Ring ring!

Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes, it is.
Caller: Uh, so can I ask you a question?

You just did, I think. This guy sounds awfully young, and my instinct says he's not a viable client for me. But we'll give him the usual thirty seconds.

Me: Yes, go ahead.
Caller: I know you're like a professional dom and everything. But I was wondering if you were looking for a slave – you know, like a personal slave?
Me: No, I'm not. Sorry.
Caller: Well, do you know any, like, non-professional mistresses looking for slaves?

Sigh. I get this kind of call at least once a week, sometimes more. It's sort of tiresome, because really, it just seems like these guys haven't thought this through very carefully. I mean, since the caller is aware that there is enough of demand to support professional dominants, they also might reasonably suppose that non-professional ones are in demand as well. They want one, after all, so it's highly likely that other guys do, too.
They might then go on to grasp the idea that calling up a stranger and asking to be put in contact with these in-demand women is unlikely to yield positive results. And really, the majority of single submissive guys in the world apparently do understand this, as evidenced by the fact that I only get one of these calls a week instead of dozens. But answering the same questions over and over – well, it just gets old.

So I say what I always say:

Me: No, I'm sorry, I can't help you with that.
Caller: You don't know any Mistresses who are looking for slaves?

Well, as a matter of fact, I probably do. For example, there is a certain stunningly attractive fetish model here in town who I know was looking for a houseboy recently. (Of course, he wouldn't get to fuck her or anything like that. But she'd let him scrub her floors while wearing panties, and maybe she'd give him a good sound spanking now and then. But I think she's since found someone, so don't bombard me with emails asking for her name.)

And I know several other women who, while they may not be typical fetish-model material, are damn good dominants, and who might be open to meeting someone new.

But that isn't how this works. There's no way I'm going to give another woman's contact information to some god-knows-who stranger. I don't know the first thing about this guy, I certainly can't recommend him to anyone.

Me: I do understand that you want to meet somebody, but I'm not running a dating service.
Caller: You don't have to do anything, you could just, like, give them my number.
Me: Look, even if I did know someone who was looking for a submissive - calling someone up and giving them your phone number is doing something.
Caller: Oh, but –
Me: What you need to do is join the Wet Spot and start going to events there and make some friends. That's the best way to meet people.
Caller: Well, I went there once and I just didn't see anyone who looked good to me.
Me: You "went there once"? Oh, honey, that's like saying you went into a party once and you didn't see anyone you wanted to marry, so there's no point in ever going to a party ever again. You're going to have to work a lot harder than that, and it's going to take some time. But I think that's your best bet.
Caller: I read that you had a party at your house. Do you think you'd want to use me at your next party?

I think we're having a communication breakdown here. I could just hang up, but I give it one more try.

Me: Listen to me carefully. I know that in porn novels, BDSM people just pluck slaves up off the street and take them into their homes, but in my very wide experience, that doesn't happen in real life – especially with women. I would never just invite some guy I've never met over to serve at one of my parties. And anyone who would just take on a stranger at the drop of a hat – believe me, you don't want them. They will be scary people, really. You have to go about this the same way you'd go about finding a non-kinky lover, and it'll probably take longer, because there are fewer kinky women in the world.
Caller: So you're saying you don't know of anyone who'd want to have a date with me tonight?

Click. I hang up.

Hey, remember to go vote for me in the "Best of Blogs" Contest! You can vote once every day, now through the 17th!

After a lovely date with Roman last night - including a lot of public kissy-face at The Grind - I'm dashing off to see a client. Meanwhile, enjoy the new column, and the Kink Calendar. More later...

Hey, remember to go vote for me in the "Best of Blogs" Contest! You can vote once every day, now through the 17th!

Apparently I should post bootie shots of myself more often. January is typically one of the slower months of the year for sex workers, but yesterday's pic – and maybe the one over on ErosBlog as well – seems to have stirred up a flurry of um-I've-never-done-this-before phone calls from new guys. No stunningly weird callers, just people asking the basic questions about rates, hours and availability. Since I mostly see repeat clients these days, I almost have to stop and consciously shift my head into "processing a potential new person" mode, when once upon a time I could do it with only half my mind on it.

There is a charm to playing with a new person, whether it's in a professional or a non-professional setting. Everything is fresh territory, and all my senses are fully engaged, as I gather every bit of data I can about how they're responding to whatever it is I'm doing. And it's almost always the brand-new people who will look at me after a session with that blown-away expression on their face and say, stammeringly, "That was great. I mean, that was really great. That was exactly my fantasy. Only better!" Hearing things like that is one of the things that makes my job so nice.

