The Passat - Way too soccer-momish! (Sorry, Lil!)
The Volvo - Ditto
The Acura - Cute. But they don't make the 200hp one in an automatic, and I won't drive a stick. The 160hp one was just a shade too wimpy. Goes into the "...but-no-cigar" category.
I didn't make it over to the Subaru place, but I intend to.
But I went and drove the Eclipe GTS. Oooh, it's fun. The instrument cluster is a bit plastic-y. But it really zooooms.
I looked at - but did not drive - some cute used Saab 9-3s and 9-5s. I may go back and drive one.
I am also going to go look at some more used cars: a Lexus SE 400 and a few others. Maybe even a BMW if I can find some in my comfortable price range...
And I must also say : I do really appreciate everyone being so sweet and helpful and supportive in the comments.(You like me, you really like me!) Thanks for being so chatty about such an un-sexy topic...

More car venting, skip it if you're looking for the dirty bits…

The car search rolls on, and I tell you, I'm feeling mighty petulant about it. I'm taking it as a personal affront to me that the damn Honda people built the Accord in a manner unsuited to my taste. What were they thinking? Don't they know how much they're inconveniencing me? I hate car shopping.

So, having rejected the Accord, I'm back to square one. I have no idea what I'm going to wind up buying, and it unsettles me when I have major decisions hanging. Thank god, I have Vermont coming to see me on Thursday, and I can take out my frustrations very firmly on his sweet behind. He'll like that, and so will I.

What I want is a coupe with automatic transmission and a leather seats. And it's got to be kicky, because slo-o-o-ow cars are just not where I'm at. Today I'm going to look at: A Toyota Camry-Solara, A VW Passat, a Subaru Impreza, an Acura RSX, and a Volvo S40.

Some of these cars are 4-door, and my general position on that has been, if I'm driving a 4-door car, well, I might as well just go ahead and have three kids and move to the suburbs and start voting Republican. (Note: I'm being facetious, in case you couldn't tell. Why, some of my best friends drive…et cetera.) But 4-door cars are like surrendering to practicality over style, and while I do actually do that in some parts of my life, I don't want necessarily want to be confronted by that fact every time I walk into the garage.

However, I perceive that my options in this matter aren't wide in the price range I've set for myself, so…okay, I'm going to go look at some 4-doors. Sigh. Wish me luck…

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I got a second-hand compliment while I was having dinner with a friend last night.
"Remember my ex-boyfriend Bob? You met him at that barbeque we had?" she asked me.
"Yes, I remember him," I said.
"So, I wanted to tell you - he just thought you were the prettiest thing. He was really smitten with you."
I smiled. "That's very flattering. He was a nice guy."
"The funny thing is, though…Well, you know he's not kinky, right?"
"Right."
"So he just really did not want to believe that you were. I mean, I told him – but he was kinda like 'oh, she's probably not really heavy into it'."
I laughed. "Does he know I'm a pro?"
"Yes – I mean, we all tried to tell him, but he just thought you were so sweet and nice that you must just be into the light stuff."
I laughed harder. "Oh, yeah - that's me. Just into the light stuff. I should ask him if he'd like to play with me sometime."

I've gotten this "But you look so sweet!" reaction before. It doesn't bother me. It just means I can lull people into a false sense of security…heh heh heh.
But people's ability to deny what they don't want to be true is sort of amazing. Yes, Bob, I'm sweet and pleasant and I can comport myself properly at a family barbeque. I am, also, a serious and deeply-dyed pervert. This juxtaposition of facts may cause the Bobs of the world a little cognitive dissonance, but I think they should consider it a shot across the bow. There are many, many unsuitable mates floating around who are far less forthright about their little idiosyncrasies than I am.

Some thought-provoking quotes on BDSM...

"These things don't come from our childhood; they come from our historic
past. They are the seductive and terrifying symbols of cruelties that were routine right up through the eighteenth century."
--Anne Rice

"After all, sexual fantasy and the things that thrill us are often dark and dirty, though we usually don't like to admit that out loud."
--Susan Wright

"Spanking is also a show. It's street theater or lyric opera depending on the circumstances. Some fear discovery; others revel in spectacle."
--Jean-Pierre Enard

"Leather is thicker than blood."
--Gayle Rubin

"To whip is also to caress."
--Valerie Steele

"There are really two kinds of submissives in the world: those who believe they don't deserve any better…and those who believe they don't deserve any less."
--Author Unknown

