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It's linky goodness…

This week's column and Kink Calendar.

I noticed that I actually didn't post a link to last week's column, so here's that…

Note to self: buy yellow bandanna for Sean Nelson.

What am I thinking about current events….?

I think I'm appalled that the Supreme Court is trampling all over the 5th Amendment.

I think I want this book.

Would I burn a flag myself? No. Do I want the Constitution amended to ban it? No.

I'm not a big Tom Cruise fan, I think he's acting seriously weird lately, and I think the whole Katie Holmes thing is a sham. But my sympathy is entirely with him in the matter of this guy squirting water into his face. I think he handled it completely appropriately. (Click "Watch Now!" to see the video.)

I am thrilled that the AMA is going to take action on the infuriating issue of pharmacists refusing to fill prescriptions – and sometimes refusing to even return them to the patient. They damn well should. Pharmacists lecturing their customers about their legally-prescribed drugs? Fucking outrageous!

I have fond memories of riding down Broadway on the back of my girlfriend's Virago in the "Dykes On Bikes" segment of the march, and so I like the idea of Gay Pride on Capitol Hill. But I refuse to get agitated about it. I'll be out of town this year, anyway. But to all of you who go: Happy Pride Day!

I was going to write something desperately clever for today, but I'm too bloody tired. It's been sort of non-stop lately, and looking at my calendar, that's going to continue for a few more days.

I have some sweet boys to torment today, and then I'm shooting with Tommy Edwards tomorrow. And let me tell you, posing for Tommy is work. Or an experience in masochism, or something. He twists you into some insane pose, says "Don't move", and then starts twiddling with the lights, while you're standing there in four-inch heels with your shoulder where your kidneys usually are, every major muscle group trembling with the effort of holding the position.

But then when you see yourself in the photo, the pose looks so natural, as if you were perfectly relaxed and at ease. Such is Tommy's brand of painful magic. He's extremely good at what he does.

Saturday evening I'm going to a new erotic event being put on by my pal Jeff Hengst and his Little Red Studio troupe. I'm actually taking Roman to that instead of Max, since Max already had a play date booked with a certain dark-haired elfin cutie. And that's sort of sweet, since Saturday is actually the one-year anniversary of my first date with Roman.

And then on Sunday Roman and I are going off to spend two days alone, here.



We'd decided we wanted to spend a weekend at a very private little cottage somewhere. I was originally thinking of a renting a beach house, but I ran across the website for this little mountain cabin on the Skykomish river and liked the looks of it. It's quite secluded, which was a big selling point. We're going spend two days just relaxing and hanging out in quiet and privacy.

(With maybe just a little noisy Vulcan Klingon sex.)

(Okay, maybe a lot.)

Anyway, Roman's been menu-planning for days, since he is the designated chef. It's a good thing I'm shooting before we go, because I bet we both gain a pound or two. The cabin has an internet connection, so perhaps we'll do a weekend update. Or maybe not, if we're all tied up.

Sex-Positive? I Don't Think So.

So, Max and I sat down last night to watch a short video. It was a taped episode of a show on the Playboy Channel, Sexetera, and one part of it featured some riggers down in the Bay Area, the Two Knotty Boys. They've been around for a while, so of course we've heard of them, and Max has met them (or at least one of them, I'm not sure). They teach rope bondage classes and do demos like Max does, so he was interested to see the segment.

Anyway, the Knotty Boys themselves seemed cool. But jesus, the "reporter" the Playboy channel had doing the segment was the single most annoying woman I have ever seen. She acted like a classic ditzy blonde, and she talked in a very affected, fakey manner, over-emphasizing too many words and wiggling her eyebrows "suggestively" with every sentence she uttered.

And her behavior towards the people she was interviewing - the Knotty Boys, the bondage models, and the spectators - was really bothersome to Max and I. She asked inane questions, made dumb remarks and laughed inappropriately. And then, while one of the Knotty Boys was doing a suspension on someone, she picked up the long cord of the mike she was holding and whipped him on the butt with it.

Oh. My. God. I about fell off the couch. That is so incredibly rude, that is so unbelievably offensive, and that is so NOT what BDSM is about. "Gee, I have this cord in my hand and there's someone standing with his back to me. He hasn't agreed to this, and I don't have the slightest reason to believe that he'd like it, but I'm just gonna whack him with it anyway." Jesus, that pissed me off.

