I haven't forgotten you... I've been a busy girl for a few days. So, a real entry later, but for now, be amused by this blog post about translating polyamory-personal ads from the always sharp-witted Lilith, aka Cosmicbabe.
Meanwhile, I'm going go have lunch with an in-from-out-of-town relative. Sigh. (The things I do to please my mother.)
And then I'm going to come home and get ready to make a professional appearance at a foot-worship party.
Just another day in the life...
Saturday, June 26, 2004
Thursday, June 24, 2004
So, I'm much happier with life since I bought a new cell phone, but it does entail one tedious task: copying over my phone book. (Verizon should have been able to copy the numbers over to my new phone in some magical electronic way, but the gods that rule such things did not look kindly on me yesterday, and so they were mysteriously unable to do so. Thus, I'm doing it manually.)
Copying over the numbers of my friends is going to be the easy part. When I scroll through the list, I'm struck by how many of the one hundred memory slots are taken up by entries with names like this:
ASSHOLE
ASSHOLE2
BUTTHEAD
DIPSHIT
DON'TANSWER
DON'TANWER2
DUMBASS
FLAKE
FLAKE2
JERK
NO WAY
Et cetera, on through the alphabet. Most of them are guys I never met – they're just time-wasting telephone pests. I've forgotten exactly what transgression many of them committed, but some of them stick in one's head.
SMOKINGWEIRDO, for example, is a guy who called me weekly for – I think – several years.
"Do you smoke?" he'd ask. "I want to do a scene with a Mistress who's smoking."
"No, I don't," I'd say. "But I'm fine with using cigarettes in a scene."
"No, no, you have to really smoke them – inhale them."
"No, I don't want to that."
"Oh, come now, you smoke, I know you smoke, every beautiful Mistress smokes. I'll bring you some really sexy French cigarettes."
"No, I really don't smoke…"
We went around and around for at least two different phone calls – me telling him I didn't smoke, him insisting that I should. Then he got programmed in and I never picked up when he called any more.
BADBOY is this guy who'd call up, and when I said "hello?", he'd say, "I've been a bad, bad boy – don't you wanna spank me?" Then he'd laugh like a crazy person and hang up. Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly amused with himself, he'd repeat his clever line one more time, and then hang up.
KINGCOUNTYJAIL speaks for itself. I cannot imagine the mindset of a man who thinks that a sex worker is going to take a collect call from anyone – let alone someone who's in jail, for chrissake. And to me – a dominatrix? I mean, come on guys, aren't you already having a pretty intense dominant/submissive experience? I think I'd feel a little inadequate after that...
NOENGLISH1, NOENGLISH2, and NOENGLISH3 have taught me that, apparently, Americans are not the only ones who raise our voices when we talk to foreigners because we think it'll make them understand what the hell we're saying.
YUCK! Is the guy who wants to talk about scat. And I don't mean jazz music.
Copying over the numbers of my friends is going to be the easy part. When I scroll through the list, I'm struck by how many of the one hundred memory slots are taken up by entries with names like this:
ASSHOLE
ASSHOLE2
BUTTHEAD
DIPSHIT
DON'TANSWER
DON'TANWER2
DUMBASS
FLAKE
FLAKE2
JERK
NO WAY
Et cetera, on through the alphabet. Most of them are guys I never met – they're just time-wasting telephone pests. I've forgotten exactly what transgression many of them committed, but some of them stick in one's head.
SMOKINGWEIRDO, for example, is a guy who called me weekly for – I think – several years.
"Do you smoke?" he'd ask. "I want to do a scene with a Mistress who's smoking."
"No, I don't," I'd say. "But I'm fine with using cigarettes in a scene."
"No, no, you have to really smoke them – inhale them."
"No, I don't want to that."
"Oh, come now, you smoke, I know you smoke, every beautiful Mistress smokes. I'll bring you some really sexy French cigarettes."