Regular play-partners give me good feedback, too, though. And there's an intimacy there, and an ease to it, that I like. I played with a man today that I've seen a lot – Blue Eyes. He and I have good kinky chemistry together, and he has the cutest trick when I'm spanking him. At first, he'll wince and wiggle and gasp - what one might think of as a normal response to someone smacking your ass with a thick rubber paddle. But then, all of a sudden, he'll throw his head back and start laughing. It's not a nasty laugh, it's a sweet laugh, like someone has told him a particularly amusing joke. It's just the way the endorphins hit him. And I like it when people laugh when I'm tormenting them, so I'll usually laugh, too, just because I'm happy. Thus, if you were listening at the door of my dungeon, you'd hear the whack-whack-whack sound, followed by peals of laughter. I'm sure it would be confusing to someone not in the know.

It's funny how my body remembers details of how I played with someone before, even if my conscious mind has forgotten. I've had guys come back after not having seen me for a year or longer. After such a long gap, I'm always going to have a fresh negotiation session with them, of course. But then I'll be in the dungeon with them, and I'll see their body, touch them, move them into different positions, begin to play with them, and whoosh, everything I learned about them the last time we played will all come back to me in a rush. That's right, when he makes that noise, it means yeah-that's-good, and when he twists that way, it means he's getting close to his limit. I remember that.

I hadn't thought much about it til just now - but I'm sure my regular boys get to know me just as I get to know them. They must get to know my tastes in toys, and in types of play, as well as my facial expressions, and the tones of my voice - and what they herald. It's sort of charming to think about this small slice of the population walking around in the world with a very intimate knowledge of how I look and sound when I'm getting my sadistic pleasures fed. Some of those boys don't even know my real name (although some do), but they all know a certain side of me in a very real way. Galahad talked yesterday on Monk's blog about achieving immortality through one's stories. I like to think of all those boys knowing and remembering me as my way of being a little bit immortal.

Hey, remember to go vote for me in the "Best of Blogs" Contest! You can vote once every day, now through the 17th!

I'm feeling a bit behind on some things, so no long post today. Instead, a few quick links...

I've been checking the results in the BOB competition every now and then, and I admit to being pleased that, at least for the moment, I'm in first place. (You like me, you really like me!) Thanks for the support, and remember, you can vote every 24 hours.
In addition to voting for me, you should also go vote for the uber-fabu Bacchus (and his merry crew) over at ErosBlog. He's a finalist in the "big-name blog" category, a classification he says he finds somewhat mysterious. But no matter what his name is, if you haven't looked at his site, you should, because it's always entertaining.

A Public Service Announcement...
I am acquainted with a physician's assistant student in Oregon who is doing a research project surveying people who are involved in the BDSM lifestyle or activities, with specifics to seeking health care. Here's what she wants to know: if you have an appointment on Monday for your annual medical exam, but your ass is still red and raised from Saturday's caning, do you keep or cancel the appointment? Help her out by answering the survey questions, all quite anonymously...

To Amuse and Inform You...
I haven't checked every link, but this looks like a rather exhaustive list of definitions and explanations of various BDSM activities. Consult this before sending me "what-does-X-mean?" emails, please.

And a short, slightly dirty, and rather amusing video clip. Doesn't look like any brothel I ever saw, but…This Old Whorehouse.

And now, a bulletin from the Not-Bloody-Likely Department...

Dear Mistress Matisse,
I loved what you had to say about having a foot fetish, especially coming from a girl. It seems like only a certain number of us guys are into feet and only a rare girl out there. I liked how you talked about plushies and furries but then came down to what you are really into. I suggest we meet for coffee and discuss this further, what do you think? It could even be a game: see how long it takes from first meeting to my having your beautiful toes in my mouth--that would be a thrill worth chasing after. This could all be the topic of your next column but let's talk about that first.

Whack from Mistress Matisse's clue stick, number one: When reading a paper, understand that editorial content is different from a personal ad.

Thank you ma'am, may I have another?

Whack from Mistress Matisse's clue stick, number two: Chicks who get paid to write about sex are usually pretty well-taken-care-of in the sex/dating department, and thus they are unlikely to respond to emailed propositions from strangers.

Thank you, ma'am, may I have another?

Whack from Mistress Matisse's clue stick, number three: Chicks who can get paid to allow strangers erotic contact with their feet are unlikely to do so for free. Especially when Clue Number Two is also in effect.

Thank you ma'am, may I have another?

Whack from Mistress Matisse's clue stick, number four: Read this... And understand that Darwin is not just a harbor in Australia.

Okay, by popular demand - and with permission - a couple more pictures from the New Years Eve party...

