Roman has put up the page showing all the contestants, so that means it's time for: This Week's Challenge to The Weakest Kink Contestants!

This week, we want to see how creative and imaginative you can be about BDSM. So here's the challenge. Take five dollars, no more than that, and go buy the most interesting pervertible you can find. Take a picture of it and send it to use along with a description of how it would be used in BDSM play. Ideally, it should be something you can imagine being used on you.

Some of you may be thinking, "What the hell is a pervertible?" So glad you asked. The term "pervertible", coined by leather activist David Stein, is used to describe objects intended for some non-sexual use, especially everyday household objects, that can nonetheless be appropriated for BDSM play. I wrote a column about this once.

However, the pervertibles I mention there, while fun, are rather obvious. Roman and I would like to see something…different. But don't go thinking you can go buy any old thing and claim it's a BDSM toy. If Roman and I aren’t convinced of it's pervertability, we will have to see some pictures of it in action. And if you wind up winning – well, expect to have your pervertible used on you, by us. So be sincere in your toy shopping, and may the nastiest mind win!

Well, after a fun date with Roman last night, we're getting ready to post the first round of "The Weakest Kink" contest info. So look for that quite soon.

Meanwhile, the new column and the Kink Calendar are up, so check those out…Fans of my weirdo-callers entries will enjoy the column particularly.

And here's something I enjoyed reading...It's presented as some advice for writers, but I think parts of it are actually applicable to many life-situations. Certainly I intend to steal some of it for my future "advice to aspiring pro dommes" rants.

This is a photo from the very first porn shoot I ever sold. It was shot in 2001, and I sold it to a magazine called - you're gonna love this - "Naughty Neighbors". It was an "amateur" magazine, as you may have inferred, presenting the models as "real, girl-next-door" types. The illusion of potential acessibility is powerful for some men, it seems. Odd, when you consider that even Playboy Bunnies have to live next door to someone.
It wasn't the best set technically - note the shadow from the studio strobe. But I had a beautiful and very enthusiastic model, the lovely Rose Algren, and she made it work. This is just a sort of mood-establishing shot I took at the beginning, which of course the magazine didn't use because what the fuck do they care about establishing mood? They used the ones with the shower going and the wet t-shirt - and then with the shower going and no clothes at all. And naturally Rose looks scrumptious in all of them. But she looks so happy in this shot, with her little band of dildos. And somehow, they look sort of happy, too. (I suppose that's to be expected, given what she does with them.)
I'm on a picture posting jag lately, aren't I? I'm working on another writing project, you see, and can't spend as much time here as I would otherwise...But never fear, I won't desert you entirely.

Missing Persons Bureau - or Employment Agency?

Phone message left a few days ago…

BEEP!

Hi, Mistress Matisse, this is Bob The Artist. We've never met, but I gave a ride to a young woman last week and she said she was a licensed dominatrix. I wanted you to give her a message for me. Her name was Vanessa, she was in her mid-twenties, with a ring in her lower lip. I can't find a listing for her - she said she had kind of a limited practice - but since she said she was licensed I thought you'd know who she was. I wanted to track her down because I have had some intriguing ideas about some mutually benficial business opportunities that I wanted to share with her. So would you have her call me, please. I go by 'Bob The Artist' and my number is XXX-XXX.

You can just imagine how I'm responding to this one so far. This guy apparently thinks I'm some kind of fucking den mother to every little wandering goth chick who says she's a dominatrix. Oh, excuse me - licensed dominatrix, whatever the hell that means. I myself have got a business license, which I would bet money "Vanessa" doesn't – but there is no license-granting body specifically for dominatrixes. Not even if they have "a limited practice". If I thought such a thing would keep out the riff-raff, I'd vote for it, but I doubt it would even put a dent in the hitchhiking-Mistress population.
But wait, it gets better.

So, if you could just tell her I wanted to talk to her, that'd be great. But let me also tell you about myself – I'm Bob The Artist, I'm a very intense guy in my forties, well-built, good size, not into pain, but with fantasies of domination. So if you ever need a well-built, middle aged guy, intelligent, full head of hair, Scottish background, clean and STD free, for your sessions, we should talk about that. I'm fixed, too – don't know if that matters, heh heh. As an artist, I'm very intense. So if you need a drone or a stud, or anything like that, for your sessions, just call me, I'm Bob The Artist. Okay, thanks, and thanks for passing that message on to Vanessa.

