Pick and Choose

Ring ring!

Me: hello?
Caller: Hi, Mistress Matisse? I'd like to come see you today.
Me: Hmmn. Have we met before?
Caller: No, but you come highly recommended.

This guy sounds quite young, and he's talking very quickly, emphasizing the key words ("today!" and "highly!") in an unnatural-sounding way that I associate with those hucksters you see doing the cookware demos at state fairs. It's not something that's going to work in his favor.

Me: Okay, well, I don't do same-day appointments. The first day I'd have available is Tuesday, and –
Caller: (interrupts) Oh, really? Damn. 'Cause I just got into town. Can you recommend anyone else?
Me: You could ask Mistress X.
Caller: Well, what I'm really into is foot fetish. And I heard you've got beautiful feet. So I'd really like to come see you.

Then why the hell ask me for a referral?

Me: As I said, it would be Tuesday. But we'd have to back up some, because I would need to talk to you a bit and make sure that you and I would be compatible before I actually booked an appointment with you.

I'm already about 90% sure this kid isn't for me. He's talking too fast and trying to rush me along, and I don't like that. But we'll give him another minute to change my mind, since I am rather fond of foot fetishists in general.

Caller: Like I said, you come highly recommended, I'd really like to see you.
Me: You said that before – who recommended me?
Caller: Just some people. They said you had beautiful feet – and a beautiful everything else, too, heh heh heh. I mean, I can start with your feet, but who knows what else might happen? Do you think you'll have any cancellations tonight?

Oh, very rude and very pushy. And that leering little snicker? Bad, bad, bad…

Me: You know what? This isn't going to work for me. I think you should try someone else.
Caller: But you were recommended to me!

Inigo Montoya's line from "The Princess Bride" comes to mind. "You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means." This caller seems to think that because someone told him he should see me, I should automatically want to see him. In fact, unless you're going to supply me with a name or some other information about how you heard about me, saying "You were recommended" is meaningless to me. And if you act like it's going to get you some kind of special treatment, it's worse than meaningless.
I'm also suspecting that this kid's got some kind of recreational drug thing going on – there's just a subtle tone and a rhythm to his conversation that sets off my "this person is high" alarm. Hence the somewhat agitated insistence that I see him, right now.

Me: No, sorry, this isn’t going to work. I think you should call someone else.
Caller: Well, why do you think you were so highly recommended?

I have no earthly idea what he means by this. It might be a rather petulant rhetorical question, or he might just be trying to keep me on the phone. But it doesn't matter, since we're just going to finish this up right now.

Me: Okay, have a nice day, goodbye.

Oh, I am so glad I don't have to deal with anyone I don't want to…



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You Dirty…

People ask me, sometimes, "Aren't you ever nervous that someone will come into your dungeon and harm you?" I usually tell them that I'm quite careful – but that to live is to take risks, and I'm comfortable with mine.

However, I did have an encounter last week with an unpleasant character, and while I definitely think I got the best of the situation, it did make me a little jumpy for several days.

It began one afternoon when I went into my basement storage room. It's not anyplace one would linger - a cold, dark little room with a concrete floor. I often don't go in there for days at a time. I'd stepped into the room and picked up the item I wanted when I registered the thought: God, something smells funky in here...

And then, I sensed a presence where none should be. From the corner of my eye, I saw a dark shadow near the hot water tank – ugly, unwelcome, and quite alarming. I let out a sharp cry of surprise – one might even say that I screamed – and fled.

So quickly and so thoroughly did my animal instincts take over that I was almost to the second floor of my space before my rational brain was able to process what I'd seen and say: Matisse – calm down. It's not coming after you. It's dead. That's a dead rat.

It wasn't like I hadn't suspected that I might have a rodent roommate. Several weeks before, I'd found a garbage bag that had been…nibbled. I immediately called my landlord, who said he'd come over and check for holes in the exterior walls and such, and put out some poison.
"Poison? But don't they sometimes die in the walls and smell if you do that?"
"No, no," said my landlord. "They go outside looking for water and die there."
What do I know about pest control? Okay, fine. I dismissed the matter from my mind, and there were no further incidents. Until…this nasty thing.

