In the wake of this new sex book: "She Comes First: The Thinking Man's Guide To Pleasuring a Woman", there seems to be a lot of chat online lately about cunnilingus. Lilith has some good things to say about oral sex and the clitoris...

I'm sitting at my computer in a sleep-deprived daze, because I didn't get home from my date with Roman until around 4am. Luckily I had foresight enough not to schedule myself anything until 5pm, so I've had some time to get some caffeine working in my body and practice focusing my eyes properly.

How was the date? Well, I wasn't home until 4am – you should be able to infer a great deal from that alone…

For me, there are different kinds of attraction to people. Sometimes it's a very BDSM-based attraction. My responses to the object of my desire are rooted firmly in my SM-self, and my fantasies center around what kinds of play I want to do with them. Sex may or may not be involved, but when it is, it’s more of a method of expressing my dominance over them than achieving an orgasm or three.

And then sometimes I'm just plain sexually attracted to people. It's not about having a strong dominant (or submissive) response to the person in question. I just want to jump them. But they are usually kinky people, because that's who I hang out with. (Mike was a notable exception to this rule.)

Now, in the best of all possible worlds, once the two people in question have taken a little of the edge off their sheer animal lust, and they start getting to know each other a little more, they may find that they do have some complementary BDSM interests. When I approached Roman, I basically said, "I like you, and I think we should get in the same room together and take off our clothes and see what happens." Today I have some very nice bite marks on my back, and I'm guessing his nipples might be a bit tender. We had a fabulous time, and I think I know a lot more about what kinds of BDSM we might do together. It's always great when the first sexual experience you have with someone just fills you with inspiration about what else you'd like to do with them.

There's a phrase, "an open secret". That means a secret that isn't really secret. Something lots of people know about, but that isn't talked about – or at least, not much.

My open secret? Mistress Matisse is a switch. (What the hell is a switch?)

Lots of people know this about me – all of my friends, a fair number of my clients, and many, many random kinky strangers who've seen me playing with Max at various parties and leather conferences. But I have made only the briefest of references to this fact in my column, and I haven't talked about it here at all, and I have my reasons for that.

It's not that I'm worried about how other SM people will see me. Being a switch is not at all remarkable in the SM community. There are very, very few tops who have never bottomed at all, I've only met about four or five that I know of. (Max is one of them, interestingly enough.) I personally know a number of folks who, while perceived as badass tops by most people, say they would bottom in a second if they met the right person.

But outside the community, being a switch is a bit like being bisexual. The uninformed tend to assume that means your inclinations are split 50/50, and you like one role just as well as the other. Perhaps true for some - definitely not so for me. I don't think of myself as a submissive, and I'm definitely not a slave. Most of the pomp and ceremony of what people call D/s doesn't impress me as a top, and the idea of doing it as a bottom makes me laugh - I don't write my name in lowercase, and I'm not about to call anyone "Master". I have topped literally thousands of people. I can count the number of people I've bottomed to on two hands. That should tell you all you need to know about how I'm wired.

So what I really am is a top with a masochistic streak. My tastes are highly specific, and I'm quite selective about who I'll allow to provide the stimuli that I enjoy. Max happens to be very, very good at giving me what I like – probably because it's what he likes, too. Someone asked a few days ago how we handled being two-tops-in-love. Now you know...

While I'm not very good at the submissive thing, I do try to be polite while Max indulges our mutual kinky tastes. However, the physical stress of our play can strain even my deeply-rooted sense of courtesy, and so I don't always succeed. Fortunately, he seems to find it amusing when I scream curses at him while we play, even if it's in a crowded dungeon, like, say – Thunder in the Mountains. One might even suspect that he enjoys provoking me to such lengths, since he is such a sadistic son-of-a-bitch. (Kiss! Love you, darling!) But his pleasure is based on the fact that he knows I'm enjoying it, too – even if I have an unusual way of showing it.

The main reason I don't publish much writing about this side of my kinkysex life is this: I am generally able to regard with weary patience the emails and phone calls I get from strange people importuning me to be their Mistress. I don't mean the folks seeking professional appointments, I mean the will-you-have-a-relationship-with-me guys. True, I have occasional bursts of irritation. But most of the time, I have some compassion in my heart for such people, and I try not to treat them too roughly.
However, I find myself without any compassion for strangers who send me emails that say things like this:

I WANT TO MAKE YOU MY ANAL SEX SLAVE !! I WANNA STRAP YOU DOWN, BLINDFOLD YOU , GAG YOU , SPANK YOU AND FUCK YOUR SWEET ASS WITH MY BIG, FAT , MONSTER COCK OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN !!!

And that's a relatively good-natured one.

I think the reason why electronic assaults by clueless poltroons who call themselves "Master" annoy me more than the grotesque entreaties of people like the Tampon Guy is this: I know how it should be done. I cannot say with any degree of sincerity that I know the perfect way to approach someone as a bottom. I don't ask strangers to send me used feminine hygiene products, you understand – but I'm guessing that my approach is probably a bit on the blunt side. (My initial offer to Max: "I'll bottom to you if you bottom to me." Once he picked his jaw up off the floor, he took me up on exactly half of that invitation.)