"No, I really don't smoke…"
We went around and around for at least two different phone calls – me telling him I didn't smoke, him insisting that I should. Then he got programmed in and I never picked up when he called any more.
BADBOY is this guy who'd call up, and when I said "hello?", he'd say, "I've been a bad, bad boy – don't you wanna spank me?" Then he'd laugh like a crazy person and hang up. Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly amused with himself, he'd repeat his clever line one more time, and then hang up.
KINGCOUNTYJAIL speaks for itself. I cannot imagine the mindset of a man who thinks that a sex worker is going to take a collect call from anyone – let alone someone who's in jail, for chrissake. And to me – a dominatrix? I mean, come on guys, aren't you already having a pretty intense dominant/submissive experience? I think I'd feel a little inadequate after that...
NOENGLISH1, NOENGLISH2, and NOENGLISH3 have taught me that, apparently, Americans are not the only ones who raise our voices when we talk to foreigners because we think it'll make them understand what the hell we're saying.
YUCK! Is the guy who wants to talk about scat. And I don't mean jazz music.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Updates...
Please note that Mike – the secondary partner to whom I recently bid a fond farewell – has been removed from the "Cast of Characters" page, and he has been replaced by two new (and very interesting) people…As-yet unrealized sexual tension is in the air, my friends, and I'm enjoying it. I mean, I'll enjoy the "realizing" part, whenever it happens. But there's something to be said for the build-up.
On other fronts, as all of you who read The Stranger now know, my column will not be in the paper version of The Stranger for awhile. I expect to be returning soon, but for right now, they want to use me as bait to lure you to the brand spankin' new personals ad site they've built. So, go forth and explore the Lovelab/Lustlab...
And if you have an opinion about my column returning to the paper, please direct your polite emails to the good people at The Stranger, who welcome your feedback…
Please note that Mike – the secondary partner to whom I recently bid a fond farewell – has been removed from the "Cast of Characters" page, and he has been replaced by two new (and very interesting) people…As-yet unrealized sexual tension is in the air, my friends, and I'm enjoying it. I mean, I'll enjoy the "realizing" part, whenever it happens. But there's something to be said for the build-up.
On other fronts, as all of you who read The Stranger now know, my column will not be in the paper version of The Stranger for awhile. I expect to be returning soon, but for right now, they want to use me as bait to lure you to the brand spankin' new personals ad site they've built. So, go forth and explore the Lovelab/Lustlab...
And if you have an opinion about my column returning to the paper, please direct your polite emails to the good people at The Stranger, who welcome your feedback…
Note to my friends: I just got a new cell phone - I switched from AT&T, the worlds lamest wireless service provider, to Verizon. (I kept the same number, of course.) Naturally there are being some bumps along the way, and I think I lost a few existing voicemail messages on my AT&T account. If you left me a message after about 2pm yesterday, I may not have gotten it. And if you were trying reach me late yesterday or early today and had trouble, that's why. Persevere, and all will be well.
Off into my day...
Off into my day...
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
In A New York State Of Mind...
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Yeah, is this Mistress Matisse? So, hey - I wanted to ask you a question.
The first thing I notice about this guy is that he's got a really heavy "Noo Yawk" accent. Now, I'm sure there are plenty of very nice and genuinely submissive guys who happen to sound like this, but somehow, I haven't met them. When I hear this accent, I remember several seriously annoying clients I had, early in my career, who talked like this. All of them were about as truly submissive as Genghis Khan, and all of them topped from the bottom in a rude, disruptive manner that drove me nuts - and I'm actually relatively forgiving about such things.
But hey, maybe this guy will be different. I'll give him a chance - for at least thirty seconds.
Me: Okay, what's your question?
Caller: So, I'm going to be coming out to Seattle on business, and I was wondering - do you do extreme scenes?
Me: Well, it depends on exactly what you mean. But as long as it isn't anything that's going to do permanent damage to your body, yes, we can talk about it.
Caller: It's like – I like doing really, really extreme stuff, and it's hard to find Mistresses who'll do the stuff that I like.