I took several deep breaths and tried to slow my heartbeat. Clearly, it had to be gotten rid of. For one thing it smelled bad, and besides, I just could not walk peacefully around in my place, knowing that ugly gray corpse was down there.

Okay. Okay. I can do this. Really. I am a brave and rational person, I can pick up a dead rat and throw it away. Really I can.

I went hesitatingly downstairs again, and while still standing on the basement steps, peeked through the open door. Oh, god, there it is! Even though I knew what I was going to see, I let out a little eeek noise.

I ran back up a few steps and then stopped myself. Matisse, you're acting like an idiot. It's dead. That's why it stinks. It's not going to hurt you.

What if there's another one? The cowardly part of my brain asked.

Even if there is another, all your shrieking and running up and down the steps has certainly frightened him away. For gods sake, they aren't ninjas – he isn't going to come try to take revenge for his friend or anything.

I went and got a garbage bag and a thick rubber cleaning glove. C'mon, just go pick it up by the tail. It'll just take a second and then it's over. Just do it.

Again I got as far as peeking at it through the doorway before my stomach flip-flopped. No. No. I cannot go near that thing. No way.

I went back up a few steps, sat down, and had a stern talk with myself. Matisse, be reasonable. There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of. That rat is deader than Michael Jackson's musical career. It is not going to suddenly spring to life and jump on you. As John Cleese would say, it's rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. That is an ex-rat.

It was no use. I couldn't do it.

Once I accepted that I was irrationally terrified of touching a dead rodent, I considered my options. I could call Max. But he's not very close by…I'd hate to drag him all the way over here.
There's Roman – but again, I hate to interrupt him when I know he's so busy.
Landlord? Maybe. Go outside and die, my ass. But shit, I've got to do something soon, I've got a client coming over in…

My client! Oh, glory halleluiah – it's Blue Eyes. He'll do it. Oh, thank you god, I know he'll do it.

Now, I don't make a habit of asking my clients for help with my real-life problems. I want them to regard their time with me as an oasis, in which workaday world concerns will intrude as little as possible.

But this was a special situation – and Blue Eyes is definitely the white-knight kind of man who'd love to help me with it. He's a sweet, gentlemanly guy, mature enough to remember when this sort of gender-based division of labor was seen as perfectly appropriate. And he's a problem-solver by nature - I don't think I've ever expressed the slightest little difficulty that BE hasn't tried to fix for me. I mean, this is the guy who bought and installed three room-unit air conditioners last summer because I said I was hot.

Plus, I also feel close enough to him to ask him for a favor. Some guys – well, I just wouldn't feel okay asking them to do this for me. But BE and I have a connection.

I should wait until after the session, though. I don't want to ruin the mood. So I closed the storeroom door, sprayed air freshener heavily, and went to get dressed, trying not to jump nervously at every little shadow along the baseboards.

After we'd played, BE and I were in the sitting room, and as he stood up to leave, I laced my fingers together and said, "So, I have a favor to ask you…"

As I expected, he was happy to help. "Sure, sure, I can do it – do you have a plastic bag?" I handed it to him and led him to the storeroom.

"In there," I said, pointing without looking.

I heard him walk across the concrete floor and then stop. "Wow, he's a big one."

I gasped and clapped my hands over my ears. "Oh, Jesus, don't tell me that. Just get rid of him."

So BE made the bad thing go away, and for that, he shall always have a special place in my heart. I've had no further need for his assistance, thank god, and both Max and Roman have assured me that I could call on them if need be. But I'm crossing my fingers that I don't have any more unwelcome guests in the future.

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A Shameless Marketing Moment, and a Political Message

Whoo-hoo! Guess what I got in the mail today? A book!
"Big deal, Matisse," you're thinking. "You get books in the mail all the time. You're single-handedly keeping the Amazon used book dealers in business."
Well, yes, that's true. But this is not just any book. This is MY book. The book that my writing is in. The sex blogger book!

I got two copies - and a nice check, too - from the fabulous editor, Maxim Jakubowski, who tells me that the book should be available in the UK by January 15th and here in the US by mid-February. I am extremely pleased.

