Happy Friday, everyone. Here’s a fresh column and calendar…

And in addition to it being Friday, this is also the official weekend of Max’s Birthday (Observed). (His actual birthday was last week, but he was out of town.) I’m really, really happy that he’s in the world, and most especially, in my world. Happy Birthday, darling, I love you…

Dance Fever

So Roman will write his view of our evening soon, and I'm sure that'll be fun, but this is mine....

As I mentioned, Max was away a few days, so Roman and I had arranged to spend the weekend together. We went out for dinner at the Brooklyn Friday night, which was lovely, and Saturday we had lunch on Broadway and went shopping for some PVC pants for Roman, and then went for a run by Lake Washington – for which our tibialis anteriors punished us for several days, gym bunnies that we are. Big difference between running on a treadmill and running outside. But it was pretty.

We had certain plans for early Saturday night, which are not to be made public, sorry. But somewhere along the line, Roman revealed that he’d never been to a gay bar.

“You’re kidding me. You have tons of gay friends.”

“I know, I know, I just never went clubbing with them. I’m not really a nightclub kinda guy.”

Well, this simply could not be. I spent just about every Saturday night of my life between 19 and 25 dancing in a nightclub, and ninety-nine percent of the time, it was a gay bar. Why? Well, because they’re cooler, that’s why. Plus half the time I had a girlfriend anyway, so it seemed like the logical place to go. And since Roman is a card-carrying member of the My Sexuality Terrifies Other People Party, he just needed to have that cherry popped, pronto. So off we went to Capitol Hill.

We stopped off in a place I hadn’t been in years, R Place, mainly because… well, actually, I don’t really recall why we went in there. It’s an okay-enough bar, although hardly the beautiful people. But then I decided we should go to The Cuff.

Now the Cuff is not the hippest queer club in town, and it’s not a really traditional leather bar anymore either. (Especially since they did away with “the dog run”, that dark little fenced-off alley where…things happened.) It’s kind of blend of the two. But I felt that Roman should see it, because, you know, it’s The Cuff. A bit of Seattle leather history. (There’s The Eagle, too, but we’ll hit that another time.)

So we went in through the non-dance bar, and there were some guys in leather and various other slightly fetishy looking clothing, although most people weren’t wearing anything unusual. I had hoped to get Roman’s boots shined by the cute boy bootblacks, but alas, they’re only there on Friday. So down the stairs we went to the dance bar.

Now, I’m completely comfortable in this environment. There are a few other women there, although the ratio is easily twenty to one. But it all feels quite familiar to me. I’m watching Roman to make sure he’s cool. He is, totally. But now, the acid test.

“Let’s dance.”

Roman had told me he wasn’t so big on dancing. But if you go to a club with me, you must dance. It’s absolutely imperative.

Never one to not rise to an occasion, Roman agreed and we got out on the floor. Just as I suspected, he’s a good dancer. Although really, it’s so crowded that John-Travolta-style moves were not an option. We were almost shoulder-to-shoulder with the other dancers, although there was some ebb and flow.

And speaking of shoulders, I glanced around and noticed about half the guys on the floor had their shirts off. Many of them were not nearly as cute as Roman. I pulled his ear down to my mouth and yelled over the thundering music. “Take your shirt off!”

He cocked an eyebrow at me quizzically. I grabbed the front of his shirttail and tugged it upwards. He looked unconvinced.

I pulled his ear back down. “I’ll take off mine if you take off yours!”

Now, before you get too excited – I was, in fact, wearing a bra. A sexy-looking bra, but still, I was totally street-legal.

Roman saw the charm of this suggestion. Plus, we’d been dancing for a while, and sweat was running off us both pretty freely by that point. So he took off his shirt, and I took off mine.

A woman taking off clothing in a gay bar does show you, very quickly, who the bi men are. Most of the men around us didn’t even glance at me. I did get some wide smiles from a few of them, though.

The majority of them, however, looked approvingly at Roman, and the general flirtation level around us ratcheted upward noticeably. There was one beautiful black man who was quite taken with Roman, and one slender, exotic-looking young man who seemed to like both of us very much, given the way he kept caressing Roman's arms and my hair. It was great fun.

So we danced and danced and danced, and finally our quads gave out and we staggered off the floor, slick with sweat. We gulped down bottles of water and watched for awhile. We both sort of wanted to give it one more round out there, but it was getting late and we were flagging. So we put our shirts on and wandered out into the 3am night, to breakfast at Minnies. I’m glad we did it, it was a nostalgia trip for me. It’s not how I want to spend all my weekends anymore, but once upon a time it was my idea of a good time, and I’m glad I got to revisit that with Roman.

