Photos, Continued...
Wow, I'm loving all the feedback about the pix, thank you. (And yes, Malixe, we do need to shoot. It's been too long.) Since my comment system locks at 50 comments, I'm starting another post so that comments can continue. Have at it.

Happy holiday weekend, everyone. Through my open window, I'm already hearing the scattered pops and bangs that means people are experimenting with fireworks. I'm not a big 4th-of-July fan, but last year Max and I spent an enjoyable evening at a friend's apartment overlooking Lake Union, and we'll be there watching fireworks again this year. Cross your fingers the deck doesn't fall off the building as a dozen or so of us squeeze onto a structure probably designed to hold four people.

What else? Go read my column, of course. I'll be listening for a few wails of despair from disappointed guys.

And an opinion poll: I did a shoot with Tommy Edwards last week, and I'm starting to sort through what images I should use on my site. So tell me which of these photos you like best.
Number One
Number Two
Number Three
Number Four

I Love Porn

So if you read many adult blogs, you've probably heard of the new 2257 rules by now. If you haven't, you should, because it's going to affect the lives of a lot of Americans. I'm talking about the proposed new Federal record-keeping and labeling regulations, 18 U.S.C. §2257.

Short version is: I'm totally against child porn, as any decent person is, but none of these regulations are going to do shit to stop it. It's just the Bush administration's way of trying to suppress free speech. I feel reasonably sure that it'll be overturned in court, or at least heavily watered down, because it will have a very chilling effect on free speech, and there's a great deal of case law about this sort of thing. But it's going to be a huge pain in the ass until that happens.

There's a ton of links to info about the new regulations and how it's going to affect what you see – and believe me, it's definitely going to affect what you, as a supposedly free adult, can see. Here's a link that explains it in simple terms. What more info? Go here, or here, or here. And then go contribute some money to the Free Speech Coalition, who are fighting for your right to look at porn.

What else should you do to combat this wave of sex-negative sentiment? Why, you should make some porn of your own! The Stranger is having an amateur erotic video contest, and you should enter. Read all about it here. They want all kinds of stuff - serious, silly, weird, straight, queer, kinky, soft, hard, whatever. If you think it's sexy, make a tape and send it in.

I myself am judging this lovely event - and am I looking forward to that? Oh yes, I am! - so I can't enter it. But don't you like the idea of me watching you do the nasty? I wanna see some good hometown smut, Seattle, so get those cameras rolling, pronto!

So, remember the Gym Guy? He did, finally, make the approach. It was last week. I was alone, walking out the door after a workout, when I saw him walking quickly on a course to intercept me before I got to the elevators. Okay, here we go, I thought. But I still didn't make eye contact or slow down. No sense giving him any false hope.

Now, since he works at the gym, of course he knows my real name. He called it out after me - several times - so I stopped. Courtship Tip Number One: Trotting after a woman you don't really know calling out her name in a public place = bad manners.

"Yes?" I said coolly.

"Uh, yeah, I kinda wanted to talk to you. Um, you know - about your ad."

Okay, let's be clear – I don't think Gym Guy is a bad person. But this is very, very bad form. Do not chase me down at my gym, or the supermarket, or my dry cleaners, and ask me about my ad. If you know I have an ad, then just call the bloody number in said ad. That is proper procedure.

I raised one eyebrow. "My ad?"

"Yeah, uh, you know." Gym Guy is very muscular. He's not exactly eloquent, though. I was short on time, so I cut to the chase.

"My ad as Mistress Matisse."

He nods. "Yeah." And then he just sort of stares at me.

Christ, this is just like one of my phone calls. "Okay – first of all, what's your name?" Courtship Tip Number Two: Introducing yourself to a woman you're hitting on is also considered basic good manners.

He tells me his name, and I hold out my hand and say, "Nice to meet you." We shake hands. I believe in forcing people to observe the social niceties, it's part of living in a (soi-disant) civilized society.

"Okay, what do you want to know?" I say in (I hope) a patient voice.

"Oh, uh, I don't know, like – what's it all about?"

There's no way I'm going to give an SM 101 lecture to this guy while we're standing in the public corridor. So I give the phone rap:

ImakeappointmentsMondaythroughFridayfromaroundnoontoaroundeightpm, It'stwohundredandfiftydollarsforaonehoursession, andI'mgeneallybookedabouttwodaysinadvance.