So Max and I shook our heads about that, and congratulated the Knotty Boy in question for not immediately turning around and smacking her back, since she'd demonstrated that she didn't see the need to bother with negotiation or consent. Stupid cow.

Then - oh, that regretted moment - we decided to fast-forward to another segment, about an outfit in Florida that throws fetish parties. And to cover that story, they sent not one, but two of the most annoying men I have ever seen on TV. Two youngish frat-house types, incapable of finishing a sentence without larding it with lame double-entendres. They were sniggering and elbowing each other ceaselessly as they walked around the fetish party - which looked to me a lot like a kinky swingers party, as opposed to what I would think of as a dungeon party. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

But their whole mien was "Oooo, lookit the freaks!" Of course, for the special interview, they found a person whose BDSM experience is guaranteed to totally squick Hometown America: a castration fetishist. Now, I'm sure he's a perfectly decent person, but a guy who actually has had his balls cut off in a scene is really not representative of the BDSM community as a whole. In all my years as a pervert, I've never met anyone who really did the castration thing, and honey, if I ain't seen it, it ain't typical.

After they finished flipping out over him - "Dude, you had your balls cut off? No way! Dude, that's like, crazy, man! Did it, like, hurt so good? Hyuh hyuh hyuh!" - then they walked around the party some more, tried to talk to people who were playing, and pointed the camera at all the boobies they could find. And, oh, of course, they also went up to random people and hit them. Naturally.

So, gee, Playboy, thanks for being so insulting and portraying us as freaks and weirdos. If anyone needs a nonconsensual whack on the ass, it's you.

Various

I've got a busy week lined up - I know: a busy week? Me? Who'd a-thunk it? (Oh, just everyone who knows me, that's all.) And I wasn't at all happy about beginning it by being caught in the downtown traffic jam caused by the Federal Courthouse shooting. (Or, I should say: caused by the cops having the streets all blocked off around the courthouse.)

Apparently the guy who got shot was known by police - there was a story about him in Real Change not long ago, and he contributed to a blog called The Hate Male Post. If you want to read it, it's a blogspot site, just backspace out mistressmatisse in the window up there and type in hatemalepost. But I'm not linking to it because I don't want them tracing the traffic to me. I have a feeling we wouldn't get along so well.

No one stuck in the gridlock knew what was going on - a fire? A bomb? Anthrax mail? A pop star on trial for child molestation? But whatever the crisis was, I was determined to fight my way through to my hair salon on 6th avenue. I mean, a girl has her priorities. But I do admit, at one point, to thinking, I hope this isn't like the first half hour of one of those disaster movies, where all the portents of doom seem trivial, and and then Godzilla or the aliens or whoever shows up and things start exploding and buildings start falling over. That would suck.

But no alien attack today, and I got my hair done, so life is good. (For me, anyway. Not such a good day for ol' Perry. But hey, if you walk into the courthouse holding a hand grenade, you cannot expect the armed guards to smile and wish you good day.)

In other news...

As a protest about the many impossibly pretentious, not to mention badly written, BDSM personal ads, a clever LiveJournaler wrote this hilarious ditty...

Ever wondered about how to get started doing phone sex? I've never done it myself - not professionally, anyway - and I understand it's not the cash cow it used be back in the eighties, but here's some advice from an expert.

It's gross, but it still makes me smile.

Guys, do not sign up. Do not give them your picture, and most importantly, do not give them any money.

On the other hand... I tried to read this and it sort of made my brain hurt, so I stopped. Perhaps I lack holistic consciousness.

I just want to mention that in spite of my having caught her at a bad angle in that blown-up snippet yesterday, Miss Candy is, in fact, a smokin' babe. She's modeling for Miss Rose Algren's new line of fetishwear that's due to hit the street - or rather, the web - any day now, so look for that.

Gossipy

It's Monday again, after a all-too-brief weekend. It was fun, though. Max and I went to a party over at a friend's house Saturday night. It was a good party, with lots of my favorite pals, and I had a good time, in spite of some unusual incidents. You see, we had two women pass out – one of them twice!

That's definitely not a common occurrence. You can read Miss Candy's account of her faints here. Candy is no weak sister – the girl's a personal trainer, for Chrissake, she is strong. And Rossi, the other swooner, is a tough little high-capacity player, too. But vasovagal syncope does sometimes rear its ugly head in kinky situations, and you need to be prepared for it. That's why Max always talks about when he teaches bondage classes.

