Never-Ending Story

Ring Ring!

Me: Hello?
Caller: Uh, hi, my name's Jim, and I have a question.
Me: Okay, go ahead.
Caller: So, I used to see this girl named X a while back – you know, she's an escort.

I know exactly who he means, she's a friend of mine. But I don't know where this is going so I just say….

Me: Go on.
Caller: Well, her old number doesn't work anymore and I want to see her again. She told me she knew you. Do you have her new number?

Now, I have a general policy: I don't give out other people's phone numbers without asking them. And I most especially don't give out people's numbers to strangers. For one thing, the fact that this guy doesn't have her contact info says to me that she may not really want him to have it. It also indicates that he ain't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, because a half-decent Google search would turn up a website for this girl.

But frankly, none of this is my dog. She's my friend, but we're not business partners, and I don't want to be involved in any of her dealings with her clients. I find it sort of gauche for him to even ask.
Rather than explain all of this to him, however, I try to take the shortest distance between two points.

Me: No, I don't have a number for her, sorry.
Caller: Oh - that's weird, because she told me you two were good friends.

Damn. I gotta speak to her about telling people that.

Caller: Are you going to see her around, do you think? Can I give you my number and have you give it to her and ask her call me?
Me: Look, I don't know when I'll be seeing her, I don't want to be in the middle of this.
Caller: Well, I just really want to see her and she doesn't have an ad in the paper anymore. Is she still working?
Me: Okay - stop. I don't know where she is, I don't know what she's doing, and I don't want to be a go-between. If you can't find her, I can't help you.
Caller: But isn't she a friend of yours? I think you wrote about her in your column once.

He's not going to let me be polite about this.

Me: Listen to me: this conversation is inappropriate. I am not going to give you any information, and I am not going to carry any information for you. Goodbye.

Click. I hang up.

Several months go by. In the interim, I speak to the woman in question about this call, and she responds by saying, "Oh, that guy? Hell no, I don't want him calling me, that's why I didn't give him my new number."
"Do you owe him money or something? Because he sure was hot to find you."
"No, he's just a total pest. Everyone else in town has probably cut him off, too."
I thank her for confirming my decision and dismiss the matter from my mind.
Until…

Ring ring!

Me: Hello?
Caller: Uh, hi, my name is Jim, I talked to you a couple of months ago, I'm the guy looking for X.

Oh, fuck.

Me: Jim, I told you, I don't have any information for you.
Caller: But I thought you might have seen her by now. Are you sure you don't have her number?

Oh, I do not like people who won't take no for an answer, and this guy also has the sort of whiny, nasal voice that's like fingernails on a blackboard to me. I have a vivid memory of my college drama professor railing at all of us to "speak from your diaphragm, not through your nose!" So while I have a lot of patience - that's a lot of patience to lose. I'm losing it with this guy.

Me: Get this in your head: I am not going to give you her number. If you can’t find her, you'll just have to call someone else. But I am not a fucking pimp, so do not call me again looking for other girls, do you understand?

Caller: But I really want to –

Click. I hang up.

It's been several months. He hasn't called back. I'm hoping I can score one for brutal clarity. But I'm not assuming.

"Oh, I am so blogging about that!" That's become a phrase in my vocabulary, and if you tell me a really good story, don't be surprised to hear it.

For example, Miss K and I were having our usual dinner at Hana this week, along with Lynn, another local luminary in the fantasy-fulfillment trade, and of course we got into weird-ass phone calls discussion.
Miss K said, "Oh, I got one. Crazy!"
"Tell, tell," I said.
"It wasn't an irate spouse, exactly," she began. "It took me a while to figure out just what this woman wanted, because she was so indirect. But what we eventually got to was: she wanted me to call her if her boyfriend ever called me."
"Wait," I said, clutching my head. "Some woman called you. She says she has a boyfriend. And she wants you to notify her if said boyfriend contacts you about a session."
"That's right."
"You would of course be able to identify this man using the sophisticated voiceprint technology on your cell phone."
She laughed. "Apparently she thinks so."
"And you would do this…why, pray tell?"
"Damned if I know."
"Oh. I thought maybe she offered you a high-ranking political position in her imaginary kingdom or something."
Miss K shook her head. "But it gets weirder."
"Oh, god. What?"
"Well, then she started asking a bunch of other questions and it turns out she's always wondered about being an escort herself. So she wanted me to tell her all about how to do that."
"Which, naturally, you refused to do."
"Hell, yes, I refused, I'm not about to talk about that with some whacko. But she kept asking, and I kept saying I wasn't going to talk about that. You keep thinking they'll hang up, you know, but she kept coming up with questions."
"Yep – that's pretty fucking weird." I then told Miss K and Lynn about the "Secretary Man," star of this week's Stranger column. "But your call is so charmingly bizarre, do you mind if I write about it?"
"Go right ahead," said Miss K.
So I did…

PostScript: A big "Happy Birthday" goes out to T. - along with my thanks, for being so extremely cool.