And I want all of you to buy a copy. Yes, I know, you've already read the entries. But it's like this: buying smutty books isn't just about the literature, it's also a political act. Talking about transgressive sex is always risky, and especially so in the US these days. But money talks, too – loudly. If you want publishers to keep publishing sexy books, make it worth their while, and they'll ignore neo-con maunderings about morality, and what-about-the-children, and keep turning out books that are intended to be read by consenting adults.
And thus, all of us who write sexy stuff will be encouraged to continue entertaining and arousing you. I'm not getting royalties from this – all of us bloggers got our money on the front end, and I'm fine with that. But if you feel like you've gotten thirteen dollars and ninety-five cents worth of enjoyment from reading my blog – not to mention all the other great people who contributed – then buy a copy of the book, please. Think of it as an investment in my future writings, and in the writings of other sexy girls and boys.

I know I said something about writing about sex today, but I must have been crazy, since in I'm always deep in column-writing mode on Mondays and Tuesdays. That's why you usually get shorter entries those days. So, perhaps something about fucking later this week. For now, some links to amuse you...

Yet another perspective on this past weekend's adventures....

A kinky man I know recently asked me my thoughts on figging, and I can do no better than to say go read this. I love ginger root...

This isn't sexy - but god, it's just so fucking weird I had to post it. I'm wildly curious as to what precipitated this incident. Did this guy stop taking his meds, or has he not yet been properly prescribed to? "Carol-singing burglar accidentally shoots himself in leg."

And, finally, from the Sort-Of-Sweet, But-Highly-Unlikely-to-Happen folder, an email...

have a nice day miss my name is Fadi i really love and die to worship your facsinating feet and your high heels so if u have any trip to any country in middle east just pls send me an e-mail and your cell number then u will find me in front of your belle and sweety soles and shoes. my cell number is (deleted) your feet slave Fadi.

My "belle and sweety soles". That's got kind of a nice roll to it, doesn't it?



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More Than You Ever Wanted To Know About My Weekend…

Author's note: after writing all this out, I realize it's sort of long and rambling, and I didn't even get to the part about me and Roman having sex. But rather than trying to edit this, I think we'll just write about that tomorrow…

Sometimes the most complicated part of being polyamorous isn't the emotions, it's the logistics. Who's going to be with who, and when, and how will they get there, and where shall we have dinner?
Such was the case on Saturday night. First off, let's identify the players. We have:

Me and Max

Roman and Mrs. Roman

a woman I'll call Milan

Another woman we'll call B, and her primary partner, a man.

Several weeks ago, Roman said to me, "Hey, B is going to be in town the weekend of the 8th and I think she and Mrs. Roman are going to have a date together. Any chance you and I could see each other that night?"

"Sounds great to me - I'll check with Max," I said. Then I went home, and in a perfect example of poly-stars-in-alignment, Max said to me, "I have a date to play with Milan on the 8th, and I want her to stay overnight."

I smiled lovingly at him and said that would be no problem whatsoever. So you're with me so far – Mrs. Roman has a date with B, I have a date with Roman, and Max has a date with Milan.

Friday, Roman tells me that he and Mrs. Roman are having dinner with B and her primary partner on Saturday night. Neither of us found this odd – poly people almost always prefer that everyone they're involved with know everyone else in their erotic network, and Mrs. Roman and B's partner hadn't met yet.

So the amenities would be observed, and then B and Mrs. Roman would peel off and have their date, and Roman and I would hook up. (B's primary partner was going to go do some Live Action Role Playing (LARP), which I think says a lot about the demographic of people who are likely to be having complex polyamory love-lives.)

Roman went on to say that Mrs. Roman needed to have the car – so could I pick him up from dinner? Of course, I told him.

Saturday rolled around and Max and I were busy all afternoon – so busy, that we didn't have time to have dinner before it was time for me to pick up Roman.

"Well," I said, "he'll have just eaten, but I guess we'll go out somewhere and he'll watch me have dinner." Max agreed, and then it occured to me, "Honey, what are you going to do about dinner? Milan isn't coming til later, right? Do you want to eat with Roman and me?"