He definitely wants me to know he's intense, doesn't he? And the Scottish thing – what is it with people telling me their ancestry lately?
And, of course, now I know exactly what the "mutually beneficial business opportunities" Bob The Artist wants to share with Vanessa are. The thing about these pitches that never ceases to amaze me is how guys like Bob The Artist always think they're making me a unique offer. Because, yeah, a girl like me just doesn't get men offering themselves to her for sexual services every day.
Oh – wait. Actually, I do! Actually, not only do I have people offering up their bodies to me for every imaginable use – and a few even I can't quite visualize - there are people who would pay me money to fuck someone else as part of a scene with me. (Not that I arrange such things, you understand.) And while he doesn't explicitly say so, I have a very strong suspicion that Bob The Artist would want me to pay him for his stud services. I could be wrong – but I bet I'm not. Historically, anytime a strange guy calls me up and starts talking to me about "business opportunities", what he always wants is A) to have sex, B) to get paid for it, and C) for me to make that happen.
Bob The Artist does get points for one thing – he didn't specify that he would expect to be fucking women only. Usually with calls like this, the guy will make sure to state that he's into pretty much anything – but no other men, of course! He's straight! So either Bob The Artist isn't straight - or it just didn't occur to him.
So, sorry Bob The Artist, but I don't have a license to pimp out well-built middle aged guys, even they are very intense. Guess you'll just have to drive around again until you find Mistress Vanessa.

Another video snippet, in which Roman and I muse about just what we might do to our "The Weakest Kink" contest winner.
By the way, if you're wondering what I'm talking about with the "chopsticks" reference, I will refer you to the top image on the page of genital torment pictures I put up back in October. If you're new here since then: this is a graphics-heavy page, the images are fairly intense, and it is oh so very not work-appropriate.

By Request
Some of ya'll said, "Why don't you post a picture where you're facing the camera?" Okay - here's one. Self-portrait, early 2003.


Photographers info: I shot this on a Nikon Coolpix 950. I've done a lot of different shots involving this set of pocket doors, they're great. For this one, I put two cheap tungsten spots on the other side of the door, and taped white tissue paper all along the opening to diffuse the light. Then I shot through the glass panels of a French door. I intensified the grain slightly in Photoshop. It's one of the "Filtered Nudes" series.

The Mistress's Saturday Night

Last night Max and I dropped by the SNM Underworld party for a little while. I didn't think I was really in the mood for a party – we came over right after working out at at the gym, and I was feeling rather low-energy. But Max, who is actually much more of a social butterfly than I am, insisted.

It turned out to be quite crowded – good news for Sam, the owner. The new shop looks great – from what one could see of it, given that it was stuffed with people. A lot of Goth kids in wild outfits, some kinksters I'm sort of slightly acquainted with, and a handful of what I think of as "my crowd" – Allena, Malixe, Lydia McLane, and few other folks.

I was hanging out by the food table stuffing grapes into my mouth – we hadn't gone to dinner yet – and being amused by the fact that I was one of the most non-fetishy looking people there, if you went purely on clothing. Many of the other guests had really pulled out the wardrobe stops – there was a lot of PVC, leather, rubber, corsets, you name it.

Now, I do own a fair amount of fetish gear like that - but you know, most of the time, it seems like a lot of bother to wear it. I dress up a bit for my clients because they deserve that, and I can enjoy getting all decked out for big-deal fetish occasions. But while Sam is great, and I wish her continued success, there's no way I was going to put on a rubber dress and thigh-high boots to come to the store opening party. Nine times out of ten if you see me at a local fetish event, I'll be wearing some skimpy, stretchy little cotton tank top, leather or PVC pants that are cut like jeans and are thus comfortable, and a pair of New Rock boots. Sexy, but comfy.

Last night I hadn't even bothered with that. I was wearing what I almost always wear when I need something slightly nicer than jeans: black slacks – from The Limited, no less - a plain black long-sleeved T-shirt, and boots. There was a time in my life – long ago and far away – when just wearing all black was a "statement", and people regarded nervously someone who was dressed so. That day is over. Soccer moms wear all black now. But I just haven't quite admitted that to myself, because I am so not a fashionista.