In the comments on the video clip yesterday, Tantalized told me I seemed kind, and then asked me:

"Now, can that kindness and engagement carry over into your professional role? Or do clients expect the Bitch Goddess?...Are you an actress who disappears into her role or one whose spirit comes through no matter what part she is playing?"

I'm a good performer. But I'm not a good actress. It's rather like the difference between Tim Robbins and Jack Nicholson. Tim Robbins has played dozens of different types of roles - he's a great actor. Now, Jack Nicholson is great, too, but whatever role he plays - he's always Jack. He's a performer, not an actor.
I'm like that. I can play me really well - but I can't make myself disappear and be someone else. The persona of "Mistress Matisse" is a facet of who I truly am - so it's very genuine. But it's not divorced from the rest of me, and so in my sessions, I'm also (sometimes) kind, and I'm usually engaged. I don't play the angry bitch with my clients, that's not my style. Doesn't mean I'm not sometimes severe and strict, if I wish to be, and it certainly doesn't mean I'm not sadistic. I always tell people I'm the sweetest sadist you'll ever meet. I've had a number of boys look at me in bewilderment, as they writhe around in pain - pain I'm happily inflicting - and say "But you look so nice!" Protective coloration, I always say. Lets me sneak up on you, and then even afterwards, you won't quite be able to wrap your head around the fact that this smiling, sweet-looking girl just beat your ass bloody. (Mwah hah hah hah haaaaa! My evil plan is working!)
Hope that answers your question, Tantalized...

Okay, people - I'm going to try introducing something new here: video clips. I've been playing with my DV camera lately, and I think it would be cool to have some "vlog" entries here occasionally. I found a place to host them - a site called OnFuego.com, which, so far, seems very cool.

We'll start with a pair of clips from the night Roman and I drank absinthe together. We shot a lot of video that night, but these clips are from late in the evening, after much of that licorice-flavored liquor had been consumed, and we're both a mite tiddly. We decided we'd interview each other, and we thought it would be best if we did that naked. (Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time.)

These clips are basically of me talking, although you do hear Roman's voice here and there. Intoxication did lend itself to a certain lack of inhibition on my part, although it also led to a slight tendency for me to slur my words (more than I normally do). So you'll have to balance those two things.

Also, the picture quality isn't stellar, because these clips were too dark and so I turned the brightness up, which of course messes with the sharpness and color balance. And bear in mind, I'm using a painfully basic video editor, Windows Movie Maker.

But, those caveats aside, you may find them entertaining...

Go here to watch "Naked Public Life I & II"

From The Mailbag

HELLO , I HOPE YOU CAN HELP ME . I'LL GET RIGHT TO THE POINT . I'M TRYING TO FIND OUT WHERE I CAN GO TO HAVE SEX ALL THE TIME ( EVERYDAY , ANYWAY) I HAVEN'T HAD SEX WITH A WOMEN ( OR ANYONE ELSE EXCEPT MYSELF ) FOR 12 YEARS !!!! I'M VERY TIRED OF MASTERBATING AND PORN . I WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH PEOPLE !!! I
AM WILLING TO TRY ALMOST ANYTHING -- ANY SUGESTIONS YOU HAVE WOULD BE GREATLY APPRECIATED !!! VERY SINCERELY , .....

Well, he's direct, you can say that for him…But I'm not sure if he thinks there's some mythical Never-Never Land where people fuck all the time, or if he's asking me for the address of a brothel, or what.

Hello sicko, why dont you stop telling yourself that you are worth more than any normal woman. By playing your lil dominatrix games. what a coverup such total bullshit as i have never read in my life, you must call me this you must respond to me in this way. fuck all that crap. I cant believe you get people to pay you for that. These people must all be weak and stupid to let you control them in any way shape or form. No I wont sign my name, and I dont care if you like it or not. your just another stupid female like all the rest no matter what you think of yourself, I beleive somebody has a god complex dont we??. Well here is some advice-GET OVER YOUR DAMM SELF. dont bother trying to find me cause you wont.

Believe you me, buddy, I'm not going to bother trying to find you. I'm guessing none of the rest of us stupid females will either. Get ready to masturbate for twelve years.

Dear Mistress Matissa,
I am in love with you. You are my type.In other words you are the lady of my dreams. You are very beautiful.
I know that you receive lots of e-mail from other people..
I just want to tell you my feelings.
I am sorry for taking from your time.
best regards,
Boots lover.

Pointless, really – but rather sweet just the same.