Another shot of caged heat! They look like a really pretty barrel of monkeys, don't they? And they were as clever as monkeys, too. When I laid down on top of the cage to get a better look, they started pulling my clothes off immediately, and they were amazingly efficient about it. (Except for my thong, which I declined to let them remove. I simply mentioned that having it pulled off might just cause me to pee, and they desisted instantly. Smart girls.)

Max eventually let them out...

But then the boys decided to try it. See anyone you know?

I admit that I offered them some incentive... But when I said, "If you guys get into the cage, I'll lay on top of it again", I didn't think they'd really do it! They weren't nearly as quick about getting my clothes off as they girls were. (I had put them back on, you see.)
But they managed it eventually, and then things started getting a little frisky. This shot was taken just before someone pinched my nipple too hard and I got...pissy. Sadly, the one who pinched wasn't actually the one who recieved the shower. But sometimes these things are like sports or war: you have to take a hit for your comrades.

Then some folks had to leave, but their places were swiftly taken by others....Resulting in a more gender-balanced enviorment.

At first, Kitten took advantage of the situation to tickle her Galahad's feet.

...but soon she decided to just get inside with him.

There are more - so if you were at the party, and you were in the cage at any point, email me, and I'll send you some pictures...

I had a festive New Years Eve...How about you?

I had a late night with Roman last night, and now I'm busy preparing for some NYE festivities, so in the meantime, please be entertained by the new column, and the Kink Calendar.

And make particular note of my darling partner Max's bondage class this Sunday...

Heads, Tits, and Bits: Bondage Techniques For The Head, Breasts and Genitals. Bondage instructor Max brings in guest presenters James Mogul and me, Mistress Matisse, to help demonstrate these specialized techniques in rope bondage. This workshop assumes no previous bondage experience and is appropriate for all genders and orientations. It's this Sunday, at the Wet Spot, from 2:30 pm-5:30 pm. Admission is $30, and Wet Spot membership is not required to attend the class. (Although you must be a member to stay for the party afterwards.) For more info check out his website at: BondageLessons.Com

It's going to be a great class. I'm of the shamelessly-biased opinion that Max is the best bondage instructor in the world, but James Mogul is also a terrific practioner of the art and a great teacher, too. As for me - well, I'll be the first to tell you: I am not a rope-top the way they are. I can tie some knots, and I know some techniques, but my strongest talents as a dominant lie elsewhere.
However, I know a lot about playing with and tying up boy's bits, and that's what I'm going to be doing. Oh, and three guesses who has graciously volunteered his bits as a model for the class? Gee, let's see - who do I know who's got the moxie to stand up in front a thirty or forty people with his wedding tackle out and let me show people ways to tie it up? Oh, you'll never guess...(Yes, you will, actually, if you've been reading this blog for more than a couple of weeks.)

So that's my weekend. Happy New Year!

Freakazoids...

Well, am I ever glad I wasn’t taking calls for the week around Christmas, because apparently, all the local phone freaks had me on speed-dial. When I cleared my voicemail on the 26th, while there certainly were some legitimate messages from both good regular guys and some potential new folks, there were also a number of really bizarre messages.

Weird-ass message number one: A guy who called and yelled, "Mistress Matisse! Mistress MAH-teeeeeeeese!" and then howled over and over, like he was doing an a cappella version of the Warren Zevon song, Werewolves of London. His voice had that oddly hollow, echo-y sound that you hear when someone is using a speaker-phone. He was taking advantage of the hands-free situation by also banging loudly on something – sounded like a tabletop or a counter – with one hand. I have no idea what he was doing with the other.

Weird-ass message number two: This one isn't that weird, although it's mildly frustrating. It was a woman caller who, while she claimed to have studied my website, apparently missed the fact that I don't see female clients. But I swear, the message was about two minutes long and she's just rambling the whole time, without ever actually finishing a sentence or even giving me any relevant information that would help me refer her to someone else. "I've been wanting to come see you because…oh, you know, I've just had these thoughts about, um…I think the main thing is…Well, let me just ask you…Oh, well, I'll call you back."
This doesn't make her a bad person, and I understand being nervous, but for god's sake, you called me. Have a sentence or two formed in your head, please. Or just hang up, but don't make me sit through one hundred and twenty seconds of verbal static in the vain hope of picking up even one key word.