I noticed that almost all of my friends were also dressed down. Max was wearing jeans and a cotton shirt. (Though it was black.) Allena was wearing jeans and one of Monk's tank tops. And I'm pretty sure I remember Malixe wearing basic black jeans and shirt. So I was smiling to myself over the fact that three of the people who I knew to be quite advanced and ferocious BDSM players were really not dressing the part. Four, if you count me. (Lydia was the exception. She was dressed up in a very fetching little fetishy outfit, and she is a disturbingly creative sadist. Lydia has a way of laughing that makes even me a little uneasy.)

But I've observed this phenomenon more than once at Seattle fetish events over the years. I wouldn't exactly say that the newer/less truly kinky the person is, the more dressed up they are – that's not quite right, although sometimes it would be an easy conclusion to jump to.

But I do think that once you get to a certain place in BDSM, you realize that fetish clothes really don't matter so much. You no longer need to bolster up your sense of yourself as a kinkster, or to prove something to other people. If you just like them – and lots of good people do, including me occasionally - that's fine. But they become non-essential.

In spite of the fact that Max wasn't dressed up, he apparently got a bit toppy with one woman. A female acquaintance approached him, bringing with her a second woman, who promptly informed him that she was there to grovel to him. Max has no philosophical objections to strangers groveling to him, but as he said to me later, he likes to know why.

After some more conversation it became clear that she was groveling with the hopes of getting into the sold-out Bondage Intensive class he's teaching next weekend. (She wasn't actually down on the floor, in case you're wondering. This was apparently to be sort of a verbal groveling.)

Max kindly but firmly said no dice, the class is full and that's it. They had a discussion about some private lessons, which she seemed interested in. Max finished by saying, with a smile, "And by the way, I like the wrist cuffs you're wearing, and I'd be happy to take a rain check on the groveling."

Looking slightly startled, the woman allowed as how she was really more of a dominant than a submissive.

Max replied, "Well, if you're dominant, you should make eye contact with me when you have a conversation with me." Because she wasn't. Looking down and away while you talk to someone isn't exactly the best way to come across as all domly and shit. (Never mind the whole issue of groveling and wearing wrist cuffs.)

He was telling me this story over dinner afterwards, and I asked, "So? Did she make eye contact with you after that?"
"Yeah, she kinda did that slightly wide-eyed, I'm-not-looking-away thing."

Oh, that's not quite right either, although I'm not really sure what the truly domly thing to do what have been there. And Max has a way of putting one in a position where no matter which way you go, he's gotcha. Either way, her fetishy outfit didn't seem to be doing her much good.

Maybe I Should Get A Septum Piercing Or Something…

Because I must look too normal. I realized this last Wednesday evening when I was changing clothes in the locker room at Gold's on Broadway after my workout. A woman I'd not seen around before walked in, set down her bag on the next bench over from mine and started getting her gear out.

She was a very butch woman – I mean, so butch you might have mistaken her for a guy. Unless, of course you'd spent a lot of time around butch women, the way I have. Most of my female lovers have been pretty butchy. I've always enjoyed that feminine-blending-into-masculine energy. And then I married a transman, so I'm well-acquainted with all the shades of gender expression a female-bodied person can achieve.

I was struck by this particular woman because she very closely resembled an ex-lover of mine, whom I just saw last week for the first time in – god, it must be well over a year. Frankly, although I wish her well, it's always a little unsettling for me to see her. (Especially when she flirts with me, as she did last week.) This woman and I went through a couple of rather tumultuous cycles of breaking-up/getting-back-together, and while I wouldn't exactly say she broke my heart, she chipped it a bit. It was a highly emotional connection for me, and while it's been about eight years since we broke up the last time, seeing her still arouses in me an uncomfortable mix of affection and pain.

So I suppose this woman in the Gold's locker room must have seen me glance at her a couple of times, and maybe she caught an odd expression on my face, because she turned to me, and said in this half-defensive, half-condescending tone of voice, "Yes, I am a woman."

Christ, I thought, do you have me pegged wrong. Aloud I said, "Yes, I was just thinking you look kinda like my ex-girlfriend."

She had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed, muttered something vaguely apologetic and retreated to the bathroom stalls.

But I thought, God, do I look that straight? That's scary. Okay, I don't have a labrys tattooed on my ass, but still… And I know butch women get a lot of shit for walking around in the world looking and acting like they do. But for god's sake, we're on Broadway, in the queer Mecca – lighten up, sister. I hate to think how you'd have reacted if I'd been cruising you.