My name is X and I would like to know if you sell videos? I am into the following:
I am looking for a lady spanking a short tiny man over her knees while seated on straight backed armless chairs. A traditional domestic role play scene
* I am looking for a big height differential and a superior amazon component to the scene.
* i am also looking for videos that feature these same tiny men dangling helplessly over the knees of the girl with their legs off the ground while over the knee of the girl
* I also prefer to see the lady dressed in regular clothes spanking a naked man
* I also like the domestic role play themes(teacher/student) etc...
Do you have videos like this or can you do a custom video? Thank you for your attention to my query...

Well, I'm told there are a fair number of midgets living here in Seattle – I'm sure at least one of them might be willing to work as a fetish actor. But still - I'm only five-foot-five, and I just don't think I can pull off the Amazon thing.

My name is X and i am a submissive man. i have been a passing gas sniffer for over 20 years for beautiful GODDESSES like yourself. i have been able to amuse a few MISTRESSES with this service. i would love to amuse you also your HIGHNESS as you are so very beautiful and deserve a good gas sniffer. i apologise if i have offended your HIGHNESS but if you might be interested please e-mail…

Another guy with very specific tastes - so to speak. But not a fetish I'm interested in exploring...

Dear Mistress:
You have a very nicely done web site. I have a few thoughts that I would like to run by you. Being a dominitrix is actually a very submissive thing for a woman to do. You are fulfilling mens fantasies by providing them with the speech patterns, treatments, objects, and fetishes that they desire. You may enjoy this but that is only because you are ultimately serving the submissives who are the ones who are really in control. You are presenting your body in an objectifying and degrading manner. Selling yourself as a mere sex object who exists to please men.
I do not mean this as an insult, I am interested to get your response to these assertions.

Yeah, there's a certain brand of guys who always try this line on me. The fact that in my world of kink, submissives actually have the ability to ask for (and recieve) types of play they like seems to upset them. They're usually self-described "natural" tops. That means they just popped out of the womb knowing how to dominate women, so they disdain things like learning actual BDSM technique, or thinking about how they can enhance the experience for the bottom. It also means they're lazy bastards who use being a "dominant" as an excuse to disregard their partner's needs.
The rest of it is standard anti-sex-work crap. And I love how he decides that I'm being degraded. Silly little me, I thought that would be my decision. But I'm sure he thinks I'd be better off barefoot and pregnant with his child - except I'd put poison in his coffee.
So yes - I'm sure you'd like me to give my attention to you and your ass-ertions. But even though I'm really so submissive, I'm not going to give it to you...

An Incident

I related this story to Max over dinner and we had an interesting chat about it…

So, Miss K and I have just finished dinner at Hana, as we do every week, and afterwards I decide to walk upstairs to the bathroom, which is not in the restaurant proper, but actually in the rear of the little shopping complex where Hana is located.
As I walk up the stairs, I see a man, who'd been sitting near us in the restaurant, walking up the stairs about six steps ahead of me, presumably heading to men's room. He turns and looks back at me, and sort of grins.
"I saw you on Saturday," he said.
Now, I guess immediately what he's talking about. He means, "I was at the Wet Spot on Saturday night and I saw you there." I was indeed there, and while I have zero memory of seeing him, I believe that he saw me.
But for some reason, I don't like it that he's said this to me. I've said it before – I can be a snooty bitch at times, especially if I'm being addressed by a strange man in a way I find, well, slightly presumptuous.
I raise one eyebrow in a way that anyone who's ever bottomed to me would recognize. "Really?" I say, coolly.
"Yeah," he says, staring at me.
I look away and shrug slightly to indicate I don't quite take his meaning, and more subtly, that I don't particularly wish to. If he was smart, he'd stop now.
"You know – over in Magnolia," he says instead.
His coyness irritates me further. We're alone on the staircase, so why play word games? Since he's obviously not going to let it go, I say, "At the Wet Spot."
"Yeah, yeah." He's still staring at me avidly – it's almost a leer - and he's not an attractive sight. He's a rather unkempt-looking man who resembles no one as much as Jack Black (the "School of Rock" guy) with less hair, and rather less charm. There's some vague taste of that childhood sing-song, "I know what you did" in his tone and his gaze, and I'm touched by a tiny flicker of awareness that yes, we actually are alone on this staircase. I’m not truly worried, but the animal-instinct part of me makes a few quick what-would-I-do-if? calculations.
I say nothing further and my arctic stare seem to finally communicate to him that I don't want to be having this conversation, because he starts up the stairs again. As I reach the landing behind him, he turns back again and makes a final remark to me – something about how maybe he'll see me again sometime. I've forgotten the exact phrasing. I make some noncommittal noise and turn away.

Later I asked myself – why did that displease me so? I'm not trying to say I shouldn't have felt the way I did. I think I'm completely entitled to my feelings, and to act on them almost any way I want, within the bounds of basic civility. And while I was definitely frosty to that guy, I wasn't openly rude.