"It's your body; play with it."
--Fakir Musafar

"Bottoms are alchemists who magically transform pain into sex."
--Dossie Easton and Catherine A. Liszt

"Sadomasochism enjoys all the forms of religious piety--kneeling, praying, worshipping, sacrificing, invoking, and punishing."
--Terence Sellers

"The body is both a pleasure palace and a torture chamber."
--Charles Levin

"The best way of enlarging and multiplying one's desires is to try to limit them."
--The Marquis de Sade

"A fetish is a story masquerading as an object."
--Robert Stoller

"You can read a hundred books and cruise a thousand websites and chatrooms,
but it will not equal one hour of real-time BDSM experience."
--Sensuous Sadie

"Ultimately, the purpose of a flogging is to inflict pleasure."
--Mitch Kessler

"You are no one’s slave, dog, slut, or sub until you give them that right. Only you can give it. No one can take or assume it without your permission."
--Jack Rinella

Not So Much Annoying As Just Somewhat Puzzling

Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes it is.
Caller: Great. I've been looking at your website. I'm going to be in Seattle in about a month on a business trip, and I want to make an appointment with you.
Me: Ah. So, were you wanting to do that now?
Caller: No, no - I don't really know my schedule. I don't really even know the exact dates.
Me: Okay – do you have any questions I can answer for you?
Caller: No, your website's very informative. I just wanted to tell you I'll be calling you.
Me: Okay, that sounds fine.
Caller: Great. Bye!
Click.

It's not that I mind, really…But one does wonder what, precisely, the purpose of this call was. He called me to tell me he'll be calling me? O-kay, I'll certainly be waiting for that – except, of course, that I don't know what his name is, or what days he'll be here, or what he's looking for in a session, or even if he's someone I would want to see. But aside from all that, I'll certainly be looking for his call.

Annoying Phone Call #4,122,893

Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, I'm calling about your ad.
Me: Yes, that's right – what would you like to know?

I always ask this because I have no idea what information this person already has about me. There's no point to my launching into a spiel about fees, hours of availability, et cetera, if the caller already knows all that.

Caller: Could you describe yourself, please?

Oh, shit. I hate it when they say this. Now that we all have websites with photos, I don't get this question very often, thank god. Because what this guy wants me to do is describe the way I look in minute detail – my exact height, weight, age, measurements, including bra size, hair length, blah blah blah.
It's not that I don't think the guy's entitled to know what I look like. That's why I have pictures on the damn website. But the verbal run-down thing - well, I can't speak for everyone, but every sex worker I know personally really hates this. We all think it feels degrading to be asked to describe the way we look as if our attributes were the features on a used car. I've worked in places where the women all stood in a lineup for clients to choose from, and that didn't bother me at all. But this bothers me. So I won't do it.

Me: Did you see an ad of mine – is that how you got this number?
Caller: Yes.
Me: Okay, well, that’s a picture of me in the ad.
Caller: It's kind of a small picture. Would you say you were a C-cup or a D-cup?

I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.

Me: I also have an extensive website with a lot of photos of me, and I do ask that everyone read over it before booking a session with me.
Caller: Oh, uh…I mean, I can't afford internet access.

The Thirty-Seconds rule strikes again! Thirty seconds on the phone, and you'll know if there's a chance in the world. And let me tell you, if this guy can't afford internet access, then he definitely can't afford me. In fact, he can't even afford to hear me talk about myself.

Me: Oh, too bad. Well, I understand. Thanks a lot, buh-bye.
Click.
I hang up quickly before he can say another word. If you want to hear a girl talk about her tits, I think, you'll have to call somewhere else.

No nasty stories today, sorry. I'm still deep in car-shopping-mode. The update is on that is: I went to the Honda dealership yesterday and drove one of the new Accords, and…I wasn't really impressed. The doors and the dash are too high, even with the seat raised I felt like I was sitting in the bottom of a bucket.
This totally bummed me out, because I just want to do this and be done with it, but I'm not going to buy a car I don't like, even though it's technically the right car for me.
So the Accord is like the guy I know I should marry, because he's so nice and reliable and dependable and all. But we didn't have much chemistry.
And my mind keeps wandering to that sexy guy over there at the Mitsubishi dealership, the Eclipse. (Not the Spyder, you understand – owning a convertible here in the land of liquid sunshine has always struck me not so much as optimism as willful denial.)
Mr. Eclipse – well, his reviews are not as four-star as the Accord. Nothing one can pin down to a specific problem – but he's just not as bulletproof as Mr. Accord. I can't be sure how he'd handle a long-term relationship. But, ooooohhh, he's fast and smooth and fun…
Then there's the dark horse, Mr. Toyota Celica. I think he might be a little…young for me. I see him most often in the company of boys between 18-25, and frankly, he's usually a bit overdressed for my taste. But if I spent some time getting to know him, I might see that he's a great guy underneath it all.
I am firmly resolved to not think about this guy, because he's out of my league. But damn he's fine.