Good lord, it’s Wednesday, and I haven’t even begun to tell you about how I got my he-only-pretends-to-be-gay Roman to take (some of) his clothes off in a men’s bar last weekend. (Hint: They liked him. He was so being flirted with by a beautiful black man who looked like he’d stepped out of Mapplethorpe’s wet dream…Talk about a girl’s boy-on-boy fantasy.)

Ah, but I don’t have time for that story now. How does the time get away from me? Would it help if I told you I’m preparing for a slightly belated celebration of Max’s birthday, complete with out-of-town houseguests and various private entertainments? Sometimes this social-diva thing is very time-consuming.

More later. Really.

Subject: (no subject)
Date: 5/15/06 5:26:59 P.M. Pacific Daylight Time
From: DELETED@yahoo.com
To: inquiry@ DELETED.com, DELETED @hotmail.com, DELETED @yahoo.com, DELETED @yahoo.com, DELETED @comcast.net, DELETED @yahoo.com, MistressMatisse @aol.com

Hey
I'm a horny 19 year old male and was looking to have fun with you. Was wondering really how much it would cost to get a blowjob. Let me know as soon as possible, I'm very horny and ready

Nothing quite like getting a completely clueless and inappropriate email that’s been CC’ed to half a dozen other women. If he ever succeeds in getting in the same room with an actual woman, I hope he only gets a blowjob. I’d hate to think that someone as dumb as this might accidentally breed.

I had a very good time this weekend. Details to come, but right now I need to go bury all the bodies - whoops, I mean to say: get ready to fetch my darling Max home from the airport.
So more later.

Happy Friday, my friends. Max is out of town visiting family for the weekend and so I've lured Roman away from work to spend some extra time with me over the next two days, mmmm....

I should note: In the wake of yesterday's post, I got lots of sweet offers for MS software, and that's all good to go now. So thanks to all of ya'll who were so kind.

Meanwhile, enjoy the new column, and my thanks to Tess and Otis for giving me the interview....

Tech Toys

So, I got a new toy today – a laptop. I’ve never had one before, and I’m very excited about it. It’s a Dell Latitude, very sleek and fast, and it’s great. I definitely feel like one of the cool kids now.

And a new toy is, of course, an excuse to do a little shopping. I’m going to need a laptop case. Now, I’ve heard good things about the Aussie Crumpler bags. (Though I hate their website. Hate. It. Unlabelled icons, annoying music, and a slider bar that defaults back to the starting position every time you click on an item? Very bad.)

From this list, I think I like the Oakley bag best. But I'm still shopping. I want something stylish for under, say, two hundred dollars. Do any of ya'll have a bag that you love and that you'd recommend?

Also, I need a (legal) copy of MS Word. Max is checking to see if he’s got a license I can have, but if that falls though – anyone got a good connection for that? I just know somebody out there knows Bill and could score me a deal.

Oh, and the one thing about my laptop that made me giggle: the graphic from the plastic bag it was wrapped in.

I think this is the international symbol for: “If you’re very unhappy, put this bag over your head and hold it tightly around your neck. You’ll look like your face is on TV and that’ll cheer you up. But then you’ll die.”

Ring Ring!

Me: Hello?
Caller: Is this Mistress Matisse? I’m calling to get some information.
Me: Okay, what do you want to know?
Caller: So you’re like, what, a dominatrix?

He says the last word like it’s a species of beings he’s been told about, but doesn’t quite believe exists. This doesn’t bode well.

Me: (sigh) Yes, that’s what I am.
Caller: So you’re not like, an escort or anything?
Me: (very firmly) No.
Caller: You don’t do like, a massage, or anything?
Me: No, I do not.
Caller: So what exactly do you do with people?
Me: Every session is different. It’s something that’s agreed upon between the individual and I, depending on just what they’re looking for. Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for, and I can tell you if it’s something I do.
Caller: Well, what do you charge for, you know, just an average session?
Me: My time is two-hundred and fifty dollars an hour.
Caller: Two-fifty! Wow, that’s a lot. I think that’s pretty high. Don’t you think that’s pretty high? Can you do any better for me?

Okay, we’ll leave aside the fact that my rate isn’t any higher than several other dommes in town, and hey, buddy, I am Mistress fucking Matisse, thankyouverymuch. Of course, this yabbo doesn’t know that my rate isn’t unusually steep, because he hasn’t done any market research. If he had, perhaps he’d understand what a dominatrix is, for god’s sake.