But I'm trying to isolate what, precisely, I didn't like. It could have been as simple as the fact that he's a strange man, and he's approaching a woman alone, not quite on the street but damn close, to discuss his having seen her at a fetish event. It looks like a clumsy attempt at a pick-up. I mean – why else do it? What's the motivation?

Max asked me, "So, what if it had been a woman?"

Good question. I probably still wouldn't have liked it, because I generally don't talk to strangers in public places. (Strangers at, say, a party are quite different. There are cases where "the roof constitutes an introduction". That doesn't apply here.) But I probably would have been somewhat less frosty to a woman, because it's quite rare, in my experience, for women to almost-leer in the way this man was. I'd probably think she was a bit gauche, but harmless.

"Okay," said Max, "what if he'd been a really attractive man?"

Oh, that's a tough one, because I don't generally do lust-at-first-sight. You usually have to hang around a little while before I start to get schwinged by you. But I have seen people of both genders who immediately made me think, "Oh yeah…"

But I think I probably still would have stiffened up, because to me, personality is more important than looks. And if he had the kind of personality that make him feel it was cool to initiate a conversation with a stranger about something as relatively intimate as her presence at a BDSM club, well, I'd probably cease to find him attractive.

I'm interested to hear what you other ladies thing think. What would you think about this? And what would you have done?

I know I haven't written much for a few days. I'll do a real entry either later today or tomorrow...Until then, linky goodness!

Apparently Max could have Angelina Jolie for his slave..."I've never been tied up," she says. "I have a feeling the person that does it will be The One. I think that's what I'd like." (But who knows what she'd be like to live with, so maybe it's just as well she doesn't take his calls.)

Holy shit - my notoriously conservative hometown paper, The Tampa Tribune, has actually endorsed Kerry for President. It's the first time in forty years they've endorsed a Democrat! Will wonders never cease?

I know someone who's a Jack Black fan. I wonder if they've seen this: The Jack Black Jerk-Off Tape!

And I was amused to find myself quoted in this scholarly paper on sado/masochism. I should email the author and find out just where it's been...

I'm writing a column, and thus I lack the time to write here today. Instead, since we're on a roll with this picture thing, here's an antidote to yesterday's scariness.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Why, Matisse, that's a completely gratuitous shot of two women's behinds." But I say, "No, that's a picture of me checking in with my co-model and submissive-for-the-shoot, Madison." See, I was just being a good dominant and making sure she was okay with all the stimulation I was dishing out. (Note the cane in my hand.) It wasn't until I heard the flashes pop behind me that I realized what a little tableau we must be presenting. It's often the unscripted images you get from a photo shoot that wind up being the most interesting.

Okay, you asked for it, you got it – a page of cock-and-ball torture photos - with just one pussy shot. I had taken down some of my old gallery pages, so this is a page I just threw up last night. It’s not fancy, but you may find it…educational, at the very least.

Now, before you click, be aware: I didn't bother with thumbnails, so it's a graphics-heavy page. If you don't have high-speed internet, it'll take a little while to load.

Obviously, it is not work-safe.

And it's pretty intense, so if you think it's gonna flip you out, don't go look. I mean, if you're reading this blog on a regular basis, you're probably not too-too squeamish, but if you just got here – well, you've been warned.

The Week In Review

Warning: This entry contains some rather graphic descriptions of advanced SM play. Skip this one if you squick easily…

I was talking to a client on the phone this week - a guy I genuinely like, but who tends to be a bit bratty at times. He wanted a next-day appointment.
"Oh, no can do, sweetheart, I'm booked up until – let's see – next Tuesday."
He sighed in exasperation. "Now, Matisse, what are we going to do about this schedule of yours? You're far too busy."
"Well," I replied slowly, "I could try to be less good at my job, or less physically attractive."
He doesn't say anything.
"Or, I could raise my rates. I'm guessing that would free up my schedule some."
He makes a doubtful "mmmmmm" noise.
"But I'm sort of guessing most people would rather that I didn't do any of those things."
We agreed that he'd prefer calling earlier for an appointment next time to any of those other three options.
This was a tough week to try to get to see me, because I had two different 3-hour sessions booked, and that's a chunk of my work-week gone right there. I'm actually developing a small group of multi-hour guys who see me very regularly, and when I add up the number of client hours I book per month, and the percentage of those hours that I spend with that small handful of boys – well, it's just interesting, that's all.