A red flag goes up. There are plenty of Mistresses who'll do heavy play around. He must want something really out there if he's having trouble finding anyone to do it. So I say, cautiously -
Me: Why don't you tell me what exactly it is you're looking for?
Caller: I wanna do a scene where you come to my motel room and I'm asleep, and you tie me up and gag me and beat the shit out of me and fuck me up the ass really hard. And so matter what I say, I don't want you to stop, I don't want to have a safeword.
Well, you have to give the guy credit for putting his fantasy out there. But this isn't going to work for me.
Me: You know, I think that's a great fantasy, but I'm not going to be comfortable doing something like that with someone I don't know.
Actually, I don't think I'd do it even with someone I did know, just because it's not my fetish. But that's not really the point I'm going to try to make here.
Me: But I'd be happy to talk to you about a somewhat modified version of that fantasy.
Caller: You know, I think if I'm gonna pay for it, I should get it the way I want it. Why would you not be willing to do it?
Okay, so he's not different. He's rude, and he's now going to try to pick apart my reasons for not giving him what he wants, his way. It's probably a lost cause, but let's see if we can make him understand why he's having a hard time getting his fantasy catered to.
Me: Because I don't know you, I don't know your physical limits, I don't have experience in reading your body, and without a safeword, I can't be sure I'll be able to tell when you've reached your limit.
Caller: But I want to feel really out of control, and this is the only way I can do that. I thought you said you did extreme scenes?
Oh, I'm not liking his tone here. Anyone who knows me well knows that I'm very happy to do physically extreme SM. You want your ass beaten until it bleeds? Great. You want needles all over your slippery bits? Love to. You want to be electrified until your eyes roll back in your head and your throat hurts from screaming? Darlin', we'll get along just fine.
But I have some limits, and one of them is that you have to consent – and keep on consenting - in a way that I can feel.
Me: I do. But I don't do no-safeword scenes with strangers. Or rather, I would – but not physically extreme ones. If you wanted me to put you over my knee and spank your ass with my bare hand and not stop until I was ready to, that would be fine, because I'd know I wasn't going to damage you and I'd be able to read your body pretty easily. But in your scene, there are just too many variables.
Caller: Well, I don't think I should have to pay for it if it isn't my fantasy. How about this – how about if you do a scene with me, and if it's really good and it makes me feel like I'm really out of control, then I'll pay you. But if it doesn't, then I won't.
I wish I could say this was the stupidest thing anyone has ever asked me. Unfortunately, it's not. (If you've been reading here for a while, you'll know I'm right.) But it's definitely in the top twenty-five or so.
Me: You know what, this isn't going to work. Good bye…
Caller: Hey, hey, hey, don't hang up!
Me: I thought you said you didn't have a safeword.
Click.
I hang up.
(Postscript: After I wrote this, I remembered that I do know one very cool New York guy...You know who you are, and I'm pleased that you're the exception to the rule...)
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Yeah, is this Mistress Matisse? So, hey - I wanted to ask you a question.
The first thing I notice about this guy is that he's got a really heavy "Noo Yawk" accent. Now, I'm sure there are plenty of very nice and genuinely submissive guys who happen to sound like this, but somehow, I haven't met them. When I hear this accent, I remember several seriously annoying clients I had, early in my career, who talked like this. All of them were about as truly submissive as Genghis Khan, and all of them topped from the bottom in a rude, disruptive manner that drove me nuts - and I'm actually relatively forgiving about such things.
But hey, maybe this guy will be different. I'll give him a chance - for at least thirty seconds.
Me: Okay, what's your question?
Caller: So, I'm going to be coming out to Seattle on business, and I was wondering - do you do extreme scenes?
Me: Well, it depends on exactly what you mean. But as long as it isn't anything that's going to do permanent damage to your body, yes, we can talk about it.
Caller: It's like – I like doing really, really extreme stuff, and it's hard to find Mistresses who'll do the stuff that I like.