But yes, ignoring all that – this is quite possibly the worst and lamest attempt to bargain with me I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard more than I’d like. What answer can he possibly imagine I would make to his flattering little gambit? “Why, yes, I hadn’t noticed, but now that you mention it, I guess it is pretty high. Two-fifty? Yep, you caught me, I’m really not worth that much money. Let me just slash my prices just for you, for being such a perceptive and smooth-talking guy.”

And you know, gentlemen, if you do talk to a lady – in any branch of the sex industry – who instantly agrees to lower her base rate when asked by a stranger: be afraid. That’s a sign of something bad, and whatever her reason for doing it is, you so don’t want to be in a room with that gal. Trust me.

But I don’t feel like giving this guy a lesson in either sex worker etiquette or in Bargaining 101.

Me: No, I don’t think it’s high. But if you do, I suggest you call somewhere else. Goodbye.

Click. I hang up. I can’t do any better for you, pal, but I can definitely do better than you, with one of my good clients.

Hollywood Musings

(I have nothing meaningful to say today, so instead I'll talk about other people's love lives.)

I am so not a celeb-o-phile. I don’t even watch TV. But I do go to the grocery store, and this little feud with Heather Locklear and Denise Richards over Heather’s soon-to-be-ex-husband is almost impossible not to notice, emblazoned as it is across every glossy People-esque magazine on the racks by the checkout lanes. I will read trash while I stand in line, always. I won't buy the magazines, you understand, but when there are four carts in front of you at QFC, one has to do something. So it's the classic dog-in-the-manger scenario: Heather breaks up with her husband, but gets pissy because Denise wants him, and he wants Denise. Now, I’m not saying I’ve never felt that way myself. But it's more dignified not to display one’s irrational impulses so publicly.

It all seems pretty ho-hum to me, though, because in my little kinky circle, things are pretty incestuous, especially if you back up and look at it over, say, a five-year period. Not everyone gets all coupled up, you understand, but my sage old leatherdyke daddy once said to me, about ten years ago, when I was wailing about the unavailability of a certain woman I wanted: “Honey, ain’t neither one of you dead yet. If you just wait long enough, everything comes around.” She was right – over time, one does see some play-partner pairings that seem highly unlikely at first glance. (And there are also some very discreet ones which would dumbfound the general public. Trust me.) This is why you should never announce your deepest phobias to a kinky dinner party, because years later, you’ll be bottoming to one of the guests and boom, out come the incredibly lifelike plastic spiders.

And just for the record, I can see why Heather is dating David Spade, but then I have a weakness for nerdy boys. Too-handsome men usually make me suspicious*. Spade’s not exactly George Clooney, but he is funny, cute in offbeat quirky sort of way, and – most importantly - I bet he treats Heather like a princess and knocks himself out when he’s in bed with her. After being married to a couple of rock stars who probably treated her like a groupie with a day job, having a guy who thinks that seeing her naked is the best thing that’ll ever happen to him is probably a very charming thing to Ms. Locklear.

(*Which should not be interpreted to mean that Max and Roman are anything less than extremely yummy. )

I owe ya'll a post. But I'm writing this at one-thirty in the morning Sunday night, and I just got home and unpacked from Max's bondage class and the bondage party. It was great fun, but it's a long day and evening, and wow, I'm pretty wiped. Plus I have a busy day ahead of me - two busy days, actually, and a column to write. So I predict everything is going to be a little sketchy around here until Wednesday. Compose your souls in patience, please.

Happy Friday, everyone….

Here’s this week’s column.

A reminder about the bondage class Max is teaching Sunday afternoon, which will be followed by the “Bondage Is The Point” party. Should be big fun.

Not kinky, but something I have always felt strongly about: How you treat waitstaff (and other service people) says a lot about who you really are.

Speaking of which…I’m toying with the idea of going dancing next weekend. If you’re a local club-kid, tell me where I should go.

Hey, cool... Matt has created a photo essay showing the rope bondage lesson he and Silver had with Max. Nicely done, Matt.