Weird-ass message number three: We're definitely back in what-the-fuck? territory here. This caller left me a message that went as follows:
"How much drugs do you do?" (Heavy pause. He's speaking in a harsh, interrogatory tone. That street-smart, take-a-look-at-yourself-scumbag tone favored by prime-time TV show cops when they talk to petty criminals.) "How much drugs do you do? No, no. Let's not even talk about your whoring. But how much drugs do you do, huh? Huh?"
What, is Dr. Phil cold-calling people now? Is my phone number one numeral off from this guy's ex-wife's? Is Narcotics Anonymous doing an outreach program?
He spoke with the exaggerated deliberateness that I always associate with drunk people, and that, combined with that fact that the call came through after 2am, makes me think that the caller probably knows a hell of a lot more about drugs than I do, because my experience with recreational pharmaceuticals is actually quite limited. When I stop and think about it, I realize it's been several years since I illegally partook of any controlled substance. But gee, in this impersonal age, it's nice to know that someone out there is concerned about me.

Weird-ass message number four: A guy who wanted (I think) a session for himself and his girlfriend. That isn't weird in and of itself, but he was another late-night rambler, and he spent several minutes giving me a long-winded physical description of himself and his lover that was highly specific, yet also strangely disjointed. (How much drugs do you do?) Oddly, he also told me so much about their ethnic heritage that I could practically draw them up a genealogy chart. "She's one-quarter Cherokee Indian – no, no, Apache Indian, Apache Indian! And one-quarter Scottish, and half French. And I'm one-quarter German on my mother's side, and…" Not only can I not imagine why he thinks a dominatrix would want to know this, I really can't think of any life situation where knowing that someone was one-quarter Scottish has seriously influenced my opinion of them.

Weird-ass message number five: Another woman caller, not a would-be client, though. At least, I don't think so, although frankly I'm not sure what she wanted. Over the sound of what I think was opera music in the background, she said;
"Hi, my name is (X) I was told you knew a lot about…how to start out. I'm friends with (woman's first and last name) and she told me about you. Would you give me a call at XXX-XXXX."
I have no earthly way of knowing what this woman is talking about. The most obvious guess is that she wants to be a pro dom and she wants me to tell her how to do that. (Yeah, right.) But maybe she just means "start out in the community", or "start out topping my husband" or, something else entirely. Who knows? She mentioned this other woman's name like she expected me to recognize it, but I don't. Maybe she has me mixed up with another pro dom? And unfortunately for her, this woman (?) has a rather husky voice, making me wonder if she really is a woman, or a guy looking for free phone sex. But either way, I'm not calling back.

And just to round out the whole experience, we have…Weird-ass message number six: It's The Howler again. "Mistress Matisse! Mistress MAH-tee-EEE-eee-EEE-cee!" He draws out the last word and lets his voice go up and down like a roller coaster. Next, he gives a few howls, but then, for a nice touch of variety, he starts barking. Really enthusiastically. He yells my name a few more times, and then barks and beats on the table – or whatever it is. I guess he's switched from Warren Zevon to Baha Men. "Who let the dogs out?" indeed…

I'm still getting caught up with my real life after being out of town, but there will be a real post tomorrow. Really. I swear.

Meanwhile, enjoy a video clip of a deeply religious dialogue between me and Roman about the role that Jesus plays in our relationship. We think we should have our own talk show on the Christian Broadcasting Network.

(The visuals aren't racy, but the conversation is, so turn your speaker down low if that's an issue.)

Hello, everyone...Yes, I am home safe again in Seattle, after a long and crowded flight. I enjoyed my visit, but it's really nice to be home.

And speaking of safety, I got several concerned notes from readers who remembered that Jake had been visiting Thailand and Sri Lanka, and who emailed me asking if he was still there. The good news is that no, Jake arrived home a few days ago, so he's quite safe.
But wow, rather a narrow escape, I think - a lot of visitors have been killed or reported missing. Even if he hadn't been hurt or killed himself, it's likely he'd be stranded there, as I'm sure most travel has been interrupted. And my god, those poor people, such devastation - it's very sad.

So, I'm busy putting together a column and the Kink Calendar, but look for a real update later. Oh, man, did I get some weird-ass phone messages while I was gone, wait til I tell you...

I listen to my voice as I talk, and I can tell that, as I always do when I come back for a visit, I've fallen back into my old southern drawl. It'll probably last a few days past my return home, so if you talk to me right after I get back, don't be surprised to hear peaches and magnolias blooming in my voice.

It's not just the accent, either. There are some local turns of phrase I'd forgotten about. Yesterday my mother used an expression I hadn’t heard in the longest time. It was one of those moments when hearing something whisks you back in time – in this case, to my Florida childhood, when I heard lots of people say this, or something like it.

We were talking about the varied and aggressive insect population of the south, and went from there to a discussion of spiders. My mother recalled a time when I was little when she thought a large spider had jumped on her (not an unreasonable fear in Florida). She said, “Oh, if that had happened, they’d of just had to take me off to Chattahoochee.”