However, when it comes to entrancing and enticing potential submissives, well, my kung fu is the best. It should be, I've spent years polishing it. So when I'm on the receiving end of a really bungled pass, I am possessed by the outraged spirit of Cyrano De Bergerac. "Oh, what you could have said!" These weedy fly-bitten popinjays, these pribbling clumsy clay-brained miscreants – how dare they think they can share the same job title as me? How dare they presume to use the word dominant? Their sin's not accidental, but a trade.

See what I mean? I get all indignant just thinking about it. So you're on notice: if I receive, in the wake of this post, any stupid emails from witless wanna-bees asking to spank me, I will publish them here - including the email address – and I will, of course, rip the author to shreds for the entertainment of everyone. You've been warned.

Police in the Florida Keys are mystified by a bizarre new pastime — young people dangling themselves from meat hooks on a popular sandbar.

I think I'd try to find a more secluded spot, but that's just me. Maybe the Florida cops should consult with Fakir Musafar, who could explain to them exactly why people are doing this. I've never done a full hook suspension, but I've done an energy pull, and one of these days I'm going to have to do it again... Me and the flesh hooks, Part One...
And Part Two...

  
What nice comments on my previous entry…So yes, I will talk about Thunder, but I'm too brain-fried from my weekend to write coherently about that right now. Perhaps tomorrow…
 
Meanwhile, I'm listening to my voicemails. I cleared them twice while I was gone, but still, the phone messages stack up fast…
 
YOU HAVE 13 NEW MESSAGES. PRESS 1 TO HEAR MESSAGES.
 
Beep!
"Hi, Matisse, it's Pete, just following up on our email. I'll definitely see you Thursday at 2. Oh, I have a request, if you don't mind? Would you wear that PVC skirt and the boots that lace up? You look so hot in that. I'm looking forward to seeing you again. Bye."
END OF MESSAGE.
 
It's so nice to have good regulars.
 
Beep!
"Hi, my name is John. I'm going to be in Seattle this weekend and wanted to know about an appointment for Saturday night at around 8. My cell number is XXX-XXXX, area code, XXX. Give me a call."
END OF MESSAGE.

He sounds nice enough – but he didn't read my webpage, bad boy. It states "Monday through Friday" quite clearly. The trouble with guys who don't read the webpage is that not only do they not know my schedule, they often don't know a lot of other things – like what I will and won't do, for example. I may call him back and tell him my schedule and see if he wants to do a weekday appointment. Or I may not, depending on how busy I am.
 
Beep!
"Hi. This is Bob. I want to see you. Call me at XXX-XXXX."
END OF MESSAGE.
 
There's a flat, staccato tone to this guy's voice that I don't like. He speaks as if his sentences don't have any relationship to each other, like someone repeating the sounds of a foreign language that they don't really understand. It's not a good sign, and I've learned to always go with my gut response to stuff like this.
 
Beep!
"Hello? Hello? Are you there? Is anyone there? Can you hear me? Hello?"
END OF MESSAGE.
 
Jesus, what decade is this guy living in? Answering machines where you can screen calls are like dinosaurs these days. He sounds like an old guy, though, so if he calls back we'll cut him a little slack. I like older guys. My oldest client ever: seventy-seven. And horny as hell, no blue pills required.
 
Beep!
"Hi. This is Bob. I called earlier. Call me soon. XXX-XXXX."
END OF MESSAGE.
 
Oh, that's not good. I check the time of this message and it's about an hour after the first one. I don't like that.
 
Beep!
Ooooooo Mistress, I wanna suck your –"
MESSAGE DELETED.
 
Beep!
Hello, Mistress, it's Andrew. I saw you once before about two months ago and I'd love to see you again. I don't know if you remember me or not, but I was the guy who brought you a wooden cutting board and you spanked me with it. Can you call me – discreetly – at my work number, XXX-XXXX, after 11am tomorrow? That would be great. Thanks, bye."
END OF MESSAGE. 
 
I do remember him, he was a sweetie, and I loved the originality of the cutting-board-as-paddle. Top of the call-back list for Andrew.
 
Beep!
"Hi. This is Bob again. Please call me at XXX-XXXX."
END OF MESSAGE.
 
Forty minutes since his last message. Bob is definitely creeping me out.
 
Beep!
"Hi, Matisse, my dear, it's James. I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful time I had with you last week. You're a beautiful lady and I really enjoy our time together. Oh, and I know you were a little concerned about that bruise on my cock, but I don't want you to worry, it's gotten much smaller and it's not terribly sore at all. You know I've done worse just playing around by myself. So don't worry, I'm tough, and I wouldn't change a thing about our scene. Take care and I'll see you soon."
END OF MESSAGE. 
 