It's easier when you've got a bunch of people around to help, of course, and everything was fine, no one fell down or was hurt. But three faints in one night – that's wild, I can't ever remember that happing at any play party I've ever been to before.

And of course it had to happen when Roman had invited along two new kids in the community, a very sweet male/female couple who've been coming around the bondage parties and such for a while. They were among the 58 people I kissed a few months ago, and I must say, they were a highlight. They're still pretty new at this, and it was their first private play party. We assured them that fainting trilogies were not common, really. I hope they believed us. Yeesh.




Here's snapshot of the double rope suspension, taken shortly before poor Rossi (on the left) passed out. This is a pretty rigorous position - they are actually up off the floor here, in case you can't tell. Lots of pressure on the chest, and being tied back-to-back like this with someone almost forces you to lock your knees. I'm guessing that Griffin and Max will be thinking of ways to do a modified version of this position that's more sustainable, because passing out is really not the goal here.

As a side note: look at this blown-up snippet from the corner of the shot; it's Roman and Candy!

Omigod, they're demons! They look like the stars of "Village of The Damned: Ten Years After". Maybe they were using their evil psychic powers to torment those poor cute almost-naked girls. You think?)

But as I said, in spite of all that, it was a fun party. Malixe gave me an awesome massage that turned me into a puddle, but I revived with some of J's birthday cake. (It was a pretty high-calorie evening, considering Max and I had gone to dinner before the party with Roman and his wife, and the two New Kids – and we went to yet another great pizza place Roman has turned me on to: Madame K's, over in Ballard. Cake, pizza – jesus, and you people wonder why I spend so much time at the gym.)

I got to give my pal Shane a hug – he's soon to move to Hawaii, and he and his sweetie will be missed here. I saw Jake, and his very sweet date. (But darlin', you really shouldn't tell a roomful of perverts like us that you're a yoga teacher. It just gives us nasty ideas about what kind of ultra-flexible things you could do.)

But I was glad Jake was next to us when Candy fainted. Muscular guy that he is, he was strong enough to hold her up with ease while Max got her out of the corset.

I have a fun bunch of friends, and I'm quite grateful for that. There's something really nice about going to a party where you know you don't have to be "on", you can just relax and hang out with people who know you and like you, even when you don't have your thigh-high boots on.

Biblio-Odyssey

I swear, I treat books like other people treat drugs. One is just a gateway to the next. For example, late last night I finished reading this one: The Napoleon of Crime: The Life and Times of Adam Worth, Master Thief, by Ben Macintyre. "The model for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Professor Moriarty, Adam Worth (1844-1902) was one of the greatest thieves of the Victorian era. Macintyre's entertaining biography traces how the American-born German Jew became the "godfather" of his era."

It's very interesting, and part of it discusses Worth's relationship with the Pinkerton brothers. Lying in bed, I thought: huh, I sort of know who the Pinkertons were, but I don't know much about them. I wonder if there are any books about them.

Of course, it's 2am and I should really turn off the light and go to sleep. But that's the dangerous thing about shopping online. The stores never close. So I get out of bed - good thing Max is a heavy sleeper - and get online, and I quickly turned up this:

The Eye That Never Sleeps: A History of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, by Frank Morn.
Apparently the term "private eye" was coined in response to the Pinkerton's logo, an unblinking eye. Looks good to me, so credit card number and away we go.
But of course, I couldn't stop there. Amazon (damn them!) has those pesky links to other books on related topics, so when I saw this one, I had to click on it:

The Encyclopedia of Police Science, by William G. Bailey. 143 entries covering police duties and techniques, persons and organizations, police issues, crimes, etc. Definitions plus ample historical and conceptual background.

Mmmm, sort of interesting, but not quite my thing. But what's this?

Escapade, by Walter Satterthwait. Set in the 1920s, Satterthwait's novel mixes spiritualism with a locked-room murder mystery in a tale featuring Harry Houdini and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and hero Phil Beaumont, a Pinkerton Operative.

A novel about fictional Pinkerton detectives? And spiritualism, too - another pet topic of mine. Hey, it's only a few bucks, why not.

Other related titles?

The War Between the Spies: A History of Espionage During the American Civil War, by Alan Axelrod.
According the publisher's blurb, the Pinkertons spied for the Yankees. Wow, I didn't know that. Still, I'm not a Civil War buff. Growing up in states where they were still flying that damn rebel flag over goverment buildings kinda ruined any romance about The War of Northern Aggression for me. Still, the history of spying does interest me. (Plus it's 2am and my resistance is down.) Open the page in a new window and put it aside as a maybe.
What else do we have?

