Legend In His Own Mind

Ring ring!
Me: hello?
Caller: Is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes it is.
Caller: I'm calling about your ad, but I'm not a submissive. My name (dramatic pause) is Master Ryker Blackstar.

Now I've met enough pompous twits in my time to know one when I hear one. "Master Ryker Blackstar", my ass. I live to stick pins in people like this.

Me: Are you calling to sell me long-distance service?
Caller: No!
Me: Oh, I'm so sorry, I must have misunderstood. What is it I can help you with?
Caller: I wanted to ask you some questions. How long have you been in business?
Me: Several years.
Caller: And who did you train under?

Who did I train under? Oh, give me a break. I'm really tempted to say something like, "Well, I worked with Ah-nuld on the weight training, but Jane Fonda advised me on my cardiovascular routine."

Me: Why are you asking me this?
Caller: Well, it's just that we've never heard of you.

We've never heard of you? Am I speaking to someone with Multiple Personality Disorder? Great. At least one of his personalities must have heard of me, though. Otherwise, how would he know to call me?

Me: Who is "we"?
Caller: A group of us…So, who trained you as Mistress?
Me: No one person trained me, I'd been in the community for years before I became a professional.
Caller: Ah. So you're not affiliated with anyone?

"Affiliated with anyone"? What am I, a fucking credit union or something? I have no idea where he's going with this.

Me: No – and again, why are you asking me these questions?
Caller: Well, as I said – we've just never heard of you.
Me: That's okay – I've never heard of you, either. I still don't understand why you called me. What is it that you want, exactly?
Caller: Do you give tours of your dungeon?
Me: No. (Not to people who annoy me, anyway.) Why do you want a tour of my dungeon?
Caller: We're just wondering what kind of facilities you have.
Me: Okay, who is this "we" you keep talking about?
Caller: There's a group of us.
Me: Yes, you said that already. Are you some kind of BDSM organization? Because if you're looking for a dungeon to rent for parties, I don't do that, sorry.
Caller: No, no, no. We're not that kind of BDSM organization. We have our own dungeon. You see, I am the head of a very private and selective BDSM house. It's called "The House Of Blackstar".

Oh, no. He's one of those "House of…" people. You run into this in the BDSM world occasionally. When someone says "I'm part of the House Of Joe Bob", what he means is he's part of a group of leather people who've declared themselves to be something like a family or a small clan. They may or may not actually live together, but they usually have a single authority figure –"Joe Bob", in this case - and they usually have some kind of formal structure and hierarchy. And they're usually a bunch of pretentious, self-important jackasses.
Not always, now, not always. I've meet some cool people who had a chosen leather family and who called themselves the "House of…" whatever. (And the fabulous "House Of Gord" people are great.)
But in this case, my sense is that it's sheer self-aggrandizing crap. I'm betting that "The House Of Blackstar" consists of Ryker – whose real name is probably Eugene – his pet iguana, Frodo, and several plump, shy, "cyber-submissive" girls who live in very small towns at least five hundred miles away from here. Call it a hunch.

Me: I'm going ask you one more time - what do you want from me?
Caller: Well, we'd have to check you out more thoroughly. But provided you meet with our standards, I'm prepared to offer you an affiliation with our house.
Me: No, thank you.
Caller: What? But –
Me: I don't want to be affiliated with anyone. So if that's all, then I'll say goodbye.
Caller: Wait a minute, I think you're making a mistake. The House of Blackstar is connected with some of the best Houses in the world.
Me: Really? Like, The White House?
Caller: (huffily) No, I mean some of the best secret European Houses!


Oh, God, no - not the "secret European Houses" thing. This is like the Loch Ness Monster of the BDSM community. The basic storyline of the fable goes something like this: There are secret "Story of O" type places in Europe where mysterious people train slaves in some brand of BDSM that's more pure and true than ours. Then they sell these slaves to other members of this secret society, where they have many erotic adventures. (Sounds just like a porn novel, doesn't it?) These houses have been in continuous existence since the late nineteenth century or even earlier, and lots of very famous and important people belong to these secret societies - as Masters and Mistresses. They can do that without fear of exposure, you see, because these houses/societies are very, very secret. Nobody knows about them.

Except, of course, all the pathological liars who claim to be connected with them in order to get laid and look important, and the people they tell their lies to. And, of course, folks like me, who tell other people what a flock of bullshit it is, and laugh at those who try to spin me this story. That all amounts to a pretty large group - so it's hard to imagine it's really much of a secret anymore.