Oh, how sweet of James to call and reassure me. Cock and ball torture is a favorite of mine, and when I'm playing with someone who likes it as much as I do, occasionally we get so enthusiastic that, well, there are bruises. I always worry about this when it happens. I've never done any long-lasting damage to anyone, and I'd like to keep it that way. But James is an experienced CBT practitioner and, like many boys who enjoy heavy CBT, he's tried out a lot of creative and extreme forms of that art on himself. So I do trust his judgment, and I'm sure he's got the situation well in hand. (Yes, I had to say it.)

Beep!
"Hello. This is Bob. I called before. I really want to see you. Call me back at–"
MESSAGE DELETED.
 
No, Bob, I will not be calling you, because nothing says, "I'm a serious weirdo!" like calling me every half-hour.
 
Beep!
"Hi, Mistress Matisse, my name is Brandy, I was wondering if you were hiring assistants right now? If you are could you please call me back at XXX-XXXX? Thanks a lot, bye."
END OF MESSAGE.
 
Sorry, Brandy - not now, not ever.
 
Beep!
"Hello. My number is XXX-XXXX. Please call me."
END OF MESSAGE.
 
Ah-ha. Bob's trying a different tack – leaving a number without a name. I don't return calls like that anyway - but there's no disguising that Thorazine voice of his.
 
Beep!
"Oh, um, hi, this is John. I called before asking about a Saturday appointment, and then I read on your webpage that you don't do weekend appointments, so I feel kinda dumb. So would you be available on Monday? You can call me at XXX-XXX-XXXX. Sorry about the confusion earlier."
END OF MESSAGE.
 
I'm charmed by this message. I look favorably upon people who cop to mistakes, and what a nicely contrite tone of voice, too. Okay, John, you made it to call-back list. I do like a man who's trainable.

Just a quickie...Thunder was great, as always. We're on a plane home tomorrow, (later today, really)  and I'll have to spend some time de-kinking the house before the Maternal Invasion begins on Tuesday. But I will find time to write some about my weekend.
But before I sit down to write about what I did at Thunder, I will have to settle an internal debate about just how much information about my personal kinky proclivities I'm going to disclose here. (My friends will know exactly what I mean by this.) The jury is still out...but I'm leaning towards telling you some things about me that may surprise or confuse the less BDSM-savvy among you. Stay tuned for revelations.

 
Okay, I know I said radio silence, but Max decided to bring the laptop, and we got the high-speed connection going in the room, so...
 
We're here at Thunder. Or rather, it's the gathering storm, if you will. Kinky people are beginning to invade. but we won't have complete control of the whole hotel until tomorrow, when the conference officially begins.
 
It's always rather amusing, actually, to walk around the hotel lobby and the bar on Thursday afternoon and say to oneself, "They're here for the conference, but they're not. Oh, he is definitely one of us, but those women aren't..." We more or less behave ourself in the public spaces (most of us do, anyway) and especially so when the vanilla folks are still here. But you can spot the kinksters...
 
It's harder on Sunday afternoon, when the hotel starts checking in vanilla guests again. We've had free run of the place for two days, and everyone is pleasantly exhausted by a weekend of non-stop activity in an entirely kink-oriented world. One has to remind oneself to be mindful, once again, of explicit conversations in a close quarters with the non-kinky folks. Not everyone does the re-entry thing well, you understand. Last year at this con I was standing in an elevator with three perverts and two airline personnel and listened to this conversation.

"So I was flogging the clothespins off his balls last night at the party and a little bit of skin came with them. You should have heard him howl."
"I did hear him carrying on, but I couldn't see what you were doing, exactly. I had my hands full with the suspension X and I were doing."
 
Banjo eyes on the airline people, to which the two men having the conversation seemed completely oblivious. Or maybe they were doing it just to fuck with them, I don't know. I don't approve of that kind of thing generally - I think it's rude and childish. I don't want to be forced to listen to intimate things about the sexual lives of most strangers, either. But on this occasion, for some reason, I was torn between annoyance and amusement. Maybe it was the utterly blase tone of voice they were speaking in...

Tomorrow we'll get out registration packets, look over the workshop schedule - Thunder has the best workshops!  - and then just sit in the lobby and watch out friends arrive. Then dinner, and then - the dungeon party.I don't know if I'll post again, but if I get a minute, I'll drop by...

Weirdass Email of the Week....

Dear Queenly Mistress,
I strongly urge you to not allow or tolerate me to be free any longer from getting your periods forced on me and be another woman to get your long overdue sexual justice PAY BACK TIMES and START TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS WITH ME AND GIVING ME THE REAL BUSINESS WITH YOUR ULTIMATE WOMANHOOD and use your used cunt hole stick tampons for what they were meant to be used for by you and force my cunt hole mouth to get stuffed and rammed full of them for all of them to EXPLODE with your period for me to have to cuntsume every last drop of your cunt flow period.
Why should men be free from periods and having no sympathetic caring feelings about what you as a woman have to endure with the cramps, bloating, discomforting pain, inconvenience, time taken from your life, expense and irritable moody feelings??????

What I'm supposed to think when I read this: "Wow, what an amazingly sympathetic, unselfish guy he must be, to make me an offer like this. Nothing at all in it for him, no, no…"
What I actually think: "What a manipulative fetishist."
And who knew that simply recieving a woman's used tampons by mail would lead to "cramps, bloating, discomforting pain, inconvenience, time taken from your life, expense and irritable moody feelings"?