Most people from Florida will know what this means, especially central or north Florida. But for the rest of you, Chattahoochee, (CHAT-a-hoo-chee) is a small town where the Florida State Hospital is. The mental hospital, that is.

It was Florida’s only mental hospital until 1947, and even after that, for a long time it was the only place that dealt with the poor mentally ill. At one point, it’s inmates – and I use that word on purpose – made mattresses, and thus it was nicknamed “the Mattress Factory”. So I also heard the phrase “going to the mattress factory” as a slang term for “going insane” when I was a kid.

Apparently there was a lot of abuse of the inmates at various points in the hospital’s history – I believe some books have been written about it, and perhaps even a movie has been made about the place - and it definitely had a bad reputation. The hospital is still in existence, and of course they say the abuse of the patients is all in the past, but even now, nobody wants to “go to Chattahoochee.”

So, just an amusing example of a regional expression that used to be part of my vocabulary.

I hope everyone is having a nice Christmas Eve. I am, but even so, there are times when one is ready for a break from all things red and green, so, here you go...

The new column and the Kink Calendar are up, so check those out…

There is apparently an article in The New York Times Sunday magazine on blogs, sex, dating and privacy. I don't have a password set up, and I don't want to deal with it while I'm traveling (and using Max's laptop), so I haven't read it yet. Perhaps some kind person will come back and give us a review.

Who says it's just Americans who are uptight? A city in Mexico has passed a law banning indoor nudity. Hey, maybe they're going for zero population growth. Or maybe some politician has a body-odor fetish. ..

On a cheerful note: Annie Sprinkle is getting married! (To a woman.) I've hung out a tiny bit with Annie and she is one of the sweetest, nicest people you could ever meet. She has such a sense of loving kindness about her, you can't help but smile and feel good when you're around her.

I once got a very clear demonstration of just what a kind and sweet person Annie is. She was doing a show here in Seattle several years ago when she got word that her home, a houseboat, had caught fire and that almost everything she owned had been burned up.
Had this happened to me, I would have completely flipped out. But Annie, while clearly sad, stayed very calm, and she completed her performance schedule in Seattle. To watch her perform, you would never know she'd just suffered a major personal loss. The reason the fire started was because a housesitter left a candle burning unattended, but she had no harsh words about the person responsible, just saying that it was an accident and that she was sure they felt terrible about it.

Now, I think I'm usually a pretty kind person. But damn, if someone caught my house on fire, I'd be beyond furious with them. So I think Annie Sprinkle is an person with an usual gift for loving kindness and forgiveness, and I wish her joy and happiness in her marriage.

Some Brief Observations En Route, In Chronological Order…

1. Whatever type of drugs the guys who work at the MasterPark lot in Seattle are taking, I want some. It was still dark outside when we were getting on the shuttle to the airport, and those guys were a) abnormally cheerful, and b) slinging my 70-pound suitcase around like they were having a pillow fight. Unbelievable…

2. Speaking of drugs…I’m not a big fan of cartoons, but even in a deep Xanax-induced haze, with no sound, the movie “A Sharks Tale” looks amusing. Perhaps I will actually see it sometime when I’m not on a plane, and am thus coherent.

3. The 3-hour stretch of Highway 16 in between Macon and Savannah is the most empty, boring, godforsaken stretch of nothing I’ve ever seen. I’ve been driving it at least once a year for fifteen years now, and it looks exactly the same – like the flat, brown, ass-end of nowhere. There are hardly any radio stations, and god knows there's no cell signal. It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to stick your head out the window of the car to see if the wheels are really moving, because the landscape just doesn’t look any different.

4. Tybee Island, Georgia doesn’t look much different than it did fifteen years ago either. I can’t decide if this is charming or scary. This is a town my brother once described as being “kinda like Mayberry on acid.” And he’s right.

5. Atlanta, on the other hand, looks different every time I see it. It’s a bitch because I rely on landmarks (turn right at the Publix next to that big blue building with the awning) to remember how to get to my mother’s house, and if they keep building and changing stuff, that system is going to go to hell.

6. My mom generally asks me about twice per visit if Max and I have any plans to get married. She’s already done so once this trip. But she was very sweet about, really, so I don’t mind…

So, here I am at my father’s house in beautiful, sunny coastal Georgia, the food is great, the people are nice, and I’m going nuts because I have to use a DIAL-UP internet connection. I think I’ve lived in Seattle too long to ever leave.

I’ll be driving back up to Atlanta tomorrow, which, while it’s slap in the middle of The Redneck Heaven State, now seems like a futuristic paradise compared to the Beach Town That Time Forgot where my dad lives. Why couldn’t he have lived on Hiltonhead, for god’s sake? My mother, at least, has a wireless network.