I am poised on the brink of buying a new car, and I have a feeling that process is going to command a lot of my spare time for the next few days, as I gather price quotes via email, visit dealerships, and get sales-pitched relentlessly by determined guys with silk neckties and Michael Douglas-esque hair.
But I know exactly what I want - a Honda Accord coupe - so it's just a matter of beating them down to a reasonable price. (One of my old lovers was a car salesperson and she gave me all the dirt on how this works.)
I'm armed with my Consumer Reports invoice quotes, a competitive bid from CarsDirect.com, and a cool assurance that I don't have to buy this car today, or any day, until I get my price. Listen for the sound of salesmen gnashing their teeth and tearing their hair in frustration. Mwah ha ha ha haaaa....

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.

And another thing: a "sub" is either an underwater boat or a sandwich. Using the word "sub" - as either a noun or a verb - to refer to either a person or activity in BDSM is extremely gauche. And 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".

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 fucking 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.

My friend Jae and I did a double together the other day. (Confused? A double = two sex workers, one client.) I'm taking a small risk in admitting to this here, because officially, I don't do doubles at all. Check my website, it says right there: I don't do doubles.

Except – very occasionally I do. If I know you well and I like you, and if I think you'll like Jae, and if the moon and stars are all aligned properly on the day you ask me oh-so-politely if such a thing is possible, then yeah, maybe I'll agree to arrange that.

And while I usually enjoy my sessions alone, there's no deny that having Jae around does make it more fun for me - although she has a terrible habit of making me break up laughing with her remarks. Hard to maintain the Mistress persona with that happening. Not that my guys really expect or want the stone-faced serious thing from me, but still, there are time when I am quite…intent, on what I'm doing, and having Jae crack wise and make me laugh is distracting. She's a total imp. In another place and time she'd have been the perfect court jester, dancing around in her cap and bells…

And the reason Jae is my only doubles partner is that she knows me so extremely well that it's easy. I've done a few doubles with other people, long ago, and while they weren't terrible, they were just a lot of work, because I had to orchestrate two people instead of one. Or, in the case of another Mistress, I had to try to give her the proper amount of airtime, while still subtly directing the progress of the session. (Of course, they were all my clients. I suppose if I was the guest star with someone else's client, it would be rather different.)
But Jae knows me, she knows my dungeon, she knows my equipment, she knows what kinds of things I use for what. When I say, "Get me the leather head-thingie with all the straps," she knows which one I mean. (She should: she's had it on.) She knows if I pick up a box of needles, I'm also going to need alcohol wipes, rubber gloves, and a sharps container, so she gets them. Easy.

The other thing about doubles that makes it challenging is that, as far as the interaction between Jae and I goes, they can be a sometimes challenging blend of a real scene and performance art. A lot of the clients we've seen together want to watch us play some, and it's certainly never hard for Jae and I to slip right into a scene. But it would be rude to get so very into our interaction that we ignore him, so we both have to stay conscious of keeping the energy balanced. It's easy enough for me – I'm the Mistress. But not everyone would be able to slide from bottom-space to performance mode as fluidly as Jae does. That's why she's always my first choice if I have to teach a class, put on a show, or – do a double.

Quick note: I am teaching a BDSM skills-building workshop tonight at Seattle sex-toy store Toys In Babeland from 7:30-9:30.
I don't know if tickets are still available, but you can find out by calling the store at 206.328.2914
Maybe I'll see some of ya'll there...

Later: Don't click on the "Cunning Linguists" link right now, their URL has apparently been hijacked by some asshole porn sites, and if you go there, your browser will be spun around in endless cycle of tackiness. If it is not fixed soon, I'll have to delete the link...

