Kink Cults, Continued...
In my column this week, I make reference to an incident in Darlington, England involving something that mainstream journalists were delighted to call "a sex slave cult". You can read coverage of the story here or here, or just Google “sex slavery cult Darlington”.

It all looked to me like a rather messy private drama that worked its way to the local papers simply because of the kink angle. It must have been a slow news day, although newspapers and the TV news love it when they can run leering stories about sex while simultaneously seeming to denounce such nasty perversion. (Hey, did someone say "Robert Jamieson"? Huh, I thought I heard someone say... Oh, never mind.)

And I actually just used it as a jumping-off place to talk generally about the BDSM commune fantasy. So imagine my surprise when I got the following email.

Hello there Mistress Matisse,

It was I that originally broke this story to the local, national and international press. I am the father of the young teenager that Lee Thompson recruited into his Kaotian cult. My name is Tony Nicodemous, my son is Zachary.

Lee Thompson groomed my son over the internet from age 17 for six to eight months before my son decided to up and leave to join him. His mother and I, along with a family friend, have been campaigning for his 'release'. I say 'release' because it has been our firm belief that Zach has been manipulated, mentally brainwashed into accepting the values of this 'man' and is emotionally enslaved to this man. I recently managed to get a TV programme to 'go with the story' called The Trisha Show (similar to Jerry Springer format and they convinced my son and Thompson to attend. My son would not talk to me or even look at me.

Let me also clarify that Thompson is on the sex offenders register for having sex with a minor and has a history of mental health problems. He was beaten at age 10 and sexually abuse by his uncle at age 13. He was in a displaced family and in foster care for all his young life. It is this man’s values that I object to. And to this man being a mentor to my son withy Zach being at such a tender, naive and gullible age.

Please see www.spaces.msn.com/worried999 this is the family friends efforts to help us.

If you require any additional information or elaboration on any point please do let me know.

Yours sincerely,

Tony Nicodemous.

Okay, Tony, since you opened up a conversation, here’s my take on this.

I hear that your son has a friend you don’t approve of and he’s not pursuing the professional goals you want him to achieve. He’s adopted a type of personal/sexual self expression you can’t stand. Well, I think that’s what often happens when one’s children grow up. I myself have people as friends that my parents probably wouldn’t approve of, and my mother definitely would not have chosen for me to be a sex worker. I chose a life less ordinary, and I’m quite happy with the choices I’ve made, so I have some sympathy for your son’s point of view.

Your remarks about Thompson’s background do not strengthen your case in my eyes. I hate to tell you this, but having an unhappy, abusive childhood actually doesn’t disqualify you from having sex. Even kinky sex. Neither does having “mental health problems”. If that was true, a lot of people in the world would have to be celibate.

The “sex with a minor” thing? According to this source, he was 16 and his partner was 15. I don't call that child molestation. He was younger than your son is now, and you’re anxious to assure me that your kid isn’t capable of making adult decisions. (Oh, and please tell whoever put that MSN site up: the word is "pedophile". What the heck with that “Peed Oh File” thing? That’s incredibly annoying. In fact, the whole page is written so badly it's often hard to understand what the writer is trying to say.)

There are some allegations on that MSN site about Thompson doing BDSM in front of his kids. None of the news stories I found said anything about children. However, I agree that you should not do BDSM in front of children. If that has happened, that’s not okay.

Nothing I’ve read indicates your son has been brainwashed, as I understand the term. Introducing someone to a new idea he thinks is cool actually isn’t brainwashing, even if it’s an idea his parents don’t like.

Now that I’ve said all that, I will grant you that even allowing for the usual media distortion, Lee Thompson doesn’t come off like someone I’d want in my circle of friends. He sounds like a needy insecure guy who wants attention and isn’t picky about how he gets it. Some of his behavior seems very socially inappropriate and disrespectful to others. He might very well be mentally out of balance. However, this talk about “cults”… it’s one man, his partner, his submissive and now your son. That’s not exactly a compound in Waco. I think calling this particular group of people a “cult” is wildly inflammatory, at least by any of these definitions. Dominance and submission is an avenue of personal and sexual expression. Yes, Thompson and his people do share certain styles of expression with people the world over. Not surprising, given that they have based their play on popular (if really trite and badly-written) science fiction novels. But that doesn’t make Thompson a powerful cult leader with the power to brainwash anyone. (Although I sense he might enjoy having people think he's that powerful.)

I will give you the benefit of the doubt, Tony, just as I gave Thompson. I’m sure you love your son. But you handled this badly. This should have been kept private. By going to the media you’ve made it impossible for your son to abandon his friendship with Thompson even if he wanted to. His pride is at stake, and to a young person, pride means a lot. You’ve publicly painted him as a passive victim when he obviously wants to be seen as powerful.

He listens to you and he hears his parents telling him “you’re too dumb to pick your friends, your method of expressing yourself isn’t okay, and you need to behave yourself and obey us, now.” On the other side, he’s got an older man giving him attention and respect and telling him he can be in control of that intimidating group of people, women. Which way do you think he’s going to go?

It’s quite possible that this guy Thompson may be a total loser and a bad egg, and your son may wind up regretting the steps he’s taken. Everybody makes dumb choices sometimes, especially when they’re quite young. That’s part of life. Your son has to make his own mistakes. Unfortunately for him, you’ve made his name and his choice extremely public, so it’s going to stay a part of his life a lot longer than it would have if you’d kept it out of the papers. You went on TV? What the hell were you thinking?

If you love him, just make sure he knows you’ll be there for him if he decides he wants your help. Aside from that, the best thing you can do at this stage is shut up, back off, let him make his own choices and let him learn from them.

A quick note: I'm now booked solid til next week. Thank you for your swift response to my previous post, gentlemen.