Queenly Mistress, why waste them by throwing them away, when you can put them to a positive use for yourself and get paid for having your periods forced on you???Why should you have the expense of having to purchase the box of unused TAMPAX TAMPONS, when you can force it on me as part of your period forcing power?????
I will allow you $5.00 to $7.00 so I and not you have this expense.
I will allow you $5.00 for the shipping cost for you to send me your used love hole stick tampons.
HOW MANY used FEMININE WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION tampons X $5.00 is the way you financially inflict the discomforting pain on me with your period being forced on me.

Gee, apparently Bush has been looking in the wrong places for those weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. Those clever Iraqi women have been hiding them under their skirts. Can he really think I'm going to be pleased by the idea that using a piece of bleached cotton to absorb a few tablespoons of my blood transforms it into the equivalent of a anthrax lab? I've heard of vagina dentata, but this is ridiculous.

A few examples for you:
6 of your used tootsie roll pussy pop sucker tampons = 6 X $5.00=$30.00
My expense of box of unused TAMPAX or OB TAMPONSz=7.00
Shipping cost for you to send me your weapons of mass destruction = $5.00
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Financial pain forced on me by you FORCING your period on me = $ 32.00
Rounded off dollar amount Your Forced Period on me total expense = $ 40.00
12 of your used tootsie roll pussy pop sucker tampons = 12 X $5.00 =$60.00
My expense of box of unused TAMPAX or OB TAMPONS = $ 7.00
Shipping cost for you to send me your weapons of mass destruction = $5.00
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
I can not physically endure what you do, so this is how you make your period difficult for me.

No, saving up used tampons to box up and ship to some weirdo is how I make my period difficult for me. It actually isn't the horror story you're trying convince me it is, buddy.
I edited for sheer length here, since he goes through all the numbers for 18 tampons, and then for 24, and then 28, and so on, adding by fours, all the way to...

Unrealistic but possible 54 total period expense= $282.00 rounded = $285.00
PIPE DREAMS 60 total period expense = $312.00 rounded = $315.00
70 total period expense = $362.00 rounded = $365.00
80 total period expense = $412.00 rounded = $415.00

I wonder if this guy's an accountant. Or maybe a 4th grade math tutor – his multiplying-by-four prowess is impressive, although his grammar and syntax need work.

The purpose and objective of my e-mail to you is for me to have you educated that now your womanhood has caught up with me and found out about me. There is no where for me to run or hide that your womanhood will not know about and that you do have me at the complete mercy of your ultimate womanhood and there is not a dam thing that I can do about it.

Now, this makes my pussy sound like either Santa Claus or the CIA. Except if my pussy were the CIA, it would have found Bin Laden by now. And given Bin Laden and his comrades' views on women, the idea of a giant, marauding pussy chasing them down, a la Woody Allen, is probably far more terrifying than being chased by the CIA.

Emails from friends that I haven't had time to answer…


"How was the shoot with Monk?" Great, even though he kept making me laugh when I was trying to look all Mistress-y and shit. I've seen the raw files, but I'm waiting for the Photoshop maestro to finish color-balancing and so on before I post a sample.

"When do you leave for Thunder in the Mountains?" Thursday, so there will be radio silence around here from Thursday to Monday. Try not to get DT's or anything.

"How did your date with Jake go?" Lovely. I took him with me to do a little fetishwear shopping – it’s so nice that Rose Algren, designer of many things sexy, stretchy and shiny, only lives about ten blocks away from me. I can just go over and do my shopping in her dining room.
After stopping by there, we went to dinner at Septieme, where I actually did not run into anyone I know. I think that's a first for me at that restaurant.
And then I took him over to my dungeon and showed him around...

"Hey, let's go do X when you get back from Thunder!" Well, I'd like that, but things will be complicated at my house soon, because my mother is coming to visit me. Brace yourself for some whining about that, because I'm really not cut out to be submissive for more than about five minutes at a time. And my mother is a small, sweet woman with big blue eyes, a gentle southern accent, and the uncanny ability to completely dominate not only me, but damn near everyone who's in the room with her. Max is somewhat immune to her bizarre power, but he can't protect me all the time.

Don't get me wrong. I love my mom. I even like my mom. There are many, many wonderful things about my mom. It's just that she's kind of like Napoleon in a Chico's tunic.

So she's here, and then she leaves to go to Portland for a few days, so I'll have a little window of freedom in the middle of her visit. Except, while she's gone – guess what? Max and I are having another houseguest. Guess who it is. Midori.

Now Midori is way cool, and I'm happy to have her as my guest while she's here in Seattle teaching classes, but Jesus, what kind of cosmic joke is this, to have my mother and Midori – easily two of the world's most dominant women – staying in our house, pretty much back-to-back! What is the universe trying to tell me with this?

I'm guessing that of the two, Midori will be much easier to cope with, because she has a lot of people just dying to bottom to her. My mother, however, has only my brother and myself – and sometimes, I think, her husband – to hypnotize into obedience. Although perhaps I'm underestimating her - perhaps she has this effect on everyone. Somehow, I don't find that comforting.