I related this story to Max over dinner, and then we recalled another women's locker room story of mine that's rather at the other end of the scale. We used to work out at Olympic Athletic Club in Ballard, and they have a big, sort of open shower/hot tub area in the women's locker room. Now, Ballard's not a big gay area, but one day when Max and I were working out, I spotted two cute women who were clearly queer, and lovers. One of them I'd describe as a tomboy-femme, and the other – well, let's call her butch-of-center. Nice, I thought, and then went on through my workout.

Later, I got undressed in the locker room and went down the tiled passage to the showers. As I walked, I saw the two cute lesbians sitting in the hot tub, facing me. Now, contrary to porn-video fantasy, women rarely cruise other women, and almost never jump each other in places like, say, gym showers. But still, these two women were most certainly…watching me walk towards them. I could almost hear the strains of "Standing on the corner, watching all the girls go by…"

I took in the fact that they were looking at me, and I happened to be in the mood to play along. So as I walked towards them, I let the towel I was sort of casually holding up to myself slip down a bit to see if I got any reaction.

Definitely watching me. That's nice. Now, the showers are arranged in a semi-circle around the hot tub, so when I got there, I stopped about three feet away from the tub and let the towel fall away from my nude body completely, as I paused to wrestle with the complex issue of just which shower stall I should go into.

Hmm, let's see – that one? (180 degree swivel, toss the hair, arch the back a little bit.) Or, no, maybe that one over there? (Turn back the other way, shoulders back, deep breath.)

I watched from the corner of my eye - they both had smiles well-laced with sensual appreciation, and the butchy one giggled slightly, which caused her girlfriend to jab her in the ribs with her elbow.

Without quite making eye contact, I let a slight smile hover around my lips. Then I hung up my towel on a hook and stepped into one of the stalls.

But - what's this? It looks like someone left a bottle of shampoo in here. Huh, imagine that. Gee, I wonder if it belongs to anyone…

I stepped back out of the stall and took a few steps towards the women in the hot tub, holding out the shampoo bottle. I made eye contact with them, smiled slowly, and then said, in my best magnolia-blossom drawl, I asked, "Is this ya'lls shampoo?"

The butch woman stared at me wordlessly for a moment like she'd been struck by lightning. It was charming. Then, as if reflexively, she shook her head and said, "No."

But the minute after she said it, she sort of squeezed her eyes closed and put her hand up over her face. You could see her mentally kicking herself and thinking, "Fuck! Why did I say that?"

The femme gave her an affectionate, pitying smile and said to me in velvety tones, "Oh – I'm not sure… Can I see it?" and held out her hand to me.

So I walked closer to her, letting my hips sway a trifle more than is my custom, bent over the tub slightly – barely audible intake of breath from the butch – and handed the femme the white plastic bottle. As I hung over the water, the steam rose gently from the tub, misting my face with warm, dewy beads. She turned the bottle over in her hands a few times, and then looked up at me.

"No, I don't think it's ours," she said. But she didn't hand it back to me. She just looked at me.

It's hard to say what would have happened if we’d been alone. Based on my experience of how non-casual-sex-oriented most women are, I can't really make myself believe these women would have seriously made a pass at me – but I suppose anything's possible.

However, we were not alone in the locker room, and at that moment, another woman walked into the shower area. I cocked an eyebrow and smiled at the femme, who gave the tiniest shrug and smile and handed me back the bottle. The butch woman sank a little lower in the water and grinned sheepishly at me from under her wet bangs. I went and took my shower, and when I came out, they were gone. A droll and gently erotic little exchange that left me smiling.

So, as promised, another video clip about the "The Weakest Kink" contest. Roman will be posting some text about it on his blog later this afternoon as well.
Now I'm off into my day - more later...

From The Photo Gallery

Self-portrait, taken sometime late in 2000. That's a metal grate I picked up at The Re-store over in Ballard. I have no idea what it's original purpose was, but I just liked the shape of it.
It was shot on my old Nikon Coolpix 950, with a single tungsten spotlight, and a white paper backdrop.
This is one of the first prints I ever succeeded in selling online, and it's one of my favorite color pieces.

From a recent email:

Mistress Matisse, you talk so much about where you're going and what you're doing – aren't you ever afraid that one of your clients will come and find you? What would you do if you ever ran into one of your clients in public?

This is what I call "a preconceived idea question". To do the issue justice, not only do I need to answer the question, I have to untangle the assumption that prompted it.