So, just for the record: there ain't no such thing. There are plenty of very kinky people in Europe, there are some great events and organizations there, and I'm sure that there are people forming "Houses" of their own. But there are no ages-old secret European societies that keep and train slaves in some magical method of BDSM. Trust me, I'd know.

Caller: If we were affiliated, we could send you submissives for training. You see, I'm forming my own secret House here.

And he's calling up people he claims not to have heard of to tell them about this secret House of his. Hey, it's good that he's getting a head start on this – you don't want to be like the Europeans, they had to wait for a hundred years before people started talking about their secret Houses. This is what makes America great.

Me: No, I don't want to be affiliated with anyone.
Caller: I could really send you a lot of business.

Apparently it's going to be a rather large and busy secret House. Oy.

Me: No, I'm not interested, goodbye.
Click.
I hang up.

I wonder if Europeans talk about "the secret American BDSM Houses"?
I bet not…

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So, now that I'm secondary-partner-less, I'm taking a moment to look around at my dating options. I've always liked this part – it's kind of like shopping.

I've never been a lust-at-first-sight kinda girl - you have to sink into me a little before I'll get hot for you. Thus, when I think about new partners, I tend to think about people I already know.

But it occurred to me, today, that I might at least consider the beautiful-stranger option. I mean, one doesn't want to get into a rut about these things. So, just for laughs, I went over to Bondage.com and flipped through the personals.

My first response was, "Thank God I already have a primary partner." Whoo - very scary. Paging the Fab Five, please – emergency! But even aside from cosmetic and grooming issues, most the people I looked at were just so not right for me.

As I was looking, though, I got several messages. The site has a feature where you can see who's logged in, and I was showing up on people's radar screens. I wasn't logged in as "Mistress Matisse", you understand. But just being a female on such sites is enough.

Some of them were about as bad as you'd expect – you know, all caps, terrible spelling, and with a definite one-handed-typing tone to them. But two of them were actually nicely written and polite, and so I replied.

And they replied, and I replied, and they seemed like cool guys. Wow, I thought, it's kinda nice to flirt with people who don't know me. You see, when you're a bit of a local celebrity, unencumbered flirtations are hard to come by. In my community, even if I don't know someone, chances are they've heard of me. That's flattering in some ways, but other times it bugs me, because it means that when I meet someone, they already have certain kinds of expectations about who I'll be and what I'll be like. Expectations, I might add, that are rarely accurate.

I'm not trying to sound like, Oh, poor me, it's so terrible - but it really skews the getting-to-know-you dynamic. This is why I tend to go with people who either a) have known me since long before I ever was "Mistress Matisse", or, b) have known me long enough for the ooo-that's-Mistress-Matisse factor to have completely worn off. Or, as in this case, I attempt to go with people who don't know me at all.

But as I swap another round of emails with Guy #1 and Guy#2, it starts to go downhill…

Guy#1 says: Oh, do you go to community events? Might we have crossed paths at the Wet Spot?

Guy #2 says: Hey, I know Rose Algren and...(names several other people, all of whom I know). Do you know them?

Damn. So much for anonymity. I always say: it's a small town if you're kinky.

I've dodged their questions for now – but what do you think, people? My choices are: I could lie about my identity and pretend I don't go anywhere or know anyone. Or I could just stop talking to them. Or I could 'fess up and hope for the best. Survey says: what?

So I did go see the Harry Potter movie this past weekend. It was good – not as good as the book, of course. Movies never are. But fun just the same.

And can I just say how turned on I am by Alan Rickman in the persona of Severus Snape? A cliché, I know, but there it is… Alan Rickman also played a sexy evil guy in the BDSM cult-classic Closetland – he's really got a knack for it. (Disclaimer: Closetland is not supposed to be an erotic film. But it is - oh my, it definitely is.)

Harry Potter is one of those cultural phenomenons that I resisted for years. Sometimes when something seems to be liked by nearly everyone, I figure it has to be schlock. I'm snobbish that way.

But when the third book came out and everyone I knew was talking about it, I succumbed to peer pressure and read the first one. And then I went and bought the other two books, and then the next, and the next. And I'm glad I did, because they're delightful.

A lot of writers like to slag JK Rowling, because they feel her writing isn't as pure as, say, Joseph Heller, or John Updike. To that I say: bullshit. The job of a popular fiction author is to entertain, and Ms. Rowling does her work admirably. You won't catch me carping about the degraded tastes of the public, to embrace an author who uses – oh, the horror! - too many adverbs!