So, I'm sketching out a "Control Tower" column, and I'm thinking about doing something like "The Pleasures Of Topping". I've gotten a few comments here that were essentially "Why do you enjoy doing what you do?" questions, and I thought it would be cool to write about what I get out of my scenes.
So, if there's a particular aspect of being the top in a BDSM scene that puzzles you, feel free to tell me about that now, either with a comment or in an email. I can't absolutely promise I'll address it, but if it works with what I'm already thinking of, I will.

Completely unrelated: An amusing animation starring Bush and Kerry, to the tune of Woody Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land".

Not a long post today, as I have a photo shoot soon and I need to get ready for it. (I’m the model, not the shooter.)

Kudos to Monk for winning the "Iron Chef" sushi-making competition last night at the Wet Spot. Not only was the sushi just right, he had a cool presentation and a great-looking back-up crew.

Speaking of modeling, does anyone but me think Cameron Diaz is acting like a spoiled brat? Years ago, she made a rather silly-looking pseudo-SM film legally, and at that time, she presumably got paid and signed a release.
But now, she feels it might tarnish her image, so she's trying to block it's distribution. What did she think was going to happen – the producer was going to keep it in his closet? Of course it's going to get seen by lots of people. That's the purpose of films, even tacky sexploitation ones – and this one looks pretty tacky.
I really don't like it when people try to dodge the consequences of their actions. I'd have a lot more respect for her as an actress if she said, "Yeah, I was nineteen, I needed the money, I thought it might be a way for me to get into better movies, so I did it. Now I find it embarrassing and I wish I hadn't, but – what's done is done."
I don't mean that celebs should have no privacy. Paparazzi hanging out of trees and shooting through windows to get nude pictures of an actress/model/rock star is a whole different thing. But that isn't the situation here.
So suck it up, Cameron. The fuss you're making over this is only going to inflate and prolong the scandal. And who knows, maybe that's what you want. I'm told that in Hollywood, one spins absolutely everything to get the maximum media coverage.
Meanwhile, I'm going get ready for my own close-up…

It's been a crazy week - and no end in sight. The client line won't stop ringing, I still haven't done my pre-Thunder fetishwear shopping, and my weekend is already booked solid. It's fun stuff, though, a photo shoot – and high time for some new pics, too – and a date with Jake. I've also discovered a new addiction: Jones sugar-free Black Cherry soda. Yum.

The theme for the week, work-wise, has been "Boys In Skirts". Tuesday I had one of my favorite fancy-dressing guys. I'll call him Pretty Boy, and I say that affectionately. PB is a damned handsome man, and he's got a trim, attractive body that looks quite sexy in little numbers from Victoria's Secret. We've been playing for a couple of years now, and I really enjoy him.
Wednesday I had a new client, a cute, lean Brit with a penchant for heavy corporal punishment – yay! – during which he wanted to wear a sheer little thong and stockings and a black satin skirt. "Corporal just feels so much better through satin," he said passionately. We had a delightful time.

"Boys In Skirts Week" will come to an abrupt end today, though. Milo is coming to see me, and he doesn't wear high heels. A good thing, too – he's already six-four or thereabouts. He'd bang his head on my ceiling.

But I actually don't have a whole lot of cross-dresser clients, and that's not an accident. In my observation, there are several distinct categories of (male) clients who want to put on women's clothes. They are:

1) Guys who like it because it's an extra-naughty and forbidden thing to do.

2) Closely related: Guys who like it because women's lingerie is silky and satin-y and it just feels good, tactilely.

3) Guys who are seeking the "erotic humiliation" experience of being "forced" to dress up in women's clothes. For these guys, the mistress cross-dressing them is a punishment, or a demonstration of her cruelty and dominance. Frequently referred to as "Forced Fem", or "FF".

4) Guys who truly want to explore their gender issues. They may or may not be transsexuals, but for these guys, this goes deeper than just the clothes – it's about gender identity.

I'm all down with Categories One and Two. Yes, I was hot for Tim Curry in Rocky Horror. Men in garter-belts can be quite sexy. Not something I'd want every single day – that would rob it of its zing. But charming on an occasional basis.

Category Four – well, I certainly support the idea, but facilitating it isn't my area of expertise. A lot of these boys want me to do a "full-transformation" on them, supplying wigs, makeup, and complete outfits. Sorry, I don't have the skills, and it doesn't particularly turn me on, so I don't do it. (A message to all the local aspiring Mistresses: Category Four boys are an underserved market in general. Acquire the equipment and the techniques to make this your specialty, and you'll own this particular demographic.)

It's Category Three clients I'll have nothing to do with. The whole concept pisses me off. It always has, really, although I try to be polite about it when I'm around other pro dommes who do it a lot. But think about it: the idea that I would punish or humiliate a man by making him resemble a woman – like me! - well, I find that incredibly misogynistic.
I get callers telling me they want me to dress them up and "treat them like a woman". Oh, what does that mean, exactly? You want me to pass you over for promotions and pay you less for doing the same job? You want me to deny you birth control options?
(Note: I know exactly what they mean – they mean they want me to fuck them up the ass. But I think if I'm going to dress someone up in stockings and a corset and fuck them, they should take it like a man.)