Gym Guy looks confused.

"Have you seen a professional dominant before?"

"No, uh, I wasn't really thinking about that so much, you know, just, you know, general stuff."

This is one of the least well-organized attempts to hit on me that I've ever experienced. General stuff? What the hell does that mean? He wants to talk about John Vines?

"Well, if you're looking for basic information about the Seattle BDSM community, I have some links on my website, the URL's in my ad."

He shakes his head. "No, I'm computer-illiterate."

Thank god for small mercies. At least I know he isn't reading this.

"I was just thinking, you know, that you'd be cool to hang out with."

Okay, so in spite of the fact that he began the conversation by asking me about my ad, he's actually looking for a social encounter, not a professional one. Wow, zero points for this whole attempt, my friend, you pretty much screwed up from the get-go.

And what's this hang out with stuff? Friends hang out - but I'm quite certain Gym Guy didn't chase me down the hall because he's looking for a platonic friendship with me. Courtship Tip Number Three: If you're asking someone out on a date, have the courage of your convictions and say so. Don't pussyfoot around with vague terms like hang out. I have been know to hang out with my mom. Saying hang out when you mean go on a date is candy-assed. Use your words, people.

When I related the "you'd be cool to hang out with" line to Max, he laughed and said, "You shoulda said 'You're right!'"

Of course, I didn't. What I did was give Gym Guy a small, closed-lip smile and Polite Brush-Off Number Eleven. "Well, that's very sweet of you, but I'm actually quite busy. It was nice meeting you. Goodbye." And walked away.

Not that I think that's the end of it. Roman's opinion is that he'll try at least twice more. "Guys are dumb, it takes us a couple of thwacks before we stop hitting our heads on walls."

Interesting: he didn't mention the column at all, just the ad. Has Gym Guy not actually noticed that I write the column? But if he hasn't, is he then not aware that I'm poly? I am paraphrasing the conversation, but he also made no mention whatsoever of Max, although he's seen me with him more often than not. Odd.

Let me head off some of the well-intentioned comments: I do not think that Gym Guy is in any way dangerous. He was hitting on me. That's what guys do. Granted, it was a wildly clumsy hit and I'm indulging in some eye-rolling, oh-what-you-could-have-said about it. But I have no sense that he presents any threat to me or he's going to act seriously inappropriate about my refusal. And I predict that I'll actually be less tense around him now that that I know I wasn't incorrect in my assessment of his behavior.

Call For Victims - Er, I Mean, Play Partners...

So, Roman and I are going to Thunder In The Mountains in July, and we're thinking that we might like to gang up on some sweetly masochistic person and be very mean to them. No, we're not going to do another contest, sorry. The Weakest Kink contest was big fun, and we did get to meet the charming and lovely Krystal, but we're opting for a simpler route this time: if you're going to be at Thunder, and you'd like to bottom to us, you're welcome to drop us a note, or just come talk to us at Thunder.
What you should know: I can't speak for Roman, but I myself am seeking someone who can take a good hard flogging/singletailing. I don't get to do that too often and it's fun to do in a public dungeon. You will be marked up.
I'd like to do bloodsports as well - needles or cutting - if you're into that, although it's not a requirement.
Your gender is immaterial to me, although Roman also has a vote and he generally likes girls.
No sex - although I would happily do genitorture, if asked.
I'm unlikely to commit firmly to a date via email - I'd prefer to meet people in person before saying yea or nay - but you can get a head start by introducing yourself to me electronically before the con begins.
I'm sure Roman will be posting his own grocery list, so check for that in the next few days...

Now it's time to get back on the road to Seattle, as our little mountain idyll has come to an end...

Hello from the mountains. The weather here is cool and wet and rainy and we haven't set foot out of the cabin since we arrived, unless you count sitting in the hot tub. But then we didn't plan on getting out much. (Although I just know Roman really wants to go see the albino alligator and the two-headed turtle at that small-town reptile farm we passed...)

Roman has already cooked me way too much yummy food, and I can't even go running because of the rain. Oh darn.

We can hear the rushing of the river from our bedroom. There's a peaceful sense of apart-ness here which we're really enjoying.

In short, we're having a perfectly lovely time.

Fixed! Thank you, brilliant helpful person, She-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named!

test

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.

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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.