When I stop and think about it, I know a lot of other sex workers. I mean – a lot. Sometimes for me, looking through the “Eros Guide” site for Seattle is like looking through MySpace or Tribe or Friendster. “Oh, look - there’s Claudia, she’s back in town and doing incall…. And Grace got some new pictures, very nice, they look like Tommy Edwards’ work. Huh, I didn’t know Meredith had switched from escorting to doing massage, interesting…”

I was thinking about this because a woman I know, who isn’t a sex worker, has made a remark to me about wanting to ask a few questions - the implication being that she’s considering a foray into the industry herself. I’ve given professional advice to a lot of friends over the years, and I’m always happy to do it. I sort of consider it my way of paying the universe back for giving me such overwhelmingly positive sex work experiences myself.

So I was thinking, considering what she might ask, and what I might tell her, when the phone rang. It was another friend, who is a sex worker, who also wanted some advice.

“I got this voicemail on the business line,” she began. “And I thought I recognized the voice, and then I realized – shit, I know this guy. I mean, I know him socially.”

“Wow, that’s unusual.” I replied. “Does he know it’s you? I mean, was it just coincidence or…?”

“No, he knows what I do, and he must have hunted around and found me somehow. But he wants to see me, and I just can’t – that’s too weird, I can’t do it.”

“I don’t blame you, it would be kinda strange.” I thought about it. “I’m not sure I’ve ever known someone socially and then had them as a client. But I’ve had people as clients first and then started seeing them around the community. You have to be careful not to out them, but it’s never been a problem.”

“Well, that’s the thing – he said he’s never done this before, and he went on and on about how confidentiality was really, really, super important to him, and how it was like a big deal to call me and give me his number to call him back at, and like that.”

“Let me get this straight – confidentiality is the biggest deal to him, and so to preserve his anonymity he called a sex worker who knows him in his real life? Oh, that’s not so smart.”

She paused. “Yeah, I hadn’t thought about it that way, but I guess that is kinda dumb, isn’t it?”

“I would guess that he’s thinking that at least he knows you’re not a cop. Guys who aren’t very experienced always worry way more than they need to about that. And he probably feels reasonably sure you won’t have some killer pimp hiding behind the door, either. But he’d have done better to ask you for a referral.”

“Yeah, because I definitely don’t want to see him.”

“So just tell him nicely that it’s too close to home and send him to someone else. Or if even that’s too weird, just point him towards one of the escort review boards and let him pick someone from there.”

“Okay, that’s what I’ll do. Thanks, Matisse.”

We hung up. It’s really nice to be at a point in my career where there are very few professional situations that I feel I have no solution to.

What a cool weekend I had.

Friday: Roman shows up with Stellar’s pizza and entertains me with stories about tying up out-of-town visitors while I eat dinner. Then we discover that the new Goldfrapp CD is perfect music for our brand of growling, biting, bed-wrestling. No Mexican wrestler hoods, though.

Saturday: I sleep in while Roman goes off at the crack of dawn to deliver rope to the students at Max’s rope bondage intensive, and give Mrs. Roman a kiss, as she’s attending the class as well. He returns as I’m getting out of the shower and demands a rematch, perhaps feeling that I took some unfair advantage the night before? We agree, after a while, to call it a draw.

We rehydrate, and decide to go do a late lunch and a movie. Lunch is a Mexican place downtown I’ve never been before, and it turns out to be quite good. As we eat, I talk to Roman about a writing class I’d like to take in the fall, and suggest to him that he take it with me, although I know he’s as busy as I am, perhaps even busier, and that I shouldn’t put more on his plate. But I can’t resist asking.

Roman’s choice of movies, Brick, turns out to be fabulous. (Did I mention it was fabulous? It was fab-u-lous, my friends. If you have any love for the classic film noir, you must go see this fast, clever twist on the genre. Plus, the star is the former Third Rock From The Sun actor Joseph Gordon-Levitt, all grown up and looking damn hot in this movie. Think of an edgier Daniel Radcliffe, all messy dark curls and a thousand-yard stare from behind wire-rimmed glasses.)

Knowing I can be hard to please, Roman is triumphant at having chosen both a new restaurant and a movie that I loved. He says finding new things – food, music, films – that I’ll like has become something of a fetish for him. I tell him it’s one I support. We kiss and part company.

Sunday: My turn to get up at the crack of dawn to help with Day Two of the intensive, although at least class today starts a half an hour later than Saturday’s. But still, seven-thirty am is no friend of mine. There is no method of caffeine delivery fast enough or strong enough to make me feel perky at that hour.

But I’d do (just about) anything for my Max, so up we go, off to the Wet Spot, to rig fifteen suspension points. I’m up on a ladder, musing that if these people knew how not a morning person I am, they might think twice about dangling so blithely from these same points.