Silent Warfare: Understanding the World of Intelligence, by Abram N. Shulsky, Gary J. Schmitt. "The author assesses the three means by which raw intelligence data are gathered--from human sources, by technical means and open-source collection--and describes missions, methods of analysis and practical applications of the 'product'."

Mmmnnn, looks a bit dry and academic - not quite my thing. (Although I wonder if MountainPilot would like it?) Although if it was five bucks or less, I'd probably say 'what the heck' and buy it. But it's not, so on to the next temptation.

The Man Who Would Be King: The First American in Afghanistan, by Ben Macintyre.
While many know Sean Connery as "The Man Who Would Be King," few know 19th-century maverick Josiah Harlan, whose adventures probably inspired John Huston's version of Kipling's tale.

Oooo, now we're talking. 19th century? That's a 'yes, please'. What else ya got, baby?

A Pirate of Exquisite Mind: Explorer, Naturalist, and Buccaneer: The Life of William Dampier
by Diana Preston, Michael Preston.
Seventeenth-century pirate genius William Dampier sailed around the world three times when crossing the Pacific was a major feat, was the first explorer to visit all five continents, and reached Australia eighty years before Captain Cook.

Griffin might like this. And I think I do, too, so into the basket with you, Captain Dampier. But who's this with you, Cap'n?

Skeletons on the Zahara: A True Story of Survival, by Dean King.
Dean King refreshes the popular nineteenth-century narrative once read and admired by Henry David Thoreau, James Fenimore Cooper, and Abraham Lincoln. A page-turning blend of science, history, and classic adventure.

Oh, yeah, add that to the stack. And then get away from the damn computer before you buy anything else, Matisse!

It's a good thing that a book addiction is usually cheaper than a drug addiction – or at least, having one doesn't impact my ability to generate income. I'd hate to have to go around knocking elderly people in the head to get money for my book fix.

You Say It's Your Birthday...

Ring ring!

Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes it is.
Caller: I have a question: do you give birthday discounts?

Jesus, what am I, Denny's?

Me: Do I know you? Have you seen me before?
Caller: No...
Me: Ah. Well, no, I do not give birthday discounts. I do give birthday spankings, though.
Caller: Oh, well - I was just wondering. Because I'd really like to see you, but...

Okay, I think he's going to turn out to be a serious twit, but still, the Marketing Department is going to gather a little information here, because you never know.

Me: How much of a discount were you thinking about?
Caller: Oh, I don't know, half off?

Bbbbbbbzzzzzzzz! That, my friends, was the asshole-alert buzzer going off. Half off? This yabbo, who I've never clapped eyes on in my life, thinks I'm going see him for half my usual fee because (he says) it's his birthday? I wonder if he works for half his usual salary on his boss's birthday?

And I bet you a lollipop he wouldn't want to show me his ID, either.

Me: No, I think that's an unreasonable request. Ten percent would be the absolute most I'd be willing to grant to a new person.
Caller: So that would be fifty dollars off?

I'd love to be a server who waited on this guy.

Me: No, that would be twenty-five dollars.
Caller: Oh, I don't think I can swing that. Can you do any better for me?

Christ, now he thinks he's at a car lot.

Me: No, but I could do a great deal worse for you.
Caller: What?
Me: I can't help you. Sorry. Better luck elsewhere. Goodbye.
Click.

Gee, I forgot to wish him a happy birthday...

What's happening in my world: well, Max went up to Bellingham to teach a rope bondage class last night, and he decided to take Maura along and stay overnight. And I had a very nice date with Roman, which involved: a pizza from Stellar's, a lot of stories about the LA trip, several condoms, and playing the new Nine Inch Nails album quite loudly. It's got a really good beat, if you know what I mean. We were both feeling pretty relaxed at the end of the evening.

So, no long post today. But here are some entertaining links...

An extremely amusing little video about the joys and travails of poly.

A sweet boy blogs about his scene with Max at Shibaricon.

I'm a word fetishist, and it bugs me when people - especially writers - use them incorrectly, even if it's slang. So I can appreciate this post by Trixtah.

I know it's a gag site. (As well as a clever marketing ploy, note the link that says "click here if you want to buy sex toys.") And yes, it is kinda funny. In a really icky sort of way.