No, I'm not ever afraid that one of my clients will seek me out at a social event. It happens on a regular basis and I'm quite fine with it. Why shouldn't I be? I have nothing to hide. And I certainly don't mind having a few minutes of chat with a client I meet at a fetish event – if for no other reason than because it frequently means I'll get a phone call for an appointment soon after.

There have been a very few occasions when a client tried to take up a little too much of my time at a fetish party. It wasn't a malicious thing on their part – it was just a manifestation of their attraction to me and their general excitement at being there. A gentle verbal nudge has always taken care of the situation.

And I do run into my clients in non-fetish settings once in a while. It doesn't upset me. (Unless I look scruffy, in which case I'm mortified. Reason number thirty-seven never to leave the house without mascara.) Even if we're in the most vanilla of places, it's not like we have the words "Mistress" and "slave" tattooed on our foreheads. If, while we're browsing linens at Bed, Bath, and Beyond, a certain guy in a baseball cap and a polo shirt smiles and says hello to me, and I smile back at him, no one around us knows the precise nature of our acquaintance. No harm, no foul.

I once ran into a favored client while eating pizza at Piecora's on Capitol Hill. I happened to be with another woman who is an escort. He made eye contact with me and gave me a unmistakable "can I acknowledge you?" look. When I waved him over, he came and sat in our booth for ten minutes, while a table full of his basketball-buddies visibly seethed with curiosity about who the hot babes he was flirting with were. I'm told he took great pleasure in being mysterious about it.

That was entertaining. But since I do recognize that not everyone makes the same choices I do, my rule with clients is that in public – including fetish events – I will pretend not to know them, unless we've previously agreed that it's okay to do otherwise. If they want to approach me, that's fine. Based on what I'm doing at the moment, I may just give them a smile and a quick hello, or I may have time to chat a bit. But it's never a problem.

In fact, the only thing I worry about is bumping into a client when he's with his wife or girlfriend. You see, I'm told I have an expressive face, and my concern is that the significant other might be able to tell that I knew her guy. I'd hate to create a problem for one of my harem.

The thing about questions like this is that they presuppose an adversarial relationship with clients, and that's so not the case with me. I do not fear being stalked or harassed by my clients, and since everyone who knows me knows what I do, I don't fear being "exposed" by them in any way. I guess it's not the case with every woman in the industry, but my regular group of guys – well, they're just fabulous, that's all, and I'm quite happy with them.

Amusingly, the one "oh, shit" moment I can remember happened with a young woman. She'd been to a class I taught at Toys In Babeland, and then, a week or so later, I ran into her at the Broadway QFC. She looked across the produce department at me and cried out in a penetrating voice, "Hey, it's Mistress Matisse!"

Now, that's not the best plan under any circumstances. But I was extra jumpy because my mom was in town visiting me at the time. Luckily for me, she wasn't in the store with me. But it would have been a bit awkward if she had been, and so I spoke to girl and (politely, I hope) told her to please not call out my name like that.

So: discreet, but friendly – that's how I handle it...

I've been out of the house almost all afternoon - I went and saw Roman's new workspace, and it's way cool. (Very clean, too.) Then he and I cruised around Georgetown a bit, and then I went off to the gym.
When I got home, I found a very interesting email from the good people at OnFuego.com, which I'll talk more about later. But, the short version is: the first video clip is live. You can see it here. Enjoy!

Well, the video is now ready, but I'm having a technical difficulty with Onfuego.com. Hopefully it'll be resolved with an hour or two, and then I'll post the link.
This clip doesn't say all that much that I didn't talk about in the original post. There will be a couple of other clips this week that will feature Roman and I discussing just exactly how we're going to "challenge" our contestants, and I'll talk a bit about things I might do to the woman we wind up playing with at Kinkfest. Stay tuned for that.

Meanwhile, since it's Monday, I'm busy writing a Control Tower column and putting together the Kink Calendar. So until I get done with that, be entertained by these links…

Another video clip - this one is an absolutely hilarious clip of women getting their pubes waxed. I've never done this – shaving's always been good enough for me. And now I know I made the right decision! I like certain kinds of pain, but that doesn't look like fun to me. However, I could enjoy being the waxer...
(Link snagged from Mithras.)

A red-light district in Liverpool? England's first prostitution tolerance zone could be set up within months after councillors in Liverpool approved the move.