So am I being too literal about the "forced feminization" thing? Maybe. It's a fantasy, and it's a mistake to equate what we do in fantasy-play with reality. I've done age-play with other grownups, for example, and nobody involved was a real-life child molester. It's a game.

But fuck it – I'm long past the point in my career where I have to indulge people's fantasies even if the fantasy bothers me. And the idea of "punishing" a man by dressing him up in women's clothes definitely irritates me.

Fleshbot is conducting a Google bombing on the so-called "war on pornography", and I think thats just great, so I decided to be a Foxy Freedom Fighter, too...

Another go-read-other-people's-stuff post today, because I'm busy writing an extra-long "Control Tower" and tomorrow is deadline.

Conrad James of Death, Sex and Hunger writes feelingly about his relationships with sex work and sex workers...

The rougher side of sex work - Two exotic dancers punctured a third dancer's breast implant with a broken wine glass...
I saw plenty of catfights in my time as a dancer, although I managed to avoid being involved in any. But I can say that the one time another woman threatened to kick my ass, I told her if she tried I'd punch her right in her store-bought boobs and rupture them. And she backed off.
(Link snagged from Daze Reader.)

And the prettier side - an absolutely gorgeous photo of my friend Rose Algren, as taken by well-known fetish photographer Ken Marcus. (I'm so jealous she got to work with him!)

Last night I stood on a balcony overlooking Lake Union with a group of friends and watched a great fireworks display. We could see the ones over the waterfront in the distance, too. I used to be kinda "yeah, whatever" about fireworks, but the technology of that stuff is so amazing these days, it's pretty cool. So I still hate the insane traffic on the 4th of July, but I do like everything else about it.

I'm going to work out, and then go see "Fahrenheit 9/11", so I'm off. But meanwhile, for your reading pleasure…

From the You-Go-Girl Department: Woman Fights Off Rapist By Biting His Penis

Monk makes note of my bruise fetish...

And a interesting discussion about polyamory, with a set of definitions, from Lilith, the Cosmic Babe.

A somewhat disturbing personal essay about one woman's masochistic desires.

Sometime this summer, in a high-rise condo looking out over the city, I will be given something I've been wanting for a long time: a black eye.

Let me preface this by saying: the author is a grown woman and she can do what she likes. I respect her right to make choices even if I don't agree with them. And I can't really make a bullet-proof judgment about her based solely on this article.

Still, if she was a friend of mine, and she told me all this and asked for my opinion, I'd tell her she should be working with a kink-friendly therapist.

It's not the physical intensity of the play that bothers me. I've participated in some very extreme scenes, and I loved it. It's the way she sees herself, and the way she feels about her behavior. Anytime that someone says, "I have strong sexual urges that lead me to actions I later regret. More than regret: I hate myself for them."- that's a problem. The author says she's seen therapists and taken medication, and that it doesn't help. My answer – not the right therapists, not the right medication. They say cigarette smokers try to quit an average of eight times before they're successful. Get back on the couch, and get back to the pharmacist.

And I tell you what - I would never, but never, want to top someone like this. It gives me the creeps just thinking about it. I've met people who I think were something like this woman, and I can remember thinking, They're looking for a monster and they're hoping it's me. Fuck that, I don't want to play with someone who's hoping to bring out my inner serial killer.

SM is not, in and of itself, a pathological activity. But there is such a thing as doing SM for all the wrong reasons. That's what this looks like to me.

Master and Commander

Ring Ring!

Me: hello?
Caller: Uh, yes, hello, is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes it is.
Caller: Fine, fine – I, uh, have a question.

This guy is speaking in a quick, nervous, reedy sort of voice that makes me think of Woody Allen. I picture him making a lot of jerky hand gesticulations as he talks.

Me: Okay, what is it?
Caller: So you have that column in The Stranger, and you've talked about your submissive, Jae.
Me: Yes...
Caller: And that's the same Jae who's an escort, right? I've seen her ad.
Me: Yes, that's right.
Caller: Well, I've always been, uh, very curious, you know, about submissive role play. Women, I mean, being submissive. To me, I mean.

Based on about fifteen seconds of conversation with this guy, I'm finding it hard to really picture him as a dominant. But hey, none of us popped out of our mother's womb with floggers in our hands, and one should be nice to the new kids.

Me: I understand. So - what question do you have that I can answer for you?
Caller: Uh, well, I was wondering if Jae would be willing to be, uh, submissive. To me. In a scene like the ones you talk about.

This is not what I expected.

Me: Hmmmnn. You know, I really couldn't say. You would need to ask her about that.
Caller: Um, I was – well, I was hoping you'd just tell her she had to do it.

Oh yeah, because a dominant guy like him doesn't want to have to do anything scary like ask her himself. Jesus, how lame is this?