The Stare

I think of myself as being a pretty sophisticated person when it comes to, shall we say, the sexual dynamics of the human male. But sometimes you boys puzzle me.

Okay, here's what happening. I work out at the gym three times a week. (At least.) And there's a guy who works there, who I see about every time I go in, and I'm confused by the signals I'm getting from him. It's not what he says - he always does the "Hey, how are you? Have a good workout?" thing that all the employees do. That's perfectly fine.

But lately I've noticed: he stares at me. I mean, he really stares at me.

That's not completely inexplicable, although God knows I definitely don't look my best when I work out. If anyone knows a way I can run for five miles and look all fresh and pretty at the end of it, let me know. I have not discovered the trick of this. But hey, the guy works at a gym, maybe he's learned to eroticize red-faced girls who are streaming with sweat.

Now usually when I work out, Max is with me. Interestingly, although Max and I are very clearly a couple, this does not seem to faze Gym Guy at all. Granted, he does not stare as much when I'm walking by holding Max's hand. But neither has he ever displayed the "hey, she's cute – but, oh, she's taken" attitude.

So, several weeks go by, I see him staring at me whenever I'm there, and I just shrug it off, although it makes me ever-so-mildly uncomfortable. It's not that I feel threatened, not at all. It's just that when I'm working out, I don't want to think about what I look like. But when I see some guy looking at me that way, I am suddenly reminded that my hair is slick with sweat and I probably have mascara smudges under my eyes. It's distracting. One the reasons I love my gym is that many, many of the men who work out there are gay, and honey, those gym queens could care less about me. They are quite focused on a) themselves and b) other cute men. I prefer it that way.

Then one day last week, Max – who is a reluctant jock at best - plays hooky. So I was working out alone, and there was Gym Guy – staring.

And frankly, it was starting to get to me. Or rather, the fact that he just stared and did nothing else. It was confusing. Some days I'd tell myself, Matisse, you're making too much of it. Look at him, he's a dark-skinned guy, he may come from a culture with a longer social-looking time than here, and you're totally misinterpreting him.

I'd mentioned the matter to Max, who, after some observation, said "Yeah, I see what you mean. Do you think he knows you're Mistress Matisse?"

I shrugged. "It's possible." One the female employees had recognized me a few months ago and done the "hey-aren't-you…?" routine. She could have told other people, so who knows, maybe Gym Guy was just staring at me because I'm a dominatrix who writes about kinky things in the paper. I told myself there were all kinds of other ways to interpret The Stare.

But then I'd make eye contact with him and think: No. I am not misinterpreting this.

Which doesn't make him an evil guy, of course. In fact, I'm sure Gym Guy is perfectly nice, and he's not at all bad-looking. But I'm not interested. I feel like I've tried to waft off the "I'm not interested" vibe to him. However, some guys just don't pick up on cues, so you have to let them make the approach, and then politely turn them down.

So that day I thought to myself, Okay, let's just nip this in the bud. After I worked out, I showered and dried my hair and fixed my face, and generally returned myself to a reasonably presentable state. And then I went out into the lobby area and plunked myself down on one of the couches near the front desk. And I waited.

Look, here I am, all alone, no boyfriend, sitting here alone on the couch flipping through a magazine. Come hit on me so I can say no thank you, okay?

Ten minutes or so tick by. But did Gym Guy come over and talk to me? No. He did not.

Okay, clearly I had been misinterpreting him. Fine. I'll get over myself.

Back in the gym a few days later, and there he is. Staring. Later that evening, I was in the adjacent grocery store and I saw him there, and he saw me, and I swear to god, if he'd been a dog, he would have been pointing.

I'm completely perplexed, because if I was displaying the kind of behavior he's displaying, I'd be making a move on someone. All this heightened awareness with no follow-through confuses me. And it's getting on my nerves, because it's like waiting for the other shoe to drop. That sounds really bitchy – "oh, woe is me, I have to wait for this guy to hit on me so I can shoot him down". I don't mean it in a nasty way – but I spend six hours or so a week at the gym, and I just want to work out without having to deal with the energy. But at this point, I'm not sure what I can do except continue to ignore The Stare.

Wow, Micheal Jackson got off scot-free. I'm surprised.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

TGIF

Those of you who enjoy the "phone calls" posts will probably enjoy this week's column...

I had no idea what a sex-positive country Germany was...