Closer to home: Houston Officers Can Now Get Naked To Arrest Prostitutes. Don't you feel safer knowing that?

Okay, I lied. The video clip isn't ready. I spent yesterday afternoon at the gym, and then we went out to dinner and to the Wet Spot. Max had a date to deliver a first-single-tail scene to a charming high-capacity girl we know. Of course, a bunch of our friends turned up to watch, so it was quite the social night at the WS.
The scene was lovely. I'm guessing Liss will be writing about it, so I won't scoop her. But it was quite delightful to watch, and my thanks to all the Wet Spot volunteers who moved furniture around to suit Max's playspace needs, and got me (and Tambo, too) a chair so I wouldn't have to stand the whole time.
So I'll do a quick-and-dirty edit on the video and throw it up tomorrow, I swear. We do have one contestant already, and some other people who are sort of dithering. My attitude is: whatever happens is cool. I feel pretty certain of having a good time at Kinkfest, one way or another. With both Max and Roman there, how could I not?

The Contest

It all began when Roman and I started talking about our possible plans for KinkFest, the upcoming BDSM convention in Portland. Now, he and I very much enjoy our informal, give-and-take style of SM play. Anarchist SM, I call it. But it seemed like it might be time to do something more like a traditional BDSM scene. And since we're both shameless exhibitionists, what better place to do it than in front of several hundred other kinksters? So we decided we should take the opportunity at Kinkfest to co-top someone (meaning: the two of us ganging up on one bottom).

But who? We both have a number of charming friends and acquaintances that might enjoy our evil attentions….Somehow, though, that just didn't seem like what we wanted for this.

We considered just cruising the dungeon to see what fell into our net. But that seemed a little too haphazard.

Truthfully, I don't recall which of us came up with the idea of a contest on the blogs. But, somehow, the idea that we would open this up to our readers was born. (Probably because of the all the ladies Roman has swooning over him. I'm just piggybacking here.)

We formed a concept not unlike a reality television show. We'll set out the rules and the eligibility requirements, there will be tests and challenges, and then at the end of it all, we'll pick a winner, and Roman and I will do a dungeon-stopping scene with her at Kinkfest.

The Rules, and Who Can Play

Well, obviously, you need to be going to Kinkfest. Sorry, we don't actually have a reality TV show budget, so we're not buying anyone a plane ticket.

Now I must deal a crushing blow to half the human race, because this contest is for girls only. Sorry boys, you know I love you, but Roman has this kinky-interest meter, and it doesn't go up for men. God knows I've tried to get him into some hot guy-on-guy action, but so far, he's declined. Plus, I've gotten a fair amount of complaints lately from certain people about my relentlessly Y-chromosome dance card, and it seems like it's time to address that. So, women only in this contest.

This is a big one: We cannot already know you. We're intrigued by the idea of meeting someone new. If you're a local friend of ours, and you'd like Roman and me to be mean to you, talk to us about that privately. This time out, we're looking for a sexy stranger.

Another uber-important rule: you must be an experienced, high-capacity SM player. There are times when it's charming to take someone who's brand new and slowly and carefully introduce them to the joys of kink. This ain't one of those times. I'm a safe but serious sadist, ladies, and I want to rock and roll at this party. Oh, and you have to be okay getting naked and playing in a public dungeon. We're not completely ruling out some private interaction, but it's more likely that the entire scene will be done in the Kinkfest playspace.

About sex: there will not be any with me. I'm not looking for that. Roman? Well, boys will be boys, and if you want to, and he wants to, I might be entertained by watching that. But we're definitely not expecting sex from you.

You must be willing to have your picture on the internet. Oh yeah, did we mention we're going to be posting all the entries? It'll be like the "American Idol" of BDSM scenes. Roman and I will block out your face before we post them if you insist on that, and we won't publish your name, your email address or any other identifying info about you. (Unless you ask us to.)

But in the photos you send us – and you will definitely be sending us pictures – we will have to see your face. I am quite clear that I'm not doing this scene with someone who won't show me her face beforehand.

(There will be no pictures of the scene itself, because public dungeons forbid such photo-taking. But we're certain to write about it.)

So your photos, your responses to our challenges, and Roman and my responses to them will all be posted online. Each week, we'll eliminate some contestants and some will go on.

Assuming we get any takers at all in this mad scheme, it should be a hell of a lot of fun.