Meanwhile, if you didn’t see it on Monk’s blog, here’s that local-access TV thingie he and I both appeared on a couple of weeks ago, Sex Life Live with Dane Ballard. I come on about halfway through the show for the part where I talk a bit, and then later I sort of help Monk tie up Dane. It's amusing.

Be aware, though, even with high-speed, it’ll take a while to download. I suggest you click on the link, and then pause the video and go do something else while it loads. I mean like - have dinner or something. The file is big, and the server is clearly not very fast.

And now I should post this before the connection craps out on me. More soon, I hope...

So, as I mentioned, I'm going to be out of town - in Georgia, to be exact, visiting my family for a week. I'm leaving tomorrow, so I should be packing right now, except I think I'm still in some type of denial that I'm really getting on a plane and (more or less) voluntarily going to the place I regard as the Birthplace of All Things Redneck. Jesus.

Still, it's better than having them come here. When I go there, it's simpler to get myself into the appropriate mom-visiting headspace, which is: I do anything she wants. Yes, it's true: my mother is more dominant than I am.

I'm not giving her what she really wants, you understand, which is for me to move back to Georgia, preferably into a house not more than a mile away from her. I have gently informed my mother that if it somehow came down to: either I join the National Guard, or I move back to Georgia - well, then I'd be off buying body armor with my signing bonus.

So that's not going to happen. But otherwise, when I visit, whatever she wants to do, I do it. It's just my way of saying, "Hey, thanks for not drowning me at birth." Because now that I'm a grown-up myself, and I reflect back upon some of my childhood antics, I feel sure there must have been times when that seemed, just a moment, like a lost opportunity.

And God knows I learned some very effective getting-my-way techniques from her. It's just that she's the one person in the world I can't use them on.

I'll have the laptop with me, so there will be updates throughout the week, although probably not every day...So stay tuned for scenes from "A Seattle Dominatrix in Zell Millers's Court."

Linky Goodness…

The new column and the Kink Calendar are up, so check those out…

Apparently I've been nominated – a couple of time – for a BOB Award. (That's Best Of Blog.) I seem to have a lot of company, but still, that's nice. Plus, the link-list of the other nominees makes for interesting surfing.

An award I hope I never get: The Literary Review Bad Sex award, given for "the worst description of sex in a contemporary novel." This year's winner, Tom Wolfe, declined the invitation to accept the award and his prize, a statue (of what, I do not know) and a bottle of champagne.

I've read a bit about this before, but it's nice to see the history of the vibrator making mainstream news…In the "Health Features" section, no less. (Link snagged from Amorous Propensities)

A note to clients - I'm out of town from the 20th to the 27th. I'll be checking email at least daily and phone messages every couple of days, so if you'd like to see me after I get back, drop me a note, and I'll get back to you as soon as possible.

Speaking of travel – I'm looking for suggestions. I've got two trips in mind for the late winter/early spring, and I'd be pleased to hear ideas from ya'll.

Trip number one: a low-key weekend getaway – so, let's say someplace less than four hours drive from Seattle. Something on the Oregon coast, maybe? I had in mind something like a cabin or a cottage, rather than a hotel, something on the beach or in woods, that kinda scenario. Something rather private and quiet - comfortable, but not necessarily fancy.

Trip number two: I've never been to Mexico. (Well, Tijuana, but that doesn't really count.) So I was thinking about a vacation down there, but I don't know where to go. And finding the right destination is going to be tough, because I'd be quite happy to lie on an empty beach with a drink in my hand and read trashy novels for a few days, but Max would quickly get bored with that – he likes to do things on a vacation, and he generally prefer a more metropolitan atmosphere.

Of course, Miss K and I have been saying for several years we should go on a vacation somewhere warm together, so it may wind up like that…Not as sexy as going with Max, but good best-friend-bonding time.

Either way, for this trip I'm not looking for anything too rustic - I don't speak Spanish, and I'll go into withdrawal if I can't check my email everyday, so no remote villages with mud huts.

Ideas?

Lucky Girl

I write a lot about the silliness I deal with from would-be clients via the phone and email, to amuse both myself and you.

But what I don't write about as often is how really, really fabulous my regular clients are. I'm always aware of what wonderful guys I have, but I'm thinking of it more than usual right now, because I have been on the receiving end of some incredibly sweet and thoughtful gifts lately. Between my birthday last month, and now Christmas presents, several of my favorite boys have turned up with gifts that they obviously took a lot of time and trouble over, from the careful choices to the pretty wrapping (that they did themselves!). It's immensely touching to me that they did that for me. I've gotten great books, a plushy, velvety-soft black bathrobe, David Yurman jewelry, a vintage camera and some lenses, a bunch of high-end electrical toys, and a beautiful bustier, not to mention more than the usual amount of flowers, candy and wine. One of my best boys has actually offered to send Max and I on a trip to New York. (And I know he means it!) How amazing is that?