Stories are like sex – if it feels good, it's working. I don't care if your method of literary cunnilingus has been given the Papa Hemingway Seal Of Approval – if it doesn't tickle me the right way, I'm not taking your book to bed with me.

So if anyone has links for some good "slash" porn fiction with Severus Snape, do let me know…I have a number of degraded tastes.

Phone Call with Miss K

"I don't know what I should do about this – and maybe I shouldn't do anything. But I just wanted to get your opinion about a call I just got from one of my clients."
"Okay," I said. "Fire away."
"Well," she said. "I posted on one of the escort-review boards. And this guy called me and was like, 'oh, I'm so glad I found your post, I saw you a long time ago and I'd lost your number'."
"Did you remember who he was?" I asked.
"Sort of vaguely. But that wasn't the weird part. Then he said, 'Yeah, I remembered where your apartment building was, but I couldn't remember which apartment you were in. So I was thinking about just coming over there and knocking on all the doors until I found you.' "
I sucked in my breath. "Are you kidding me? He said that?"
"Oh yeah."
"Oh my God."

What Miss K and I didn't have to say to each other was that this is a really, really bad idea. The fastest way to go from "he's a nice guy" to "he's a deranged stalker" in a working girl's mind is to show up at her place when you don't have an appointment. We're rather jumpy about that, and not without reason.

(Note: This doesn't include "sensual bodywork" establishments that usually employ several people and are set up to accommodate drop-in business. I'm talking about women who work independently.)

It's not just the "stalker" thing, either. Miss K does what's called incall service. That means you come to her - she has an apartment that's exclusively for her client rendezvous. Now, the prime directive of any working girl is: be discreet. Fly under the radar. And unlike the outcall ladies, who visit the client in his space, having a dedicated workspace means you're a fixed target. Thus, one strives to minimize anything that might make one's neighbors say, "Huh, that's funny. I wonder what she's doing in there…" That way lies disaster. Or at least a whole lot of hassle involving a moving van.
So the mere idea of this guy knocking on every door of an apartment building asking for her…Jeeee-sus. One would hope he'd have the brains not to say, "I'm looking for this call-girl I saw once…" But who the hell knows what he'd do?

"Wait," she said. "It gets better."
"Oh no. What?"
"Well, I told him that it was a good thing he hadn't done that because it would not have been cool. He didn't seem to get why not, so I said, 'What if I'd been with somebody else when you knocked on the door and interrupted us?'"
"That should have made sense to him."
"It didn't. He said, 'Hey, I would have just joined right in'."
I held the phone at arms length and let out a shriek of outrage. Then I put the phone back up to my ear. "No, he didn't say that. Tell me he didn't seriously say that."
"Yep."
"That is unbe-fucking-lievable."
"It's pretty amazing."
"'…I would have just joined right in'. That has got to be the most mind-blowingly dumbass thing I've heard in days."
"So, the question is; what should I do about it?"
I thought about it. "Do you feel like you've contained this one guy?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"But you're wondering if some other maroon might do the same thing?"
"Let's just say that, thanks to him, it's become a concern of mine."
"I think you could go back to the message board where you post and say something like, 'Dear gentlemen, I'm glad you like me, but please don't come wandering around in my building knocking on random doors and talking to my neighbors about me, and please don't just show up at my door and expect me to let you in.' I mean, say it nicely, but say it. Most of the guys are pretty smart and they'll be right there with that. And hopefully you can give a little tap with the clue stick to the rest of them."
"That sounds like a good idea. I'll probably wait a few days, and then I'll do something like that. Thanks a bunch."
"Anytime."
We hang up.
"'…I would have just joined right in'". I mutter to myself. "Fucking crazy man."

Various things...

I've added a "search" box to the blog, so now you can search archived entries for keywords. (Over to the right, under the list of archives.)

By the way, the "Cunning Linguists Journals" link and the black box that says "Clix" on it are toplist link-trades. That means, if you click on them, it moves my banner on that site closer to the top of the list. So if you come by here often, do me a favor and just click on one of those links occasionally. It'll make me look good in the world of sexy bloggers.

I'm probably not going to post tomorrow - I've got other writing I really need to be doing, and I generally draft my Stranger column on Sunday as well...But I thought I'd give you a few sneak previews of things I'll most likely write about here in the coming week.

* Why good manners are truly essential to the successful sex worker
* Ways in which I like to be hit on, and ways in which I don't.
* A conversation with Miss K in which she reveals an incredibly stupid thing a client said to her
* A telephone call from a man who claimed to be part of a secret SM club

And more!