But Max makes sure it’s all done to spec, of course. All the students arrive, many of them pals of mine, and we get underway. From then on, it’s helping with knots, dealing with the slightly fascinated caterer as she sets up lunch, playing bondage stunt model for my opportunistically sadistic sweetheart, making sure everyone’s getting what they need. It’s fun, but still, just one day of this will leave me very tired, it always amazes me that Max can do two full days.

Sometimes I think I need a Monday to rest up from my weekends. But hey, I had a good time.

We’re gearing up for a busy couple of days around here, because the two-day bondage intensive Max is teaching this weekend. (Not to be confused with the regular bondage class May 7th, "Bondage For Sex.) The intensives are a lot to orchestrate – registration, space, caterers, equipment, et cetera. But you know, I’m really proud of Max and how he makes things happen: these two-day events, and the regular monthly bondage classes. All the teaching he does is a responsibility, but he’s good at it, and I’m pleased by the fact that a lot of people acknowledge that and look up to him for what he does. I’m a very driven, achievement-oriented person myself, and that’s something I really respect about Max. My work (and there are a lot of different activities that fall under that umbrella) is important to me. I need to have that in a partner. (Roman is this way as well.) I’m always sort of puzzled by people who don’t seem to have any goals. They don’t necessarily have to be the same type of goals I would have – but shouldn’t we be striving for something?

Speaking of goals, here’s the weekly column.

Another smart, driven woman - who happens to be a pal of mine - would be local pro domme Mistress Lydia. She apparently gets emails that are just as stupid as some of the ones I get.

I am eBaying, BTW. Just clothes and shoes at the moment – and I don’t mean used panties, I mean real clothes. I need to go through the toy closet at the dungeon, too, though, I’ve got boxes of stuff just sitting there.

Have a lovely weekend, everyone…

Men, unless you are a serious metrosexual, this entry will probably bore you. It’s mostly about clothes.

I’ve decided my closet needs an overhaul. Time to get rid of the things I don’t wear, and get some new outfits. I’ve bought stuff on eBay, but I’ve never actually sold anything there – however, I think the time has come. I’ve got an armful of dresses and such I don’t wear and they’re too cute to give to Goodwill. So today I’ll get out the camera, snap some pics of what I’ve got, and see if I can get rid of it. I’m told it’s easy, but if any of ya’ll are veteran eBay sellers, feel free to give me tips.

Meanwhile, I’m lusting after summer dresses. Isn’t this cute? And this one, too. And you can’t go wrong with Diane von Furstenberg, can you?

Look who’s giving Rose Algren a run for her money: Norma Kamali. Okay, not really – for thing, it’s not PVC, and no easy-access zippers. But still, it’s a sexy catsuit and I definitely want one.

For shoes, though, I’ll wait a bit – my mom lives in Atlanta, where there are many, many designer shoe outlets, and I’m going to visit her soon. I’ll just bring a spare suitcase.

But I'm not totally lost to vanity and fickle fashion today. I'm also eagerly anticipating reading this book, which I'm told is stupendous: A Writer's Life, by Gay Talese. "Thy Neighbor's Wife" was a fascinating, if meandering, examination of the swinger and sex work culture, far ahead of it's time, and I'm interested to see what Talese has to say about the experience of writing.

A woman who I have known casually for a few years has recently become involved in the local BDSM community. Of course I always knew she was kinky, but people have to be in the right place in their lives to act on things. And Scarlett is now, apparently, which is good. In a recent email she mentioned an incident that happened a couple of years ago at a non-kinky cocktail party…

"…some mutual (vanilla) friends of mine and Matisse’s were throwing a party, and Matisse came with Max and Jae and I forget who else, and oh, what a scene got created that night...when it came time for Matisse and Max to leave I threw a fit and wouldn't let Matisse up off the couch (she was sitting next to me) and Max took that as invitation to threaten to cut my stockings off with a large serrated bread knife (from the kitchen), and then one of the other vanilla guests went berserk. (Editor’s note: we had all had a few cocktails, which perhaps led Max and I to be slightly less discreet than we might have otherwise. Oh well.)
The rest of the story wasn't as funny but, you know, there's a reason why neither Matisse nor myself hang out in that crowd anymore... I sometimes think you can find more crazies at a vanilla party than a kinky party any day of the week."