This was a big week for "cock-and-ball torture", otherwise known as CBT. (Although, really, that's true more often than not around my dungeon.)
I don't really like the word "torture" in this context, it sounds too third world country-ish - but I have to admit that some of the stuff I did this week would probably make Amnesty International blanch.
I did a really lovely scene with my carpenter, Mr. Wood, who makes my dungeon furniture. He's a wonderful, talented, deeply kinky man, a masochist, and we've been trading our respective skills for about five years now. Sometime I marvel at the fact that his dick still functions at all, because I have done some really insane shit to it - at his request, and with his encouragement, you understand. Mr. Wood has taught me a lot about advanced CBT, and while I know some other guys who are heavy CBT fans, Mr. Wood is in a class by himself. I've beaten his dick until it's all black and blue, I've hung ten pound weights off it, I've stepped on it wearing heavy spike-heeled boots, I've stuck it so full of needles it looks like a pervy pincushion, I've crushed it in a vise, I've put metal rods the size of a pencil down it, and I've electrified it so intensely I felt sure that if I stuck a GE bulb in his mouth, it would light up a la Uncle Fester. (Photo links available upon request – but don't be faint of heart.)

This week I've been a little extra-concerned about the general health and well-being of Mr. Wood's dick, because when we were playing the other night, I got a shade too enthusiastic with the violet wand, and burned the head of his penis with it, right next to the piss-eye. Whoops.
I became aware of this when I looked down and saw this small round thing that looked like a rather big drop of pre-ejaculate on the tip of his dick.
Hey, wait a minute, I thought. Mr Wood doesn't drool.
Then I realized, oh shit, that's a blister.
He wasn't too worried about it, but I know how burns can get infected if you don't take care of them, so I reminded him about that several times. I'm quite fond of Mr. Wood (really - I am!), so I can't have him getting some nasty flesh-eating bacteria thing.
So that was the CBT highlight of the week, but as the days went by, I spanked cocks, I squeezed balls, I poked, pulled and electrified, and I put (many, many) clamps on that special bit of helpless dangling flesh. It was rather a festival of penis persecution around here.

I'll now wait, with amusement, for the comments of terror and horror to begin – since I know all you squicky kids read this entry, anyway…

Update: The new Control Tower is up. And now, a small pre-emptive strike to avert some of the hurt-feelings emails I will surely get: Boys, this column is not about you. (Unless you actually are the Professor, which I doubt.)
As I say in the first line of the piece - most clients are wonderful people. So if you are a client, or a potential client of mine, the fact that I occasionally write about some of the exceptions to the rule should not, in any way, suggest to you that I don't like you or that I wouldn't like you.
Conflict makes for an interesting story. That's why really sweet guys who treat me wonderfully are actually less likely to get an article written about them. (Which is something to remember if you'd prefer to stay out of print...)

Okay, first off: I don't know why my newest column hasn’t yet appeared in The Stranger website. Emails have been sent, but I have no control over the process, and no information, either. Hopefully it'll be up soon…

But this should amuse you in the meantime - especially if you're a woman! One of those, "God, I wish I'd written that," kinda rants ….

I promised someone I'd post this link, and now I cannot recall who. Sorry about that, whoever you are, but here it is: One of my self-portraits (that I actually wound up making a bit of money on, amazing!)…My back on a book jacket.

Oh, this is really funny -and it's some local talent, too! I Screw Republicans.

Speaking of screwing and Republicans...I hope that arrogant bastard gets barbequed. Read all about Bill O'Reilly's tawdry little sexual (harassment) fantasies. God, they're so…banal.

Word Whores
Now and then I'll coin a phrase while talking with a friend, and something about the phrase will catch our fancy, and it'll become a staple in our conversations. If it's a particularly useful expression, it'll seep into conversations I have with other people, and once I've explained it's exact meaning to them, they may pick it up and begin to use it. Thus is a small private lexicon born…

The most successful example of my private vocabulary is the phrase, "Not my dog." About a million years ago, (not really, it only seems like that ) Miss K and I and our then-partners were watching a movie together – "The Pink Panther Strikes Again". There's a scene in which Inspector Clouseau (Peter Sellers) walks up to a hotel desk. There is a clerk sitting behind the high desk, reading a paper, and there's a dog tied up to the front of the desk. Inspector Clouseau looks at the dog and asks the man, "Does your dog bite?"
The man answers, "No, Monsieur."
Clouseau bends down to pet the dog and it growls and bites him. "I thought that you said your dog does not bite!" Clouseau exclaims in great indignation.
The man leans forward over the desk and peers down at the dog there, and then says to Clouseau, "Oui, Monsieur - but that is not my dog."
Miss K and I thought that scene extremely funny, and somehow also, profound. And soon thereafter, the phrase "that's not my dog" entered our conversation. When Miss K and I began saying that, we meant: "If you blunder into a negative situation because of your own badly-made decisions, don't come crying to me to take responsibility for it."
The discussions we use the phrase most often are about jealousy: "Oh, she's upset that I'm dating her ex-lover? Hey, that's not my dog."
Codependent behavior: "Look, if her boyfriend wants to play video games all day instead of looking for a job, that's not her dog, she should be focused on her own career."
And unreasonable expectations: "Your client was mad because he couldn't get a same-day appointment with you? Definitely not your dog."
A number of my other friends have picked up on this phrase over the years, and even my mother, who is a therapist, liked it and now uses it with her clients, a fact I find very entertaining.