And now, just because one has to say such things: The scene will be negotiated and it'll be completely safe, sane and consensual. Nothing will happen you didn't agree to. There will be other people around the whole time, so you know for sure you won't wind up in an oil drum somewhere. Obviously you know who we are, so you can check up on us, if you feel that's necessary.

If you're interested, send Roman and me an email telling us about yourself, and attach a picture, or direct us to a website where a picture of you can be seen. Spelling and punctuation will count for this email, and for all other communications you have with us, so run it through a spell-checker before you send it off.

If you'd like to hear a bit more from us about the contest and the weekly challenges we'll be putting our potential play-partners through, I'll be posting a video clip tomorrow of us talking more about it. Stay tuned for that...

People, I must tell you: if you leave me a voicemail that's longer than about thirty seconds, I'm probably going to think you're kinda weird. Okay, maybe forty-five. But if you leave me some three-minute rambling stream-of-consciousness message - especially if I don't know you – I will most likely think, "This person's gauge of appropriate social interaction is a little off. Maybe they're stoned. Maybe they didn't take their medication today. But wow, I really don't want to call them back."
I'm just saying. So now you know.

In other news…Roman and I had a date last night, and we took time out from having rabid ferret sex to shoot some video footage about a kinky little idea we've cooked up that could, possibly, involve you. Yes, I said you. We'll be making an interesting announcement tomorrow, so watch for that.

Now I have to go change the sheets…

Ring Ring!

Me: Hello?
Caller: Is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes it is.
Caller: Yes, I was wondering if you'd turn me into a woman?

Has sort of a through-the-looking-glass sound to it, doesn't it? This caller actually isn't expecting me to wave a magic wand over him, and he isn't even expecting me to prescribe him hormones and schedule him for surgery. He's looking for a heavy feminization scene - and he's doomed to disappointment, because I don't do that. It's just not a fetish of mine, and as Roman always says, "One must play to one's strengths."

It's not that I can't enjoy a boy in high heels. If you're a guy who wants to put on a bra and a garter belt and play "naughty-girl-who-gets-what's-coming-to-her", I'm down with that. Or if you just like the silky feel of the lingerie next to your skin, I'm quite fine with that, too.

But I don't do complete transformations on people, with wigs and makeup and padded bras and girdles and their cocks duct-taped up between their legs, and that's what this caller wants. And even if one assumes it's possible for someone to teach a man how to be a woman, I don't do that. That's a sub-specialty of professional dominance, and I leave it to the women who are good at it, because I'm not.

At least he isn't asking for the "forced-feminization" thing. I can sort of deal with that game, if it's kept at a very light and playful level. But, as I've said here before, I find the idea that I would seriously punish or humiliate a man by making him resemble a woman incredibly misogynistic, so it's rare for me to even dabble in that dynamic.

Me: You know, that's not really a specialty of mine. If you want to dress for a scene, that's fine, but I don't do serious feminization training.
Caller: Oh – you don't?
Me: No, I'm sorry. I know there are some other ladies in town who do, though. Have you called Mistress X?
Caller: It's just that – oh, you're so beautiful, I really wanted you to train me.
Me: That's very sweet, but, it's just not something I'm really into, so – I don't offer it.
Caller: So you've never trained a sissy-slave?

See, even the terminology for this turns me off. "Sissy-slave". I don't like that word.

Me: No, as I said, I'm just not into it.
Caller: Well, I'm very submissive and obedient, and if you'd just give me a try I really think I could please you. And then maybe you could teach me to be your little sissy-slave.

I love how people try to get me to change my mind about not playing with them by emphasizing how submissive they are. Am I the only one who sees the contradiction in terms here?

Me: No.
Caller: But Mistress, please, if you tried it, maybe you'd really like it!
Me: Listen to me carefully, because I'm about to tell you something you apparently don't already know: you cannot talk someone into sharing your fetish. You need to find someone else who's into this – but I'm not, so goodbye.

Click. I hang up. Better luck elsewhere, Miss Thing.

A note to my regular clients: I had a last-minute cancellation today - bad boy! But his loss could be your gain: I would be available to do a same-day appointment today anytime after 3pm. I'm busy all morning, but I'll start returning messages at noon...

What I'm reading these days…

Gentleman Spies: Intelligence Agents in the British Empire and Beyond, by John Fisher. The evolution of the British foreign intelligence bureau from before WW1. Not well-written, I'm afraid, but there's lots of interesting pieces of information in the jumbled-up writing. So I'm skipping around, reading a page here and there and skimming the rest.