And now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go look at times and locations for the new Harry Potter movie...

Had another session with Milo last night…We always have a very intense time together. Playing with him is deeply satisfying to me, and I think one reason for that is that, even though I really unleash my sadistic side with him, he doesn't fear me.

That may sound odd to those of you who think that a Mistress would want her submissives to be afraid of her - but I don't get off on fear. A little nervousness – yeah, that's fine. It's natural, especially for new people. But I want people to receive what I give them with trust, and a certain kind of pleasure – even if it doesn't seem like pleasure to the uninitiated. Oh, I'll do role-plays where someone pretends to resist, saying, "No, no, stop!" - that can be lots of fun. But they'll have to have set that up with me in advance, and I'll have to be able to somehow feel that they truly want to be there.

Milo is quite clear about wanting what I give him. I love that about him. Last night I whipped his butt, hard – it's so nice of the Universe to be sending me all these boys lately who can really take hard impact play. Both Vermont and Milo take it so sweetly for me, and I so enjoy doing it.

I had Milo bent over at the waist with his arms tied tightly behind his back, which is a tough position in itself. I started with the soft leather floggers, but my sadism rather quickly got the better of me and I switched to the nasty rubber flogger. The tails on that thing are about an eighth of an inch thick – and I don't mean wide, I mean thick. When they made contact with Milo's ass – pow! - I could feel the vibration run up my arm and straight down my body to my pussy. Very hot.

But electricity is my favorite of favorites with Milo. His tolerance is increasing – I'm now having to use the nastier channels on the electrical box, whereas I used to use the nicer ones. (It's the wave pattern – certain ones are "sharper" and more intense than others.)

As usual, I staked him down the bondage table and lay on top of him. There really are not adequate words to express what deep and ferocious pleasure I took in feeling Milo's body shaking underneath me as I turned the dial up higher and higher and the electricity flowed into him with increasing strength. It was like having my own personal earthquake. It was like commanding a force of nature with a roll of my index finger and thumb. I was a storm goddess, throwing down bolts of lighting at him, and his shouts were answering cracks of thunder. It was completely intoxicating.

Love my life…

Hormones? Acting Classes? I don't know what, but something…

Ring ring!
Me: hello?
Caller: Uh, hi, is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: yes.
Caller: (very breathy voice) Hi, my name is Sherri Lynn. I saw your website and I was calling to see if you'd do a session with me.

Now, it states on my site that I don't see single women. But even aside from that, there is something about this caller that makes me deeply suspicious. The voice is very fake-sounding.

Me: Well, Sherri Lynn, I actually don't see single women, I'm sorry.
Caller: Oh, I saw that – but I was hoping you'd reconsider. I'm very beautiful – I have long…

Now I know why the voice sounds wrong. It's a guy. No woman would say "I'm very beautiful". It's a guy pretending to be a woman.

Caller: …silky legs and really nice firm breasts and –
Me: Sherri Lynn –
Caller:...a firm, round ass, and I want you to make me eat your pussy and -
Me: Stop! Stop talking, please.
Caller: But –
Me: I do not see single women – thank you and goodbye.
Click.
I hang up.
Five minutes later…
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, Mistress Matisse, I called you a few minutes ago?
Me: Yes, you did. And I told you I didn't see single women.

The only reason I'm even talking to this twit is because there's a very small chance that he/she might be a transsexual. By that I mean: she used to be a guy, but she's gone through gender reassignment therapy. That would explain the masculine voice – hormones alone won't change that, it requires a special surgery to physically shorten the vocal cords.
That doesn't mean I'd see her for a session, of course. If she is a woman now, then she falls under the I-don't-see-single-women rule, despite her tacky attempt to change my mind. But still, I'd be civil enough to try to refer her to someone else.

However, I really think this is just some schmuck trying to get free phone sex. He thinks if I believe I'm talking to a woman that I'll be willing to engage in sexy dialogue about cunnilingus. But his simulation of a woman's voice seems to be based largely on Marilyn Monroe when she sang "Happy Birthday, Mr. President". Offhand, I can't think of any women I know who actually sound like that in real life. (I don't think Marilyn even sounded like that when she wasn't singing to her illicit lover.)