A recent addition to the private lexicon: "a princess moment". This one came into being in a conversation between Roman and I. When you have a princess moment, you're sort of having a moment of jealousy or envy, but it's been so heavily leavened with a sense how really, really silly you're being that you have to laugh at yourself even as you think, "No, no, don't you understand? I want that! It's all about meeeeeeee! Me me me me meeeee!" This phrase is especially applicable when a) the person you're being jealous/envious of has in no way taken anything away from you in obtaining their good fortune, and b) you're already so loaded with good things that, Christ, you probably couldn't even handle any more. Complete disregard of both those facts is essential to the princess moment, as is the total awareness that your emotional response is rooted in the unrestrained Id of a two-year-old. It's an example of having two contradictory emotional responses at one time. You just have to laugh about it.

Interesting article in the New York Times about the call-girl industry. It's not too far-off from how I experienced it, although I always worked locally, and the pace was nothing like what's described here. The agency-owner I worked with for the longest - about three years - was also fairly high-strung, although not as bad as the woman profiled for this article. And like this woman, she was also quite good at her job. (And she still is, from what I hear.)

The part about the owner outing an errant girl to her boyfriend and family was rather chilling, though. No one I ever worked for ever did such a thing – at least, not that I know of. And I think it's a bad idea. Unless an agency is paying protection to the police – something that may be more common in NY, although I understand it's rare here in Seattle – an angry ex-employee could easily turn the tables on an agency and call the cops on them. Simple prostitution is a misdemeanor, but pimping – well, that's a felony. And if you're running credit cards and crossing state lines - oh, now you've got the IRS and the Feds to talk to, and I'm sure that's a conversation I wouldn't want to have.

Yet another reason, as if I needed one, to be a one-woman show…

Absurd Phone Call Of the Day

This was so absurd that I almost suspected it of being a trumped-up troll…

Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
(There's a sound of music or a TV or something in the background, but no one speaks.)
Me: hel-looo?
Caller:….oh, uh, yeah, hi.

This guy's dead in the water already. He cannot even manage to conduct a phone call properly – when he called me! Plus, he sounds too young – early twenties, I'm guessing.

Me: Can I help you?
Caller: Uh, yeah, do you take credit cards?

Oh, now he's past dead, he's a rotting corpse. If you can't put your hands on cash, I don't want to know you.

Me: No, I don't.
Caller: So, well, what other forms of payment do you take? Do you take checks?

You want to give a check to a sex worker? Who is this, Jerry Springer? No. I only take checks from guys I really like and trust who I've been seeing frequently for, oh, at least four years or more. That's a small club, and this boy ain't never going to be in it.

Me: No, it's cash only.
Caller: Oh, cash only, huh? (Sound of other voices in the background.) Um, well, like, could you call our friend and convince him?
Me: What? Oh, you have got to be kidding.
Caller: No, if you like, call our friend - he's like, our boss – and convince him to give us some cash we'll come see you.

There some requests that are so nonsensical that it's not possible - and indeed, not necesssary - to conduct myself like the upscale professional that I am. One has to just respond from a very basic level.

Me: You know, that's about the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. You're out of your mind.
Caller: (Laughs.)
Me: There is no way I'm calling anyone.
Caller: No?
Me: No.
Caller: Okay, we'll talk to him, and if we can get some cash, we'll call you back.
Me: Oh, please do. I'll be waiting by the phone.

Click. We hang up.

There are some really odd people in the world.

Stars in Alignment

Sometimes poly is very complicated, but sometimes the stars just line themselves up in a way that makes things perfect for everyone involved. I wound up having a date with Roman yesterday, some of which was planned, and some of which was unexpected.

Roman and I had planned to go, on Saturday afternoon, to do a certain Top Secret Thing together. And believe me, my dear readers, it's killing me - but killing me - not to be able to tell you about this Top Secret Thing. My god, do I so wanna spill.

But I can't. Not until after Roman's wife's birthday. No speculation, please, she reads this blog. After the 28th, I'll tell you all about the Top Secret Thing, and believe me, it's highly amusing.

Okay, so after the Top Secret Thing, Roman was going to bring me home, and I was going to spend the evening with Max.

Now, I can tell you that the Top Secret Thing did not involve Roman and I fucking, and gee, I don't think Roman and I have spent more than about fifteen minutes alone together without fucking since this whole relationship started. Spending an entire afternoon in his company without (too much) sexual interaction - well, let's just say we were both painfully aware of holding our mutual sexual energy in check. But hey, this wasn't that kind of date, we had another agenda and we stuck to that, and we enjoyed each other's company, of course, and that's all, and that's fine. And we'll say a sweet good night to each other and go our separate ways. We're mature adults, and we can keep our hormones in check. Really.