Maiden of Tonnerre: The Vicissitudes of the Chevalier and the Chevaliaere D'Eon by Charles D'Eon de Beaumont, Nina Ekstein (Translator), Roland A. Champagne (Translator)
This one is so complicated I'll just let you read the publisher's blurb…
"Chevalier d'Eon de Beaumont was born in 1728. Raised as a boy, he was educated as a lawyer and entered the service of Louis XV as a diplomat. In 1756 he was sent to the Russian imperial court as a spy and was said to have dressed as a young woman to gain the confidence of the Empress Elizabeth. He later served in Russia (as a man) as secretary to the French ambassador. Returning to France in 1761, he was appointed a captain of the elite Dragoons and, after the Treaty of Paris in 1762, went to England as a diplomat and spy. During that time persistent rumors that he was in fact a woman arose, and he did nothing to dispel them. By 1777 he was officially recognized as female in both England and France. Recalled to France, he was reluctantly compelled by Louis XVI to give up his male attire. In 1785 he began to compose his autobiography, which presented much of his experience in religious terms, and he moved back to London. He lived there as a woman until his death in 1810, at which time his body was discovered to be unambiguously male." This volume includes the first English translations of d'Eon's autobiography (or "historical epistle") and other writings by d'Eon on his life, religious beliefs, and stories of women who concealed their sex to enter religious orders. As historian Gary Kates notes in the introduction, d'Eon's writing can be read on at least two levels: while it ostensibly tells the story of a woman who spent half her life as a man, it is in fact also the story of a man who spent half his life as a woman. As such it demonstrates both the construction and transgression of gender boundaries and historical narrative."

Whew. Complex - but interesting.

A Singular Hostage by Thalassa Ali. Sort of an adventure/romance novel, set in 1830's India. Good for light bedtime reading.

Elements of Fiction Writing Series: Scene and Structure, by Jack M Bickham. I like this whole series, it's very nuts-and-bolts, and while this one is almost - how shall I say, mathematical? - in it's approach, I got a lot out of it.

Chocolate: A Bittersweet Saga of Dark and Light, by Mort Rosenblum. I've just started nibbling at this one, a sort of cultural/historical look at the sweet stuff. It does tend to make one hungry.

God's Secretaries: The Making of The King James Bible by Adam Nicolson. Set a bit earlier than my favorite historical period, which is post-1750. But well-written and interesting just the same.

Mistress Ruby Ties it Together by Robin Shamburg. A short account of the author's experience as a pro dom in New York City. I'm unimpressed – she's not a bad writer, but her characters are one-dimensional and she's too eager to distance herself from the whole thing to really give us any insight into them, or herself. She's not really kinky, you see, she just did it for the money. As far as I'm concerned, that's an instant credibility-killer.

Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel: A Novel, by Susanna Clarke. Hmmn, what to say about this book? Aside from the fact that it's 800 pages and so big and bulky you could use it to club seals. The publisher says, "Susanna Clarke's ingenious first novel has the cleverness and lightness of touch of the Harry Potter series, but is less a fairy tale of good versus evil than a fantastic comedy of manners, complete with elaborate false footnotes, occasional period spellings, and a dense, lively mythology teeming beneath the narrative."
It didn't remind me of Harry Potter – those books read quickly and easily, and this book is very densely written. It is interesting, in a slogging-through-waist-high-water sort of way. But rather tiring to read, and coming from a muscular reader like me, that's saying something.

Busy girl today, so, some other things to amuse you...

Naked Girl Pics: This is what was going on in the cage in my bedroom last week. What a time to be sick! I was utterly unable to appreciate it properly, but even in my feverish state, I was pleased it was happening. Candy Girl and Rossi are not only pretty, they're cool girls...

Anyone ever tried this stuff? I hear it's big fun for those sensitive places...

Interesting article about Poly in the Denver Post. It's not bad, although it makes it sound like we're all perenially chasing new partners. Not me, I'm quite pleased with my little family.

Addendum: An ABC News story about the Extreme Associates case....

Local note: I'm looking for a plumber who does natural-gas work. I need a consult for a light-industrial application, preferably within the week. (I'm pursuing this off-line, of course, but I believe in putting what you want out to the universe. You never know.)

Now I'm off to renew my car tabs. Yes, my life is just one non-stop kinky orgy...