A red flag goes up. There are plenty of Mistresses who'll do heavy play around. He must want something really out there if he's having trouble finding anyone to do it. So I say, cautiously -
Me: Why don't you tell me what exactly it is you're looking for?
Caller: I wanna do a scene where you come to my motel room and I'm asleep, and you tie me up and gag me and beat the shit out of me and fuck me up the ass really hard. And so matter what I say, I don't want you to stop, I don't want to have a safeword.
Well, you have to give the guy credit for putting his fantasy out there. But this isn't going to work for me.
Me: You know, I think that's a great fantasy, but I'm not going to be comfortable doing something like that with someone I don't know.
Actually, I don't think I'd do it even with someone I did know, just because it's not my fetish. But that's not really the point I'm going to try to make here.
Me: But I'd be happy to talk to you about a somewhat modified version of that fantasy.
Caller: You know, I think if I'm gonna pay for it, I should get it the way I want it. Why would you not be willing to do it?
Okay, so he's not different. He's rude, and he's now going to try to pick apart my reasons for not giving him what he wants, his way. It's probably a lost cause, but let's see if we can make him understand why he's having a hard time getting his fantasy catered to.
Me: Because I don't know you, I don't know your physical limits, I don't have experience in reading your body, and without a safeword, I can't be sure I'll be able to tell when you've reached your limit.
Caller: But I want to feel really out of control, and this is the only way I can do that. I thought you said you did extreme scenes?
Oh, I'm not liking his tone here. Anyone who knows me well knows that I'm very happy to do physically extreme SM. You want your ass beaten until it bleeds? Great. You want needles all over your slippery bits? Love to. You want to be electrified until your eyes roll back in your head and your throat hurts from screaming? Darlin', we'll get along just fine.
But I have some limits, and one of them is that you have to consent – and keep on consenting - in a way that I can feel.
Me: I do. But I don't do no-safeword scenes with strangers. Or rather, I would – but not physically extreme ones. If you wanted me to put you over my knee and spank your ass with my bare hand and not stop until I was ready to, that would be fine, because I'd know I wasn't going to damage you and I'd be able to read your body pretty easily. But in your scene, there are just too many variables.
Caller: Well, I don't think I should have to pay for it if it isn't my fantasy. How about this – how about if you do a scene with me, and if it's really good and it makes me feel like I'm really out of control, then I'll pay you. But if it doesn't, then I won't.
I wish I could say this was the stupidest thing anyone has ever asked me. Unfortunately, it's not. (If you've been reading here for a while, you'll know I'm right.) But it's definitely in the top twenty-five or so.
Me: You know what, this isn't going to work. Good bye…
Caller: Hey, hey, hey, don't hang up!
Me: I thought you said you didn't have a safeword.
Click.
I hang up.
(Postscript: After I wrote this, I remembered that I do know one very cool New York guy...You know who you are, and I'm pleased that you're the exception to the rule...)
Monday, June 21, 2004
I see that my fellow sex writer Dan Savage is writing about erotic electric stimulation this week... Good info, if you're curious about it.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
I'm busy writing a column just now... But, for my fellow bibliophiles out there, here's what I've been reading lately.
Edison's Eve: A Magical History Of The Quest For Mechanical Life by Gaby Wood
Very interesting book about 18th and 19th C. explorations of robotics.
The Turk: The Life and Times of the Famous Eighteenth-Century Chess-Playing Machine, by Tom Standage
A specific history of one early robot, which played chess – and won – with humans. Unsurprisingly, it turns out there was actually a person hidden inside, directing the chess moves. Still, an absorbing account of how it was done, and how people of that time reacted to the machine.
The Speckled Monster: A Historical Tale Of Battling Smallpox, by Jennifer Lee Carrell
Very interesting, if occasionally gross, description of smallpox, and the development of the vaccination for it, in the 18th C. I knew it was a deadly disease, but I had no idea it was so extremely disgusting and painful in it's manifestation. It would, indeed, be an effective bio-weapon in the hands of someone desperate enough to use such an uncontrollable tool.