Conversation with my friend R, who is a call girl, while driving in the car…

"So I'm sending some guys to you," she said, "because I like being kinky but they're really wanting a level of dominance that I'm not comfortable with."
"Well, what do they want?"
"Oh, like peeing and stuff." She makes a shoo-ing gesture with her hands, as if to ward off even the mere idea of anyone peeing on her designer sheets. R takes her bed-linens very seriously.
I, on the other hand, play on a vinyl-covered table that gets wiped down after every session with an industrial disinfectant so powerful that the mere fumes of it are probably killing computer viruses on the PC in my office. Pee does not scare me – especially when I'm the one doing the peeing.
"Sounds fine to me," I said. "Have you been busy?"
"Yeah, and that's cool. Except there's this one guy who keeps calling me back lately and I don't want to see him again."
"Why not?"
She sighs and twists restlessly. "He can't come. I don't know what his problem is, he's not an old guy or anything. He's got a weird dick, it's sort of V-shaped."
I look at her. "V-shaped? You mean it's got a bend in it?"
"No, I mean, it's small at the tip, and then it gets wider and wider, and it's pretty wide at the base."
I think about this. "Oh, okay."
"There should really be a coffee-table book of photos of weird-shaped dicks, because there are some really weird-looking ones." R is wandering off on a tangent now, as she often does. I pull her back into the conversational stream.
"So the guy with the V-shaped dick can't get off?"
"No, and it's a pain in the ass when they don't come. You don't get closure."
I laugh, but I know what she means. "Well, if they're okay with it, I'm okay with it. But if they're all anxious and frustrated, then that's a bad note to finish a session on."
"Oh! I hate it! I mean, I feel sorry for him and stuff, but god, come on!" She's laughing a little as well – but still, R is still very passionate about her insistence on other people's orgasms. "It's like, I feel like a bad lay, it's terrible. And I know I'm not a bad lay, so what's the problem?"
"Well, I've fucked you and I think you're a good lay," I say. She grins at me. "And if he's calling you back he must think you're a good lay, too. So it's nothing to do with you - he's probably just got some kind of medical issue."
"I know. But I hate it when I feel like I haven't done my job well. It's like seeing them come is being Employee of the Month or something."
"You must be Employee of the Month a whole fucking lot then," I say, laughing.
She laughs too. "Yeah, my months go by pretty quick. Every time you turn around…"

To all my sweet, nasty regular boys who've called about getting appointments today (or yesterday, eep!): I'm so sorry I didn't get back to you, but I had no time available anyway. Some other time soon, I hope...
- Dashing off...

Note: This is just a rough draft of some thoughts I've had...I don't usually post unfinished stuff, but frankly, I'm too busy to write anything else!


Random and Disjointed Reflections On Being A Pretty Girl

The other day I parked in a pay lot downtown and went into a store that validates for that lot. I did my shopping, but when I left the store and was about to present my ticket to the lot attendant, I realized I had forgotten to get it stamped. Damn, I thought, I don't want to go all the way back in there now. So I fluffed out my hair a little and smiled winningly at the attendant and explained how silly I'd been, could he please let me slide this one time?
I felt his eyes flick over me, and he smiled back, almost ruefully. "Yeah, all right, go ahead", he said. We both knew - it was a Pretty Girl Moment.

Before we go any further, let me make a few things clear. I can't even try to codify the difference between words like "pretty", and "beautiful", and all the other terms used to describe the physical manifestation of feminine charm. And it's definitely not within my power to define exactly what any of those words encompass. Prettiness has been defined a thousand different ways ever since people first began putting words to their own particular feminine ideal. I know that if you asked any two random people to describe me, one of them would say I have the face that launched a thousand ships and the body of a goddess. And one of them would shrug and say, "Matisse? Yeah, she's nice-looking, I guess." You cannot measure what's in the eye of the beholder.

But the majority opinion seems to be that through both a lucky spin on the genetic roulette wheel, and a lot of diligent care and maintenance, I am a Pretty Girl. And as I move through the everyday world, that's made my life easier on thousands of different occasions. University administrators, traffic cops, doormen, job interviewers and employers, apartment managers, auto mechanics, waiters, taxi drivers, hotel clerks – these are just a few of the types of men who've overlooked small transgressions, given me extra perks, or somehow gone out of their way for me because I'm a Pretty Girl.

I'm not talking about my career as a sex worker, you understand. I gave those men nothing except my smile and wow-you-are-such-a-great-guy gratitude. And most of the time I was perfectly sincere – if someone gives me a break, especially when I know I don't necessarily deserve it, I am grateful to them. So I show them a picture of themselves in my eyes, surrounded by a rosy glow of Great-Guyness.