Yeah, it seems that way sometimes. No one could have thought that Max was seriously threatening to harm Scarlett, but lord, that other girl absolutely freaked out. Of course, if that girl had seen some of the things Scarlett's been up to lately, I’m guessing she’d flip out even more.
Not that all vanilla people are uptight or anything. But it’s one reason why kinky people tend to stick to their own social circles. What seems like mild, innocent flirtation to us seems to induce full-on PTSD in certain other people.

Well, I had a nice weekend. Roman’s lovely wife was out of town, so he and I decided to take advantage of that to do something unusual: spend a weekend together. We rarely get two nights in a row together, and it was perfect in that it fell on a weekend where neither of us had any pressing social obligations.

It’s one of the nice fringe benefits to living with a partner but having a separate house for my professional space – I have a place where Roman and I can be together on our dates. (Roman has a lovely house, but he also has a sweet, friendly, furry dog to whom I am so very allergic.)

And I like my new house so much that I’m happy to spend time there. My old place was okay, but it was a charming older house with some really uncharming features like inefficient heating, capricious plumbing and the occasional four-footed visitor. I didn’t want to be there very much. My new place is a happy place to be.

So Roman and I just hung out together, ate yummy Stellar's pizza, lazed in the benevolent sunshine on my deck, cuddled in bed and watched two excellent movies (A History Of Violence, and The Ice Harvest) and just generally had a delightful weekend together.

Oh, what - you want to hear about the sexy parts? What makes you think we did anything sexy? Ah, yes, I suppose you have a point. Well, we did do some other, less innocent things as well, involving rope and clothespins. And we conducted a little electrical experiment – purely educational, really – in which we discovered that if you put one sticky pad on one person’s naughty bits and the other sticky pad on the other person’s naughty bits and you put those naughty bits together…you’ll get a tingle. A very noticeable tingle.

We like tingling.

Hey, Blogger is back up, cool! Here's this week's column and calendar. Now I have a hot date with my hairdresser, so - Happy Friday, everyone. Bye!

Okay, ready to find out how well you guessed? Here we go.

AA Model 1
Yep, sold this one, even though one of my strobes didn’t fire half the time, totally screwing up some of the shots. Slide film is not a forgiving medium. So not my best work by any means, and I’m sure they had to tweak the images a lot, but she just had a look they liked: very all-American, slim, long hair, kind of a Jennifer Garner type.

AA Model 2
No. She was actually my first shoot, and they didn’t like the couch/floor setting, said it was too boring. They were right - it wasn’t very good. But jeeze, look at the abs on that girl, and such a nice smile, too. She was extremely – ahem - enthusiastic about the more intimate parts of the shoot, too, really got into it.

AA Model 4
Oh yeah. They thought she was great. Who wouldn’t? She’s lovely. And no, that’s not Sarah Blake, although this girl had done a fair amount of modeling and it’s not impossible you’ll see her somewhere else online.

AA Model 6
No, they declined. She’s only model I ever took a chance and booked a shoot with sight-unseen, because she worked at a strip club, and I thought, okay, she has to be cute. And she is, definitely – but when I saw her, I had a feeling they’d decline. They didn’t like the Goth/alternative thing, and they felt she was just a little too curvy for NN - although of course she’s too slim for the voluptuous girls mags. Caught in the middle. But she had such amazing, glamorous eyes and a sexy energy that I thought it was worth a try.

AA Model 7
No, they turned her down without really saying why. I was surprised, I thought she had a great, sort of gawky/adorable young girl look. But the weird thing is: I found out later she’d already been in one of the Hustler “young girl” magazines! So maybe they recognized her and didn’t want to present her as an amateur.

AA Model 10
Yes. They loved her. (Which why I was baffled by them declining Stevie, who I think has a very similar look.) And this lady has actually gone on to be quite the busy porn model. I’m fairly sure I was one of the first to shoot her, though, and that tickles me.

AA Model 12
Yep. I had her do a cute bathtub scene shaving her legs…and et cetera, and they liked that. I think this model has a lovely, Bambi-like quality on camera, which is amusing since in real life, she’s not the delicate, vulnerable type at all. She’s sweet and all, but oooh, don’t piss her off. Nosiree. I was at a club with her and a bunch of other people, and some stupid guy was being rude and physically intrusive, and Bambi-girl here turned around and ripped him a new one just like that. He slunk away and we all went “Wow.”
(Bonus points if you recognized this model from my fetish video, Inflamed, which was her first first adult modeling experience ever. She was great. )

So now you’ve played photo editor. If any of you ever start your own porno mag and want me to shoot for you, you just let me know. I’m good at getting women to take their clothes off for me.