Caller: So, if I could find a guy to come with me, then you'd see me?
Me: You know, I really don't think I would – I have a feeling that you and I just wouldn't be compatible. Let me ask you a question – are you a transsexual? I mean, have you had your penis surgically removed?
Caller: (in a horrified voice that's an octave deeper than the previous tone) No!
Me: Don't call me again.
Click.
I hang up.

Score another point for emasculation anxiety.

News Roundup…

Yes, I got a car, a hot red Saab 9-5. Very fast and just really nice – I'm liking it a lot already. But I feel a trifle guilty when I look at my old car. I've had that car for twelve years – it's a long-term relationship, and we've been though a lot together. It looks at me as if to say, Sure, use me, and then just throw me aside when I get old and start leaking oil. Get yourself a shiny new toy. I thought you cared about me!
I have a bad habit of anthropomorphizing… Since I'm going to donate it to charity, I have told my old car that some very nice people are going to come and take it to a nice new home where people will be very grateful to have it. Cross your fingers it doesn't do a "Christine" number on me before that happens.

And speaking of relationship changes…This will be mentioned in next weeks Stranger column, but ya'll get the sneak preview. Mike, the Worlds Most Perfect Secondary Partner, has come to me to say, in the nicest and most polite way possible, that he is falling for someone – as in, someone else. And he wishes to, at the very least, put our physical relationship on hiatus for awhile. It may be completely over - it's hard to say. I haven't yet gotten a clear picture of where things stand with the woman he's falling for. But we're going out to lunch Thursday to talk about it, so I'll know more then.

Am I sad? A little. He's a great guy and he's been lots of fun. But we'll stay friends, and my heart definitely isn't broken. It's not even a little chipped. Mike and I didn't get deep. (At least, not emotionally, heh heh.)

I'll miss lots of things about Mike – his silly humor, his wacko imagination, his house that looks like a set from The Nightmare Before Christmas, his amusing stories about his wild college days. But I must admit, some of my sadness is selfish. I mean, damn, where am I going to find another secondary partner who is as low-impact as Mike? The man was fabulous – he's smart, he's sexy, he's fun, and he never once created one iota of drama in my life. That's a completely unique experience for me with poly relationships. I loved it.

So, I'm not planning on starting anything else right away. But…there are two guys around town that I currently think are rather attractive. Actually, there a number that I think are attractive. But there are two particular guys that I feel just might, possibly, make appropriate secondaries for me.

One of them is married-but-poly. I don't know him, or his wife, ultra-well, so I'm not quite sure how I would proceed there. But he's as cute as all get-out, and frankly, his wife's kinda sexy, too. Based on past (bad) experiences, I avoid ongoing triad relationships like The Plague, and I'm not looking for a female partner right now. But I do enjoy her esthetically.

The other, who was also married-but-poly, is in the middle of getting a divorce. I can't decided if he's in the perfect place to appreciate some no-pressure fun and games, or if I should just leave him the hell alone and let him deal with his life. When I was getting divorced, I was definitely in the leave-me-the-hell-alone category. But he may be in a different place, who knows.

I'm going to be stepping carefully here. I have plenty of examples, quite close to home, of how I don't want my poly relationships to look, and what kind of energy and attitudes I don't want in my life. There are tons of people around who, though they look good and say the right things, actually have all the emotional maturity of, say, Aviril Lavigne. No, thank you.

So we'll just see what the universe drops in my lap…Meanwhile, I'm just driving along the road, playing the classic Queen song, "I'm In Love With My Car".

Dear Mistress Matisse,
In your blog, you only talk about how nice your clients are and what a good time you have with them. Isn't this a bit unrealistic? I'm a dancer, and I get a lot of asshole customers at my job. Surely you have clients you dislike, or who do things that annoy you?

Not for more than one session, I don't. I've danced myself, so I do know what that's like, and I agree, there's a pretty high asshole ratio there. But it's a whole different situation for me. I can pick and choose who I'm going to see, and I'm good at sussing out who I'd like and enjoy playing with over the phone.

However, there is one type of client who, in the past, has annoyed me – and in one case, seriously pissed me off. It took me longer to learn how to spot them early on. That's because what they do is more subtle - they aren't dangerous or blatantly disrespectful, they don't disobey the rules, or try to get me to do things I don't wish to do. But I hate dealing with them - so I won't. They are the guys I call Mr. Defensive. I've learned not to waste my time with clients like this. It's not that I've met that many of them - just a few, really. But having even one in the regular roster is too many.