Sharpe's Eagle: Richard Sharpe and the Talavera Campaign, by Richard Cornwell
One of the books in the excellent "Richard Sharpe" series - sort of the "Rambo" of the late 18th and early 19th C. wars. I wouldn't call them "lit-ra-choor", but it's great action/adventure reading - I'm working my way through the whole series chronologically and enjoying them a great deal.
By the Sword: A History of Gladiators, Musketeers, Samurai, Swashbucklers, and Olympic Champions, by Richard Cohen
A broad overview of the history of the sword and of sword use, and the culture of the sword. Occasionally meandering, but with many spots of interest to a pop-history junkie like me.
The Distinctive Book of Redneck Baby Names , by Linda Barth
Just what is says – complete with smart-ass remarks about the probable characteristics that go along with each individual name. Extremely funny, especially to any who, like me, grew up in the South and has known many people who actually had names like Eldred, Chet, Carlene and Maybelle.
The Devil in White City: Murder, Magic and Madness At The Fair That Changed America, by Erik Larson.
The true story about the architect, Daniel Burnham, who designed the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago, and the serial killer, H.H. Homes, who used the fair to lure his victims to their death. Not bad, but the part about Daniel Burnham bogged down sometimes, and the author was annoying coy about the details of the murders committed by Holmes.
Edison's Eve: A Magical History Of The Quest For Mechanical Life by Gaby Wood
Very interesting book about 18th and 19th C. explorations of robotics.
The Turk: The Life and Times of the Famous Eighteenth-Century Chess-Playing Machine, by Tom Standage
A specific history of one early robot, which played chess – and won – with humans. Unsurprisingly, it turns out there was actually a person hidden inside, directing the chess moves. Still, an absorbing account of how it was done, and how people of that time reacted to the machine.
The Speckled Monster: A Historical Tale Of Battling Smallpox, by Jennifer Lee Carrell
Very interesting, if occasionally gross, description of smallpox, and the development of the vaccination for it, in the 18th C. I knew it was a deadly disease, but I had no idea it was so extremely disgusting and painful in it's manifestation. It would, indeed, be an effective bio-weapon in the hands of someone desperate enough to use such an uncontrollable tool.
Sharpe's Eagle: Richard Sharpe and the Talavera Campaign, by Richard Cornwell
One of the books in the excellent "Richard Sharpe" series - sort of the "Rambo" of the late 18th and early 19th C. wars. I wouldn't call them "lit-ra-choor", but it's great action/adventure reading - I'm working my way through the whole series chronologically and enjoying them a great deal.
By the Sword: A History of Gladiators, Musketeers, Samurai, Swashbucklers, and Olympic Champions, by Richard Cohen
A broad overview of the history of the sword and of sword use, and the culture of the sword. Occasionally meandering, but with many spots of interest to a pop-history junkie like me.
The Distinctive Book of Redneck Baby Names , by Linda Barth
Just what is says – complete with smart-ass remarks about the probable characteristics that go along with each individual name. Extremely funny, especially to any who, like me, grew up in the South and has known many people who actually had names like Eldred, Chet, Carlene and Maybelle.
The Devil in White City: Murder, Magic and Madness At The Fair That Changed America, by Erik Larson.
The true story about the architect, Daniel Burnham, who designed the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago, and the serial killer, H.H. Homes, who used the fair to lure his victims to their death. Not bad, but the part about Daniel Burnham bogged down sometimes, and the author was annoying coy about the details of the murders committed by Holmes.
Friday, June 18, 2004
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…
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…
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
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?
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?
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
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.
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.
Monday, June 14, 2004
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."
"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."
Saturday, June 12, 2004
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...
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...
Friday, June 11, 2004
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…
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…
Thursday, June 10, 2004
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
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".
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".
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
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.
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.
Monday, June 07, 2004
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'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...
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...
Saturday, June 05, 2004
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?"
"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?"
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