Pretty-Girl mojo doesn't always work, of course, even when you really try. Being a Pretty Girl is sometimes like having been given a gift card without knowing precisely how much credit has been loaded onto it. It gets you things, but you know that at any moment, the store clerk could shake their head at you and tell you that you've reached your limit and you're out of luck.

And there are times when being a Pretty Girl is a pain in the ass. When I'm pumping gas into my car at 2 am, for example, and a car full of drunken teenage guys pulls into the gas station, it's a serious inconvenience. There have been many moments in life when I really wished I was invisible, because the way I looked was drawing me attention I didn't want.

But I know that someday, I will become invisible, because I'll get old. Perhaps I'll find that I have Cool-Old-Lady mojo then, but I don't know. I do know I'm going to delay the whole process as long as I can, though. I was at the gym recently, running on the treadmill, and I saw former sex-symbol Raquel Welch being interviewed on TV. She's sixty-two, and damn, she still looks pretty good. If she can do it, I can do it, I thought, kicking up the speed another notch.

I wonder a lot if other pretty girls are as aware of their Pretty Girl-ness and what it means, as I am. But it's hard to talk about this without feeling like you're coming off as some kind of Stepford Wife. So I've really only talked about with a few other women, close friends, who know that I really don't believe that my only value as a person is the way I look.

But I look at other women sometimes – women who, to be blunt about it, aren't pretty at all – and I feel slightly guilty. It's same kind of guilt I occasionally feel about being white, or coming from an upper-middle-class family, who could afford to send me to private schools and buy me a pony. I got something you didn't get.
And it doesn't seem like an easily rectifiable imbalance. I believe in self-improvement, but some things can't be changed - short of auditioning for shows like Extreme Makeover. What can they do but just live with it?

I also wonder exactly how my life would be different if I were exactly the same person on the inside, but I wasn't pretty on the outside. But I wouldn't be the same person, really, because who I am has been influenced by how people treat me, and how people treat me is influenced by how I look.

I think the bottom line is: I'm fascinated by power dynamics in general, and I think that the power of personal attractiveness is one of the most basic and undeniable examples of power dynamics I know.

It's weird how business comes in cycles. During the last week of April and the first week of May, business was dead, dead, dead. My phone was so quiet I occasionally called it myself to make sure it was working properly. It was mildly annoying, but I've been doing this for too long to panic over a slow spell, so I just occupied myself writing, hanging out with Max, puttering around the house, et cetera.

Talk about the calm before the storm…I don't know whether every kinky guy in Seattle is on the same lust-cycle or what, but for the last two weeks, the phone will NOT stop ringing, I'm booked to the max for a week in advance – it's crazy, I tell ya.

My regular guys are pretty philosophical about not being able to get me on the phone, not being able to get an appointment easily. They've been through it before.
(And BTW, Frequent Flyers, if you've called me, and I haven't called you back – this is why. Hang in there.)

But new guys sometimes get ornery. This is one of the four hundred and sixteen phone calls I got today - when I wasn't in session, that is.

Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, I'd like to get an appointment.

Now this isn't rude or anything – but it's really not my favorite way for people to begin this conversation. I like it when people say, "Hi, my name's Bill, I was calling about your service." Or, "to get some information." The persnickety bitch in me – and she's a well-developed presence – is put off a bit by the presumption that I'd make an appointment with just anyone. There's a little dance to be done here, boys, so don't go jumping the gun. (I am such a high-maintenance girl, aren't I?)

Me: Okay – have we met before?
Caller: No, I'm from out of town.
Me: I see. What's your name?
Caller: (noticeable pause) John.
Me: Well, John, I would be happy to talk about a session with you, but you should know that my first available appointment would be late next week some time.
Caller: Next week?
Me: Yes.
Caller: That's not going to work for me, I'm only in town for a few days.

Where the hell were you three weeks ago, I think, but the point is moot now.

Me: Oh, too bad. Well, if you get back to Seattle some other time you can give me a call.
Caller: You don't have any time at all until next week? I was really looking for something tonight or tomorrow.
Me: No, I'm sorry. I have a very good regular clientele here in Seattle and I do stay quite busy.
Caller: Boy, I don't know how you're going to do much business if you're that busy.

This is such a moronic statement that I remain silent for about ten seconds, letting the stupidity of what he just said hang in the air.

Caller: I mean, much new business.
Me: (with a conspicuously patient sigh) As I said, John, why don't you call me some other time when you're in Seattle.
Caller: (ungraciously) Yeah, okay, bye.
Click.

Wow, I am so bummed I didn't get to meet that guy.