After I said it, I thought; God, if you drew all this out on a chalkboard, it would look like one of those diagrams of a football play. And it would sound like a French farce. But Max agreed that yes, he'd like to do a quick dinner, so off we went.

To recap: Roman has first had dinner with his primary partner, her date for the evening, and her date's primary partner. Now he's going to sit with me (his secondary partner) and Max (his secondary's primary) while we have dinner. Anyone who thinks poly is all about carefree fucking should ponder whether they'd be able to remain relaxed and cheerful through such multi-layered social encounters.

Max and I went and said hi to Mrs. Roman and B - although B's primary had already left - collected Roman, went across the street to a different restaurant, and had a pleasant dinner, tinged with only the slightest sense of how surreal this all might seem to a non-poly person. Roman quizzed Max about his plans for his date with Milan – oh, and did I mention that Roman and Milan have played with each other, too? It's small town for kinksters.

Max finished eating, and then glanced at his watch and stood up. "Time for me to go. Oh, and call me and tell me if you two are going to sleep in the spare room tonight, okay?"

Because that was the other issue on the table – where were Roman and I going to sleep? He and Mrs. Roman have only one bedroom, which was going to be occupied by her and B.

Max and I, on the other hand, have a big house with a nice spare bedroom, and the general policy is that whoever has a sleep-over guest sleeps in the guest room, leaving the master bedroom to the other person. (I suppose that technically, Max knew he had a date before I knew I had a date, so perhaps that might land him with the spare bedroom and me with the master. But the master bedroom has certain…equipment…that Max wanted to use, so I ceded it to him.)

However, choices of bedrooms aside, we were both feeling a little uncertain about the situation, because while Max has slept with Maura in the guest room any number of times when I've been home, Roman and I had never slept together with Max in the house. He'd always been over at Maura's when Roman stayed overnight. Max had told me over and over that it was fine. But I still hadn't quite gotten comfortable with the idea – clearly some baggage from my previous jealous partners that I hadn’t quite let go of.

Roman and I knew we could stay over at my studio. But while it’s great for playing, it's not so great for sleeping, and so we decided to take the spare room.
"Oh, I can't wait to bump into Max in the hallway in the morning," said Roman. "Or Milan, for that matter."
"I know – it’s sort of bizarre, isn't it? But I need to get over my hang-up about it, because I like sleeping with you, and it's not fair to try to get Max to go to Maura's place every time."
"Especially when he's having a date with Milan."
"Yeah, that does make it particularly awkward."

Fast-forward to 4:30 am. Roman and I were walking quietly up the stairs. The door to the master bedroom was slightly ajar, but the lights were all off, and everything was silent. I felt like a kid sneaking her boyfriend past her parent's room. Silly, when one considered that Max is in there with someone, too. But still… And even though we'd already had a long night of it, once Roman and I were in the spare bedroom, we couldn't resist the temptation to engage in some muffled, furtive fucking, giggling like teenagers.

We woke up later that morning to the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside. "Max is taking her out to breakfast," I whispered to Roman. "As soon as they leave, the coast is clear."
"God, this is such a French bedroom farce," he replied.
After some lingering in bed, we finally decided to get up, too, and we had some coffee going before Max and Milan returned home. In spite of all of my slightly-joking angst about it, the four of us wound up talking together quite comfortably, comparing notes (and bruises). Soon, Mrs. Roman arrived to pick up her husband and we got a quick thumbnail of her date, too. After a nice chat, everyone hugged each other and the party broke up. As we watched our friends walk away from the house, I turned to Max and said, "I sure love you."
He kissed me. "I love you too. And I'm glad you had fun."

What an amazingly complex and satisfying life.

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

Just a teaser for tomorrow's post - there was a whole lot of kinkiness going on in Seattle last night, and the complex schedules and configurations of primary partners, secondary partners and play-partners reads like one of those math problems that starts out, "If a train is leaving Chicago at 11am, and another train is leaving New York at 12:30 pm..."

But we made it work out - very nicely, in fact. So we'll talk about poly, BDSM, and French bedroom farces tomorrow...

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.

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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…