And even the less-traditional things touch me – one sweet boy turned up with a bunch of gorgeous tomatoes in the wake of my post about them. I like it when people pay attention to what I say and use that knowledge to do something I'd like.

And you know, it's not the things themselves that are so important, although they're quite nice. I'm just so touched that my clients would go out of their way to do this for me. They don't have to. You don't need to buy me presents to be a favorite of mine. That only requires that you treat me with respect, behave towards me with integrity, and communicate honestly. (It also helps if we have big fun playing together.) That's what I want from my boys. And having guys who give me that, and bring me lovely presents…Well, it just really knocks me out sometimes.

I always say I don't believe in luck. We make our luck – it's called hard work. But when I look at what sweet boys I have, I have to admit – I think there's some plain old good luck involved here…

Okay, who remembers the Top Secret Date? I've gotten a few plaintive emails about this, but not until now could the secret be revealed. So here it is:

Yeah, that's a plaster dick. It's made from a mold of an actual person, though, and that person is, of course – Roman.

(Now, I have to do a sidebar here. Would those of you have not yet figured out that Roman = Monk of Twisted Monk please raise your hands? Okay, you, you, and you over there, listen up: "Roman" is the pseudonym I gave Monk when we started seeing each other, and that worked fine for a while. However, lately Monk and I have decided that we actually don't care who knows our little secret anymore – we know we weren't fooling many of you, anyway. I think we'll probably continue to use the pet names we gave each other on the blogs for the sake of continuity, but yes, the secret is now officially out. Okay, back to the regularly scheduled program.)

So, at some point in the past, Roman's lovely wife had apparently made some remark to him about how it would be cool to have his dick cast in plaster. Actually, I was told there was also some conversation about having one cast in a nice flexible silicone, too – "for when he wasn't around"….And what a charming idea that is.

Loving husband that he is, Roman decided to pursue this idea as a birthday gift for her. So one fine weekend when she was out of town, he called me and said, "Hey, I'm going to go get a dick casting – wanna come with me?"
"Can I bring the video camera?" I asked.
"Sure," he replied.

So off we went to see Cosmo, plaster body-caster extraordinaire. I did indeed bring the video camera, and I've uploaded a 4-minute video clip of the adventure. The video-hosting site, Onfuego.com, isn't down with anything too sexy, so it's a pretty PG-13 version of the afternoon. (Although streaming a huge video file would be problematic for us, Roman and I are considering making the adult version available on a limited-edition DVD or something…)

Because, you see - the thing about doing a dick-casting like this is that, well, you have to be hard. (Now you see why he asked me to come along.) The unexpurgated version shows me doing various things to encourage that state – not that Roman needs much encouragement – and then tying his dick up in some nice hemp line to help him maintain the erection while he had cold, gloppy alginate goop poured all over it.

And then of course I had to offer the sweet boy some comfort while he had his dick trapped in a PVC tube full of what looked like lumpy baby food that was slowly hardening into a solid state. Mwah hah hah hah ha…I may have to get some of that stuff for the dungeon – talk about cock and ball bondage!

Luckily, Roman was able to detumesce enough to get his dick out without messing up the mold, and while art takes time, he recently took delivery of several lovely plaster replicas of himself. Mrs. Roman's response? "This is AWESOME!"
So I think that counts as a successful gift.

It's apparently a sucess art-wise, too - I understand that Cosmo will probably be displaying Roman's cock in the next Seattle Erotic Art show.

Oh, and why did he get more than one, you ask? Well, I wanted one, too, naturally. Doesn't that picture look nice, with the rope all wrapped around it?

Trust Me – I'm a Professional

This is a written version of a small rant that, for some time now, I've been delivering to my cool sex-worker friends whenever we get to talking about certain behaviors we see in the larger sex-work community. I'm quite sure they're all tired of hearing me go on about it, so hopefully posting it here will exorcise me of some of my tendency to harp about it in person. One does hate to be tedious.

There are lots of women in the world who do sexy stuff for a living, and while I support their right to do so, from a business standpoint, they are definitely not all created equal. I have a way I categorize it. To me, there are people who are professionals, and then there are what I call the "lifestyle girls".