And he doesn't understand that Jae and I don't have that kind of D/s relationship. It's not a formal thing anymore. I really enjoy smacking her around and so, given the opportunity, I'll do that. But she's by no means my slave.

It occurs to me that I'm assuming he means he wants to hire her as a professional submissive. I hope to God he doesn't think that I would order Jae to – well, I don't order her to do anything, really, because that's pretty much a waste of time. Jae isn't going to do a damn thing she doesn't want to do. It's simply smart planning on my part that when I play with Jae, most of the things I tell her I want her to do are things she wants to do anyway, so she does them.

But I'm crystal clear about the fact that I will not be ordering Jae to bottom to some weirdo guy for free. So let's just make sure we're on the same page about that.

Me: I'm actually not involved in any of Jae's business arrangements, you would need to talk to her about anything like that.
Caller: Yes, but she's more likely to do it if you ask her.

At least we both know this would be a business arrangement. Now he simply needs to understand that it's not my business. Sometimes sheer repetition is the key to dealing with situations like this.

Me: I'm not involved in any of her business arrangements. You would need to talk to her about that.
Caller: But she'll do it if you tell her to.

Okay, the broken-record technique doesn't seem to be working here. Let's try challenging some of his assumptions.

Me: So, why would I want to have her be submissive to you?

This seems to surprise him. There some hemming and stammering, and then he says,

Caller: I don't know, maybe like as a punishment?

Obviously he has a clear sense of what playing with him would be like for Jae.

Me: Look, I don't have that kind of relationship with Jae. I don't order her to play with strangers, and I don't punish her for things. (Although God knows it's a charming idea sometimes.) You're going to have to call Jae and talk to her about this yourself.

I silently apologize to Jae as I say this, knowing full well she'd prefer I tell this guy that he's not allowed to call her, ever. Sorry, honey, you'll have to handle this, I think, making a mental note to call her and give her a heads-up after I hang up with this guy.

Caller: I really wish you'd tell her to.
Me: No, I'm not going to do that.
Caller: I could pay you a fee.
Me: No, I do not want money from you. I will not be involved in this.
Caller: I'm really disappointed.
Me: I hear that.
Caller: Well, if that's your final word…
Me: Yes, it is.

Grumpily, he says goodbye and hangs up. I'm driving in heavy traffic and so I concentrate on the road for, perhaps, fifteen minutes. Then…

Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hey, it's me.
Me: Hey Jae! How you doing, honey?
Jae: I'm fine. But I just got the weirdest fucking phone call. Listen, did you tell some guy you'd order me to bottom to him?

I hold the phone away from my mouth and howl with outrage.

I went on my second date with Jake tonight. We had a lovely time, and he got to meet Max, which I'm pleased about. Max and I don't have an absolutely iron-clad rule about this like some poly couples we know, but we both strongly prefer that we meet each other's new partners before any clothing starts being shed. So I told Max where Jake and I were having dinner and he dropped by for a few minutes on his way to his date with Maura.
I did tell Jake this would be happening, in case you were wondering. But Jake's a guy who seems to roll with things fairly easily, so I doubt he would have been hugely thrown if Max had just walked up.

The three of us chatted a bit, and that was all fine, and then Max took off, having done the official primary-partner thing.

Not that Jake and I shed any of our clothing tonight. In fact, he's been so very gentlemanly towards me that I was sort of wondering what his – ahem – intentions were, and I decided to be direct about it. We went to Septieme for dessert after dinner, and I asked him straight out, "So, are you, like, attracted to me?"
He blinked at me. "Yes, can't you tell?"
Well, I wasn't sure. I mean, we've been having a great time talking and hanging out, and I could tell he liked me as a person, but that's different than wanting to jump someone.

That question has now been resolved to my satisfaction. He kisses very well...

I knew I liked Bill Clinton. I mean, if I didn't, I wouldn't have stood in line for five and half hours in Pioneer Square - with a thousand or so other people - just to have him sign a copy of his book for me.

But now, having met him in person, shaken his hand, and had him smile at me – well, I think I have new fetish. (Roman, are you listening?) Oh, wow. Serious, but serious, charisma. In about seven seconds of interaction, he made me feel like I was the person he came there to see.

Max and I got downtown at about four in the afternoon, with folding chairs and an ice chest, and settled down at the back of a line of several hundred people. We weren't at the end of the line for long – I'm glad we didn't get there any later than we did, because pretty soon the line behind us was snaking up and down the square as the Elliot Bay Bookstore employees struggled to keep order. It wasn't easy, especially since a lot of people in line were joined by partners or friends, prompting a few accusations of line-jumping from touchy types in the crowd.

About six-thirty, the police and Secret Service agents started arriving. Guys in black suits with wires in their ears everywhere, and motorcycle cops cruising around and around the block.

At eight-fifteen, the word went through the crowd: he's here. I started getting excited.

About nine pm, our section of the line was within sight of the door. Bookstore employees instructed us in what we were allowed to take inside with us, and made sure the inner flap of the book jacket was tucked into the page Clinton would be signing, so it could easily be found.