So I'm in the car with Roman and I call Max to say I'll be home soon. He doesn't answer the home line, so I call his cell and leave a message. Shortly after I hang up, my cell rings.

It's Max. "So, remember how I told you I needed to talk to Maura about some things?" he says.

I laugh, because as soon as he says this, I know exactly what's happening, and what's going to happen. "Yes, I do."

"Well, I'm over at her place now, and we're talking. I actually might not be home for awhile."

"Oh, so you're not going to be home for awhile?" I say out loud. I'm listening to Max, but I'm also watching the streetlights slide across Roman's features as we drive. He keeps his face politely blank, as one does when one is pretending not to listen to someone else's phone conversation - except that in the brief flashes of light, I see one corner of his mouth curl upward slightly. I slide my hand a little further up his thigh, feeling the muscles flex as he moves his leg from the brake to the accelerator.

"Oh, it'll be about twelve, twelve-thirty?" I say. The clock on Roman's dashboard reads 8:32 in dim green numbers. The corner of his mouth curves still higher.

"That's fine, darling, I understand, you needed to spend some time talking with her." And he does, so I'm genuinely glad he's doing that. I'd be just as supportive even if I wasn't sitting next to a hot guy who's radiating sexual energy for me. I enjoy my time alone; I write, I read, I get a lot of personal stuff done, I try to get to bed early - all good things.

But, as luck would have it - I actually am sitting next to a very sexy guy. (And his wife is out of town, to boot.) What a lucky girl I am!

Max and I finish the conversation - in which he tells me he hopes Roman and I have a nice time, because he also knows exactly what's going to happen - and we make kissy noises into the phone and hang up. I shut off the phone and look over at Roman, who is still affecting not to have heard anything, although the grin is decidedly broader now. "So," I say in a playfully casual voice, "Looks like I have the rest of the evening free. Want to come in for a while?"

Oh, yeah. It was one of the times when poly is a very, very good thing.

Is There A Theme Here?
I watched my man Kerry do his thing during the "Town Hall" debate last night, and I thought he came across quite well. Bush was somewhat less moronic-looking this time than last time, but I still thought he seemed like a frat boy on crystal meth, jumping up and down, making too many wisecracks, and interrupting people.
And why am I not surprised that when asked point-blank, The Fortunate Son could not, or would not, admit to having made any specific mistakes in his presidency. I mean, none. But I guess when you're, like, divinely ordained by God, as Mr. Bush thinks he is, well – how could you make a mistake? Geeze Louise.
The polls are looking good for Kerry - he might just win this thing. At least, that's I'm praying for. I found this interesting website that thinks so too – not that I think it's completely unbiased. But it gives me hope…

And I did find this fun-filled guide for Presidential debate-watching that I'll surely employ next week. Maybe I'll throw a party!

Enough politics – here's some really important news: Vibrating condoms! (Maybe I can get some to give out as party favors for that debate party…)

Speaking of dicks...I saw Puppetry of the Penis when they were in town last year, but if you missed them, here's a little penis art for you...

Okay, gotta go - I have to get ready to take some very interesting penis-related video footage today....Oh, I love my life.

Shopping

So, a large box arrived at my house yesterday. Max and I did some shopping in New York and we decided to ship a bunch of stuff home, instead of schlepping it all through the airports. I'm a big fan of shipping stuff home, it’s so nice to make at least one leg of a trip with minimum encumbrances.

I did buy a bunch of cute everyday stuff at H&M, which is a Swedish chain store that's rather like the Ikea of clothing – tons of stuff, low prices, and while it's not heirloom-quality, it's fine for what it is. I wish they'd open one here.

But otherwise, we were fetish shopping. I decided to take a couple of quickie snapshots of what we bought - they're not up to my usual photographic standard, but they'll do...

Remember me bitching about Demask's badly-designed website? When Max and I found out we'd be going to NY, I decided to wait and go shopping in person. Here's what I bought…

That's a really sexy little black latex dress, and a white leather bra-top.
The thing under the bra is an inflatable gag – meaning, you use that bulb on the end to pump up the part that's inside someone's mouth. Makes talking really difficult!
That's a very nasty little whip, it's made out of flexible plastic strands, and you can run it through the dishwasher to clean it, which is good, because I plan on using it on girl-bits and I imagine it'll get rather sticky. Someone loaned me this exact whip a while back when I was in doing a scene with Jae, and it was extremely effective. So I'm pleased to have found one for my own. I suppose it would work rather well on boy bits, too, hmm?
There's a nice thuddy little leather paddle, very heavy, and that toy that looks a bit like a lollypop? Well, I'm not sure what to call it. It's an intriguing sort of crop-like-thingie, with a round rubber disk on the end. I bought it mainly because I hadn't ever seen anything quite like it. It's not terribly severe, but I thought it might leave interesting-shaped welts, if wielded with enthusiasm.
That's what I got at DeMask!