A professional sex worker is someone who cares about doing what she does to the best of her ability, and to that end, she looks beyond the money that's in her hand right this minute. She asks herself: What about tomorrow? What about next month, next year? Where do I want to be, business-wise, and how can I make sure I get there? What are the best strategies for running my business?

Me, I'm a professional. For example, I have a schedule – it's been the same schedule for years now. My boys know when I'm available.
I have an office. Yeah, it's a dungeon – but it's my dedicated space for what I do.
I make appointments with carefully chosen clients, and unless I'm all but spurting arterial blood, I keep those appointments, on time, every time. I admit, there have been some days when I really didn't feel like playing. But I take pride in what I do, so – I get my game on, and I do it. And not in a half-assed manner, either. There is such a thing as chemistry, and I do click with some guys more than others. But if I agree to an appointment with you, and I take your money, I will do my damnedest to deliver a good experience, every time. And you know what? I usually find that I feel extra-good about myself when I can make some magic happen for someone even if I'm not feeling much like a rock star. It's deeply satisfying.

Occasionally, yes, there are unforeseeable circumstances that are beyond my control. But I think I've canceled maybe five appointments in the last eight years. (And it goes without saying that I do not "no-show".) This is the way I run my business, because I am a professional person.

The lifestyle girls, well – that's a different story. That's what I call the women who derive their income from sex work, but who seem to just drift from moment to moment, without any kind of plan about what they're doing. They don't run their business in any ongoing, organized manner, it seems to revolve around whatever the next financial crisis is. The rent is due tomorrow? Oh, guess I better try to work tonight.

So they put a post up on Craig's List, shove their kid's toys under the living room couch, and start sending out their address via email. Or they get a motel room, or whatever. And some guy shows up, and maybe they do what they said they would, or maybe they just try to get as much money as they can, while doing as little as possible. She doesn't take any pride in what she's doing, he sure as hell isn't made happy by his experience, and because the whole thing just doesn't feel right, she tries to numb the critical part of her brain by drinking or getting high. And, as financial responsibilities inevitably come due, the cycle repeats over and over. Unprofessional sex worker has unhappy interactions with dissatisfied clients and resorts to unhealthy coping mechanisms to deal with it all. Not good.

Now, on an emotional level, I have some compassion for people who, for whatever reason, are caught up in negative patterns of behavior. There are a lot people doing sex work who, though they are not emotionally equipped for it, feel like they have no other acceptable options. I think that's a damn shame.

But on a professional level, these women drive me nuts. Not the truly desperate ones, you understand – the girls on the street, or the really low-end escorts – because I don't ever have any contact with them. But I have dealt with a lot of other women from what I call "the middle-class of sex workers". Nice girls, who were plenty smart enough, and pretty enough, to create a safe and stable business that would support them comfortably.

But a lot of them just can't seem to do it. They'll go along all right for a few weeks, and then you begin hearing about the problems. They make appointments and then cancel them at the last minute, or just fail to show up at all. They don't return calls or emails to make new appointments. If they do see clients, they don't fulfill the job description, and the client is unhappy. Word of all these things spreads a bit, and the phone doesn't ring as often.
And then they realize that, oh shit, the power is going to be shut off if they don't pay the bill right now! So they panic, and in that state of panic they accept a date with a client who, if they were thinking clearly, they would know better than to go anywhere near. They have an unpleasant experience – anything from just emotionally icky to downright dangerous – and coping with that just sets them back even further on the road to stability and physical/emotional safety as a sex worker.

Over the years that I've been doing sex work, I have watched so many different women go through this loop so many times, I can now spot it a mile away. When I was younger and more optimistic, I used to try to mentor women who were engaged in the cycle. I mean, it didn't seem like rocket science to me. Plan ahead, I'd say. Figure out how much money you need to make each week to meet your bills. Schedule yourself days on and days off, so you don't get either burned out or too far behind.

Yeah, that's a good idea, they'd reply. And then the next week they'd tell me about how they blew off an appointment because they were so stoned they forgot about it. Oh, and could they borrow a hundred dollars to pay the phone bill?

I realize I may be coming off like some kind of sex work Uncle Tom here, but that's not what I'm about. There are lots of smart, together women doing sex work. It's just frustrating to watch people squander an economic opportunity for no discernable reason. I'm not saying anyone should do anything they don't want to do. It's crucial to figure out where your personal boundaries lie and work within them. But allowing for that, choosing to stay perpetually on the edge of financial crisis, even though you're capable of generating an adequate income, is inconceivable to me. Why the hell would you do that?

So now when I see someone who's in the lifestyle loop, I just steer very clear of any involvement with them. It may seem callous, but it's like that old adage about teaching a pig to sing. I'm not so concerned about annoying the pig, but I definitely dislike having my time wasted.