Nine-thirty, and we're in the room with him, at the back of the line. I stared at him. He looks slimmer in person – or maybe he's just lost weight. But otherwise he looked just like he does on TV.

And then we were at the front of the line, and he signed my book. As I shook his hand, I smiled at him and said, "I wish you were still the president."

He looked me in the eye and said, "That's a nice thing to say, thank you." And he smiled back. I do not lie, I felt my heart beating faster. His assistant handed me my book back, and I walked away, but I paused and looked back at him over my shoulder. He happened to look up and catch my eye, and he smiled at me again. I think I actually blushed. I felt like a fourteen-year-old. I caught myself thinking, I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty? I had to shake myself: Matisse, get a grip. He can't even see you - he's smiled at so many people today, he probably hasn't completely focussed his eyes since he had breakfast.

I've met a few celebrities before, but I have not met many people who had such an effect on me in such a tiny space of time. And according to the lady counting heads at the door, I was the seven-hundredth-and-some-odd person at the Elliot Bay Bookstore whose book he had signed, and who he had smiled at and shaken hands with. He was at Costco earlier in the day, doing the same thing, and from what I hear his whole book-tour schedule has been pretty non-stop. I mean, that's a talent. Lots of people can be charming and attentive and make you feel special - for short spaces of time. I think I can do all right in that department myself on good days. But do that for hours and days on end - wow, that's impressive. I knew it intellectually before, but now that I've experienced just that little snippet...Well, all I can say is: Bill Clinton has definitely got a gift.

The Foot Worship Party

It all began late last year when I was contacted by a very polite man named Ben. He'd found me through my website and thought I'd be perfect for his project - could we meet? I agreed, and so we met at a Starbucks, where he explained his idea to me.

He wanted to throw a party for foot-fetishists, and he wanted me to attend. He would arrange for a suitable space, interview and approve a handful of models, publicize the event to foot-fetishists, host the party and see to it that things went according to plan…My part in this was to show up, look pretty, be charming, and allow the guests to kiss and caress and worship my feet – at twenty dollars per ten-minute interval. Guests, I might add, who had paid a healthy fee to Ben to attend the party to start with.

This sounded too good to be true. "Really? Just foot worship? No sex, no nudity?"
Ben looked horrified and hastened to reassure me. No sex whatsoever, he said.

I liked Ben - he had a nicely deferential attitude - but I wasn't sanguine about his project. I walked away from that meeting thinking, he's a sweet guy, but he'll never make it happen. The boys aren't gonna go for that set-up. I felt that guys who were into foot-worship would be too inhibited to engage in their fetish in front of other people.

I was wrong. You'd think a girl who used to be a dancer would have seen the parallels in the concept – now that I've done it, I find the arrangement very like doing private dances at a strip club. Both places create an atmosphere where it's permissable to be engaging in relatively intimate behavior in close proximity to other people, and so - it's okay. I mean, swingers clubs and public dungeons do this, too - but that's slightly different. Because of the economic element, I think a strip club is a more accurate analogy.

There was a hand-picked lineup of models – I think there were eight of us at this party – and a very interesting cross-section of guys. Out of between thirty and forty guys, there was a broad range of ages, apparent nationalities/races, and there seemed to be a range of socio-economic backgrounds, too, although that's harder to know for sure. Several of the guys had traveled here from out of town just for the party – in one case, all the way from the East Coast. I was slightly surprised to see several guys who couldn't have been more than twenty-five - I wouldn't have expected them to be at this party.

I arrived at the party Saturday night, checked in with Ben, changed into my sexy outfit, and joined the party. It was being held in a large Victorian-style house, and people were scattered throughout the living room, the hall, and the dining room. It was understood that the second floor bedrooms were for "foot sessions", as was the downstairs den. So the idea was to simply float, chatting and socializing, until you were asked to do a session.

It didn't take long. I had seen that other girls were already coming and going from the private rooms when I arrived. (I came late – the Mistress's privilege.) And after Ben gave me a glowing introduction to the room, it was only a few minutes before one of the men I was chatting with said, "So, would you like to go downstairs?"

Now, I love having my feet kissed and touched – sometimes it's a sexual turn-on, and sometimes it's just very sensually pleasurable, like a good massage. It depends on the guy, the setting, and my mood. But it's always a good thing, and I don't recall ever having said to myself, "Okay, I think I have had enough of that now." However, at the end of the party, I stood up and thought, Well, I think I actually got enough tonight.

I also had an almost embarrassingly large wad of cash stuffed into the waistband of my outfit. (Sexy-girl clothes never have pockets.) At one point I kept trying to go put my money into my purse, but every time one guy finished his session, thanked me and got up, another one would appear. So I'd sit back down on the couch, clean my feet with a paper towel and the tongue-friendly cleanser Ben provided, and start all over again. I didn't have a session with every guy there, but I did get to most of them, and a number of them did two or three sessions with me.

So that was the party I went to Saturday night. It was actually the second foot-party I've been to, but the first one was cut short by an unfortunate visit from the police department. I'll tell you about that some other time…

Oh, this is Ben's site, if you're interested…