Mr. Defensive's problem is that he's deeply conflicted about what he's doing. Getting off on being submissive doesn't fit his image of himself, and he's unable to let go of that and just say, "What the fuck – I don't know why, but it makes my dick hard, so I'm just going to do it and enjoy it. It's got nothing to do with who I am in the rest of my life. It's just for fun." Mr. Defensive hates himself for his desires. He brings all that self-hatred into the dungeon with him, projects his negative attitudes about what we're doing onto me, and then spends the entire session responding to them. He doesn't seem to be enjoying himself at all, he doesn't believe that I like what I do, and after the session is over I can feel him trying to psychologically distance himself from what he's just done as fast as he can. Usually he'll do that by making disparaging remarks about what freaky weirdoes my other clients must be. The subtext clearly being "I'm not one of those people". It's the kind of energy that makes me close the door behind someone and say to myself, "Thank you God that's over."

I'm always amazed when Mr. Defensives call me back for another session, because it's so clear to me that it's just not working. But they usually do. The urge is all the stronger for them trying to forbid it to themselves.

Ultimate Mr. Defensive moment: there was a client I'd been seeing for a year or so. He was so extremely defensive that it was impossible to have any kind of connection with him. (It was only barely possible to have a conversation with him.) But he kept calling, and I kept doggedly trying to create a scene with him that I, at least, could feel good about. I'm rather stubborn that way – too much so, really.

So I'd been working extra hard, trying to find the button to push in this guy that would let him have the experience he seemed to saying he wanted. I tried every toy, every type of sensation, every role play I could think of – and that's a lot. It never worked, and every time he left I swore I wouldn't book with him again. But a few weeks would go by, and he'd call, and I'd mentally vacillate for a minute and give in. He's not a bad guy – maybe he just needs more time to trust me before he can really let go. I'll give him another chance. Soft-hearted? Maybe – but I also just hate to lose, and admitting I couldn't really get this man to embrace the experience I felt he wanted felt like losing.

I was about three-fourths of the way through a session with the Mr. Defensive in question. I had him tied down to my bondage table on his back, and I was preparing to do some electrical play with him. He looked up at me and said, "Can I ask you a question?" This was a common ploy of this guy – he would try to try to regain some sense of control by asking me questions like, "Why do you think you like doing this?" It was his way of sabotaging the mood and the flow of the scene, and an attempt to put me on the defensive by making me explain myself. Usually I would say, "Let's talk about it later," and just go on with what I was doing.

But that day he said, "So, why do you think you hate men so much?"

I stood there and stared at him for a moment, and then I turned around and walked out of the room. I was so angry that for a moment, I could hardly see. Why do you hate men so much? This, when I've been knocking myself out trying to make something happen for this asshole, this is what he gives back to me? I pour my positive energy into these sessions with him, try to give him an experience that's good for him even though he's resisting it all the way, and he has the nerve to tell me I hate men? How dare he? How dare he! Fuck, I should show him what a scene with someone who hates men would look like. It was the only time in my career when I was really tempted, just for a second, to hurt someone in a non-consensual way.

I sat on the couch in my reception room and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Don't let him get to you, I told myself. Don't let him dump his shit on you. Get your boundaries up, girl. What he says, what he thinks – it's got nothing to do with you, and you know it. It's all about the bullshit in his head. Breathe, and let it go.

Through the curtains into the playroom, I could hear him breathing and stirring restlessly on the table. "Mistress?" he called out.
"Don't talk."
Now, the question was: untie him and kick him out immediately – or finish the session? My first impulse was to throw him out, pronto. Then I thought, But then he wins. He's trying to get control by making me lose my cool. He's trying to make himself feel powerful by emotionally manipulating me. I'm not going to let him make me react like that.

A few more deep breaths, and I walked back into the dungeon. "The Mistress has decided she doesn't like you talking," I announced. "So we'll just fix that right now." I took a large gag and put it into his mouth, and then I went on with the rest of the session I'd planned. I got him out the door without any conversation afterwards. And the next time he called, I refused to book with him.

Ultra-brief car update: After a day spent getting the 1st choice vehicle vetted by a mechanic, (and doing some brangling with the dealer about price) survey says: it looks good. I haven't actually signed the contract yet, but unless something unforseen happens, tomorrow I will be the new owner of a sweet Saab 9-5. Zoom.
I'm off to the gym...

I haven't forgotten you...a longer post will come later, but I'm totally taken up with car shopping, social occasions, and poly negotiations...

But before I go - a big Happy Happy Birthday to to my darling friend Jae, who turns twenty-five (or something reasonably close to that) today!

~dashing off...

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.