Okay, 'fess up: who watched "Hit Me Baby One More Time" last night on NBC? I never watch TV but I read about this show and thought "Oh my GOD, Roman and I so have to watch that!" Because we are total 80's music whores, oh yes we are. We know all the bands, we know all the lyrics, there vast swathes of our brains devoted to Foreigner, LoverBoy, The Bangles, Duran Duran, Falco, et cetera. (Rock me Amadeus!)

It was big fun. Haddaway (What is love? Baby don't hurt me...) looked and sounded great, and Roman and I realized it's now impossible not to do that sideways thing with one's head whenever one hears that song. Such is the power of the Roxbury guys.

And wow, I hadn't realized that Martha Davis from The Motels was performing here in town at Teatro Zinzani.

I thought Tommy Tutone should have won. But - as Roman predicted - he was upset by that total white-boy dweeb, Vanilla Ice! Roman and I were stunned to learn that Tommy Tutone lives in Portland and is now a computer programmer. And then to have him be beaten by Vanilla Ice? Oh, the horror of it all. We were devastated.

Next week they have Cameo. (Word up, it's the code word...) We can't wait.

Stuff...

Another piece about the famous Seattle unfriendliness. But no matter how much I read/hear about this, it just doesn't resonate with me. I've never had trouble making friends here, and I think Seattle has tons of sexual energy, if you know where to look. Maybe it just means that my "speed" for becoming friendly with people matches up with everyone else's here, even though I'm a transplant from the South. Other Seattle people, do you agree with this article?

Jeff's Rant About (Some) Pro Dommes. I can relate. There are certainly some ex-tremely annoying members of my profession, although of course I can't name names.

I see that my friend Jennifer, Vancouver BC kink activist extraordinaire, has a blog.

I saw Roman Tuesday night and he reminded me that today is a one-year anniversary for us. Not our first date, which is later this month, but of my blog post where I mentioned that I thought I kinda liked him. I didn't think he read my blog, and so I was caught off guard when he emailed me in the wake of the post and, in a way that both sort of shy and direct at the same time, asked I was talking about him.
I wasn't quite prepared to tip my hand so plainly, but what was I gonna do, lie? So I said yes, it was him. And several weeks later, on June 25th, we had out first date.
We'll be observing that anniversary by going off to a remote little riverfront cabin in the mountains for two days later this month. It should be lovely – quiet, privacy, and a cute boy who's going to cook for me. Bliss.

Several Things I Rather Wish People Would Not Do

Lately, a number of people have told me that they consider me something of a celebrity in certain circles - kinky circles, that is. Now, I think "celebrity" is a bit of an overstatement -"popularity" is the word I'd use. It's a bit like being the head cheerleader at BDSM High. God knows I was a total geek in high school, so it's amusing to be having that experience at this point in my life. I'm sure I appreciate it more now than I would have then.

But whatever you wish to call the Seattle kink community's heightened awareness of me, it's a circumstance that's usually pleasant and flattering. Sometimes I do get hate mail, although frankly it's always been entertaining rather than upsetting. And recently I got some hate mail sent to me at The Stranger, through the US mail! Wow! You know you're really arrived when you get hate mail through the postal service. Somebody invested 37 cents in that. I feel so validated.

But as nice as it is to be known, so to speak, it's occasionally a bit awkward too. You see, I myself am conscious of the fact that, in the words of Valentine Michael Smith, "I am only an egg." However, I realize that it is human nature to seek role models, and I'm honored that some folks I meet see me as such. I do try to live up to the expectations of my community, but there are some things people could do to make it easier for me. And since I understand that there is no way anyone could simply know my preferences without being told, I'd like to explain them. So here we go…

I'm fine with being addressed as "Mistress Matisse" because that is my professional name. But I strongly prefer that social acquaintances not address me simply as "Mistress" in a non-scene context. The people who do this are almost always non-BDSM people, and they seem like they're being all titillated by calling me Mistress. (Hey Mistress, can I buy you a drink? Oooh, didja hear? I called her Mistress! Oooo! Oooo!)

No, don't do that. That title is for people who are actually playing with me, or negotiating to do so. If that doesn't describe your situation, simply call me Matisse. (If that's the name you know me by.) The best way I can explain it is to say that calling me "Mistress Matisse", or simply "Matisse", doesn't imply that we have an intimate relationship. Calling me "Mistress" does.