I also bought some really yummy leather pants, although I'm not sure this pic does them justice.

They're smooth, heavy, full-grain leather, unlined, so I can feel the hide against me. The shop we got them at, The Leatherman, makes them on the premises and then custom-tailors them to you when you buy them. So when I tried them on, the cutest little Latino boy came and knelt in front of me and sort pinched and plucked at me, showing me where he'd take them in to fit me better. The result is quite nice, I think.

But while they were perfectly nice to me at The Leatherman, I was merely a distraction before the main event. As is always the way when we shop at stores primarily aimed at (and staffed by) gay men, Max was the center of attention. And who can blame them, when he tried on these pants?

He certainly had my full and undivided attention. The nice men helping us – every employee in the whole shop, I think – were anxious to assure Max that is that particular codpiece wasn't to his liking, that they had a vast selection he could choose from. Zip-up, lace-up, metal-mesh-covered, piped with different colors, et cetera. They just snap right on, you see. And they snap right off, too. You know, for easy access. Did he want to experiment with different ones, or…?

Max decided to go with the plain leather. But he did have the cute Latino boy fit the pants very carefully to him. I swear that boy spent fifteen minutes playing with Max's pants leg. He wanted to get the break just right. Of course, the fact that he had his face a few inches away from this may have had something to do with it...

Max, of course, was flirting a little with all the guys, as he always does. He likes gay men, and he enjoys being lusted after by them. (I frequently call him a cock-tease.) I know Max sometimes feels mildly embarrassed about being so completely heterosexual. I mean – straight men. They get a bad rap, don't they? And a straight dominant man? Oh, that’s a club a lot of kinksters like to trash on.

Max says, "I keep waiting for my dick to get hard for some submissive boy, and it just hasn't happened yet. If it did, I'd go there, but since it hasn't…" So he just flirts, and sometimes he ties boys up, if they ask nicely. But the codpiece will probably not be coming off for anyone with facial hair. (Although you never know...)

I think that's our show for today…

I'm still getting email responses to a Stranger column I wrote two week ago, A Life In Sex Work, and that's a bit out of the ordinary. Apparently a number of people found it thought-provoking.

A lot of the email I'm getting about it seems to center around the idea that I'm a very unusual sex worker. Now, I don't mind people thinking I'm unique in some ways, because, hey, aren't we all. But some of messages I'm getting about what these people think is so unique about me isn't exactly…well, flattering.

No, I am actually not a crack/heroin/cocaine/prescription drug addict. I hear that you find that amazing, and I'm glad to have raised your consciousness about sex workers a tiny bit. Like certain conservative radio talk show hosts, I have done some recreational drugs in my time. But never to excess, and when I stop and think, I realize – wow, it’s been years since I did anything like that. For that matter, I very rarely drink alcohol, and I don't smoke, either.

No, I am not the victim of a ruthless pimp. I've met a few people who claimed to be pimps in my time - but only a few. I've never had one myself and I've never had another woman tell me, "I have a pimp". I've worked at places where there was some pointing and whispering about girls who supposedly did, and that's about the extent of my acquaintance with that.
(I have met a lot of women who were financially supporting unemployed boyfriends. But I can't say too much about that, because I've supported a couple of unemployed girlfriends. Just about every sex worker I know I has done this with a lover at one point or another.)

But no, I am not supporting children whose father has run out on us. I know women who are, but I'm thinking they'd have less time to write than I do. I've chosen not to procreate in this lifetime, thank you.

Let's see, what are some of the other stereotypes? Well, I was never abused or molested as a child, by my family or anyone else. Overall, my childhood was so Leave-It-To-Beaver that it's almost sickening. Stay-at-home-Mom, private schools, a house on the lake, and my Daddy bought me a pony when I was eleven. So my family has a few areas of weirdness, but nothing out of the ordinary.

I've never been raped by a client - or by anyone else, for that matter. I've never had a client harm me or make an overt threat to harm me. On a few occasions, a long time ago, I have been with clients who made me think, "Wow, this guy is balanced right on the edge of some serious craziness, and I should be very, very careful with him, or he’ll just lose it." And so I was, and I got away clean.

I'm actually not unique in any of these traits - I know other sex workers who tab up with my experiences fairly closely. But opening one's mind has to begin somewhere, and I do enjoy shaking up people's notions of the world. So thanks, dear letter writers, for letting me know I did that…

Okay, don't get me wrong – I like Kerry, I'm voting for Kerry, but this is a very funny little bit… How do I get the job of hitting the buzzer? I love tormenting really intellectual men, it gets them so delightfully flustered.
John Kerry's debate prep session - as imagined by Harry Shearer. (Audio.)