Please don't tell me how I'm the only "real" dominant woman in Seattle. I'm not flattered, because it's not true, and I wouldn't want it to be true anyway. There are a number of other pro dommes in Seattle, and just because they have not chosen to structure their careers the way I have does not render them any less "real" than I am. There are also plenty of highly competent, non-professional dominant women around, and if they hear you telling me that, your chances of getting any play with them will instantly vanish. And justifiably so.

Please don't ask me if you can be my apprentice, because I'm not hiring. And please, oh please, don't ask me "how to get started" as a pro dom. There is not a short answer to that question, and I'm afraid you'll have to wait for my book to come out to get the long one. I am always happy to give someone my opinion on a very specific "should-I-do-A-or-B?" type of question - I'm just trying to avoid doing lengthy career counseling sessions with strangers at play parties.

Okay, I got that all off my chest, I feel better.

Photo Blogging

We're back to my one of my favorite subjects: beautiful women.

Max, on The Dresser.
The lovely Max - we usually refer to her as "Girl Max" in conversation, so as to differentiate her from my Max, who is just as attractive, but considerably more furry.

Jane and The Boot
Awhile back, there was a period of time in which, if Jane and Max and a camera were in the same room, Jane always seemed to wind up in some very compromised position having to do with rope. Poor Jane, she hated it. Really.

Shower Nude
One of my very earliest self-portraits, from around the end of 1999.

Nude in the Doorway
Another treatment of the theme.

RedLight
I don't know why I like this odd photo of Miss Rose Algren, but for some reason, I just do. It's something about her expression.

RopeGag
Max is so mean. Of course, I was too busy taking pictures to stop him.

LongHaired Nude
I think I've sold more of this image than any other self-portrait. I'm not sure why, unless it's because it's clearly a nude and yet nothing is really showing, so to speak. A discreet nude.

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I was reading a feminist blog yesterday, and the blogger in question had posted her opinion about prostitution. The short version is: she thinks it's bad. She thinks men who see prostitutes don't see women as human being and are using them "like toilets with pulses". She feels men think they have the right to buy sex and she thinks that's wrong.

(This is the link, if you want to go read what she said. It's long, I warn you. And even if you are opposed to her views, I would strongly advise against trying to debate with her, because I don't think that's what she's looking for.)

Naturally I myself don't agree with her, although of course she's entitled to her point of view. I did make a comment or two, but LiveJournal isn't always the best forum for such discussions, and then the author politely told me that she wasn't interested in what I had to say, so I politely left.
But I will paraphrase and expand on some of my thoughts here.

It's impossible to talk about prostitution like it's a thing, an institution. It is in a sense, but it's a really a collection of human interactions. It's like marriage that way - an institution, but one made up of many, many sets of two people. I was married once, and you know what - it wasn't a good experience for me. Does that make the entire institution of marriage bad? I don't think so.

So I don't go along with the theory that since some women are victimized by being forced to be prostitutes - and yes, this does happen, I'm not denying it – that if a woman chooses to be a prostitute, she's supporting the victimization of those other women. That doesn't follow. I also believe in a woman's right to have an abortion. There are women who are forced to have abortions. Does that mean that we should ban all abortions, everywhere, because those women's rights were violated? No. It's free choice, or the lack therof, that makes something right or wrong.

I don't think anyone has a "right" to buy sex. So, if there was no one who was willing to sell it, well, would-be customers would just be out of luck. But there are women who are willing to sell it, and I do think women should have the right to sell sexual access to their bodies. It's a question of ownership. Do I own this body I'm in or not? I think I do. And I think that as the owner and operator, I should the right to do with as I see fit. This dovetails with my beliefs about abortion rights – it's my body, it's my choice. As one of my favorite authors Pat Califia once said, "What I choose to do with my freedom may appall you, but it is none of your business."

I chose sex work because I've always felt strongly connected to my own sexuality and I know that I have a gift for understanding and nurturing other people's as well. I think the US is a very sex-negative society. I don't like that. As long as people are taught to hate and fear their own sexuality, they will hate and fear the people who stir those feelings in them. Part of what I try to teach people is some greater acceptance of their own sexuality, and I think I've had good success with that. I think I'm lucky to be self-employed in a career where I can do something I'm good at, something I think is worthwhile, and be paid well for it. I have total control over how and when and where I work, and I like that.

The downside is that most people don't understand and don't approve, and the legal issues. That, to me, is the part of being a sex worker that's most apt to be damaging: the pressure, the name-calling, the marginalization and isolation she may encounter. If she internalizes those beliefs - and for many women it's hard not to - she will start to hate herself, and with self-hatred comes a host of other self-destructive behaviors. But I think it's not the sex with men that's damaging these women, it's being told they're bad, dirty sluts. And I think it's unfortunate when the people calling them that think of themselves as feminists. That's not any brand of feminism I want to be a part of.

In a shocking reversal of usual order of things, I'm putting up a link post today, instead Friday as I usually do. I'm just so full of surprises, aren't I?

I doubt the new column is up yet, although you can check. But the annoying thing is that with The Stranger site redesign, there no longer seems to be a way to link to the current issue. Each column is apparently assigned it's own unique URL, which makes all the links like the one on my sidebar there useless, since it will always take you to same damn column, even when it's a year old. I've written the webmaster about this and gotten no reply. Sigh. I'll let them iron out what are surely some other, major bugs with the new site, and then ask again. Until then, to read the newest column, go to www.TheStranger.com, and then click on "Columns" on the menu on the left, and then click on "Control Tower".

Stolen from a meme: the last four websites I visited...

Pronation Explained: No, not a nation of pro dommes. God, that's a scary thought. I'm merely shopping for new running shoes.

And then, the polar opposite of running shoes: Punitive Shoes. You can't say there's no truth in advertising. (And no, dear boy, I do not want any of these shoes. Are you mad?)

A very interesting editorial from the LA Times about the stem-cell research debate. At least, I thought it was interesting, since I support stem-cell research.

And then, some humor: I cried with laughter the first time I read this, and I still go there when I feel cranky, because it always makes me giggle. Weight Watchers recipe cards from 1974.

More substantial thoughts tomorrow...

What I'm reading lately…

Sex with Kings : 500 Years of Adultery, Power, Rivalry, and Revenge by Eleanor Herman. "Kings had flings and extramarital relationships through much of European history, and in her first book, Herman offers, with relish and dry wit, a delightful overview of their sexual escapades... History made as buoyant as fiction."

That's about the sexiest thing I've read lately, because I'm exploring a new literary tangent. I recently finished a book called The Burma Road : The Epic Story of the China-Burma-India Theater in World War II. Now, I generally prefer the 1600s-1900s for my pop-history reading. But this book awoke in me a curiosity about both WW1&2, neither of which I know much about. So I went over to Half-Price Books – a very, very dangerous place for me to go - and perused the Military History shelves. I bought:

The First World War: A Complete History by Martin Gilbert. "Profusely illustrated and containing 50 maps, it is both entertaining and endlessly informative in aiding the reader in understanding the specifics of how this first great tragedy of our century occurred."

The First World War by John Keegan. "In a riveting narrative that puts diaries, letters and action reports to good use, British military historian Keegan delivers a stunningly vivid history of the Great War."

Myths and Legends of the First World War by James Hayward. "While incorporating details of wartime life, this book gives a refreshingly different perspective by looking at the rich crop of legends that sprang from the battlefields. Many of these myths still persist in the public consciousness even today."

I figured I'd start with WW1 and move onto WW2 later. Then I wandered into the "Espionage" section and my interest was caught by:

The Code Book: The Science of Secrecy from Ancient Egypt to Quantum Cryptography by Simon Singh. "The author explores the impact of cryptography, the creation and cracking of coded messages, on history and society. "

Code Breaking: A History and Explanation by Rudolph Kippenhahn. "Astrophysicist Kippenhahn attempts to introduce the general reader to the history of cryptology… more a collection of anecdotes and explanations than a standard history book, but interesting and hugely informative reading."

Secret Messages: Concealment Codes And Other Types Of Ingenious Communication by William S. Butler, L. Douglas Keeney. "Authors Butler and Keeney breezily survey the history of codes, ciphers and other forms of covert communication from smoke signals and Morse code to fraternity ties, gang colors and carefully stitched quilts, to name just a few."

And then I made myself leave, because I don't need to be bringing any more books into my house until I first take some out. It's getting a little scary in my office. The walls are covered, floor to ceiling, with shelves, and the shelves are all full. There's a sort of a path from the door to my desk, and a few little empty spots on the floor here and there. But mostly, there are stacks and stacks of books. When my cat knocks one of them over, it's like dominos - a whole line of them goes down. It's definitely time for a bibliographic purge around here.

Of course, that means going back to Half-Price Books, what a pity. But when I sell, I do try to leave there with fewer books than I came in with. Hey, it's progress.