Tomorrow, a link to the new column, and my answer to an email I recieved in response to it...

I've Got Time

So, gentlemen, if you've been wanting to see me, call this week. I haven't got much on the books, which is quite rare. As of this moment, I could even do something today, which is just about unheard-of.

If I know you, you can either call or email me. If you haven't seen me before, go here first: Mistress Matisse session information. After you've read that, then call me. Note that I do not process new people via email only, you must talk to me on the phone.

Now I'm off to talk to a college Human Sexuality class. They're going to love me.

Comings And Goings

Roman arrived back in Seattle late last night. Max arrives home this evening. It’s been very nice having time alone - and I had several delightful evenings with various friends both new and old - but I’ll be happy to have my sweethearts back. Max and I have Cirque du Soleil tickets for Friday night, which is always sort of a romantic date for us.

And then, Thursday – my mother arrives for a visit. Now, I love my mom and I do enjoy her company. But I actually prefer to going to Atlanta to visit her, because when she’s here, I struggle with trying to keep one foot in the routine of my life, while also entertaining her. It’s a bit much. (Other posts about Mom here and here, because people always ask me the same questions...)

But visiting relatives is reason #426 to have a workspace separate from one's home. “Okay, Mom, I’m going to work now, I’ll see you later.” And I have sweet boys who will let me vent any stress I feel on their willing behinds. So how can I complain?

People ask me: don’t you worry about getting a bad client who’ll hurt you? Actually, I don’t much worry about that, mainly because I see mostly regular clients these days. No, what I worry about more often is me hurting them.

Not on purpose, you understand. But things do go wrong sometimes, and while I know a lot about dungeon safety, anyone who logs as many hours playing as I do is going to have a mishap once on a while. It’s my job to make them as minor as possible, and I’ve – so far – succeeded in that. But God, sometimes things happen that scare the piss right out of me.

Example A: A few months ago, I was playing with Milo. I had him seated in the bondage chair, strapped in firmly, and we were doing some medium-level CBT, nothing we hadn’t done lots of times before. He also had nipple clamps on.

We were going along fine, but then I glanced up from his bits to his face. Whoa, something’s wrong. He’s turned an ashy-pale shade that says “Danger, danger!” to me.

“Hey, sweetheart, are you okay? You don’t look so good. Talk to me.” I was already removing the bondage around his balls as fast as I could

“Yeah….I feel a little….funny…” His voice was weak. He’d also broken out in a cold sweat all over his body.

Shit, shit, shit. I needed to remove the nipple clamps, too, and that was going to shake him up even more. I took them off. He didn’t respond much - not a good sign. His head had rolled back and his eyelids were fluttering. I untied his hands and legs, and then I put my hand on the strap around his chest and paused.

It had only been about thirty seconds since I first noticed something was wrong, and I had to make a lighting-fast decision. I think Milo is about to faint. He needs to be horizontal with his legs elevated to get his blood pressure normalized. With a different guy this might not be such a serious crisis, but Milo is six-foot-five and easily weighs 250 pounds or so. I’m not a weak girl, but if I try to move him when he’s out cold, he’s so much bigger than I am that I could very well lose control of him and drop him, or fall with him, injuring either or both of us.

So what to do: Leave him strapped in the chair until he passes out and then comes to – assuming he does - or take the chance, unstrap him and try to get him down to the floor? Decide, right now, Matisse.

“Milo! Milo! Talk to me, stay with me! I need to get you down to the floor, but you have to stay with me!”

His eyes opened and focused on me, and he nodded slightly. Okay, here we go. Holding his gaze, I unbuckled the last strap and prayed fervently that he didn’t go limp in the next few seconds.

He leaned forward and stumbled out of the chair, while I used all my strength to support and guide him. He sank down to his hands and knees, and then down on his stomach, his face to one side. Once he was safely flat on the floor – thank you jesus, he didn’t fall and hit his head – I knelt next to him, watching him tensely. Is he breathing? Is he going to go deeply unconscious? Is he going to throw up? Have convulsions?

The seconds ticked by as I waited. The answers seemed to be yes, he’s breathing, he’s not throwing up or convulsing, and I don’t think he’s deeply unconscious – there isn’t that utter slackness to his body that I’ve seen in other passed-out people. I went quickly and got a large bolster-type pillow and a blanket.

“Milo, roll over. Roll over on your back,” I said, tugging at his shoulder. He obeyed and I lifted his legs up onto the pillow. Some color had returned to his face, although he was still pale. I waited and watched for another sixty seconds or so before he opened his eyes and looked at me.

Okay, that’s good. He’s conscious and he sees me. “Milo, how do you feel? Does your chest hurt? Does your arm hurt? Say something to me, can you talk?”

He moved his head a little. “M’okay, all right.”

“Can you move both your hands and feet? Wiggle your arms and legs a little for me.”

He does.

All right, so hopefully not a stroke or a heart attack. Just a simple faint, please god. Because, wow, if I have to call 911, it’s really going to ruin the day for both of us.

I watched him closely for a few more minutes as the color returned to his face. He shivered and I tucked the blanket in around him more tightly.

And within a few minutes, he sat up, drank some water, and was okay again. I’ve seen him lots of times since, played with him, and there’s been no recurrence. It was just one of those things: a warm room, an empty stomach, a little too much pressure here and there. But it’s not the first time someone’s gone out on me, although it’s the time I was most worried about being able to get someone down safely, because there wasn't much warning, and just because he’s so damn big. That’s the thing: if I have anyone in any bondage position other than lying flat, I always have to think about how I would get them safely down if they passed out. Because I may be a sadist, but that doesn’t mean I want anybody to get hurt.

It’s Friday, and that means…

There’s a new column and calendar, here.

Also: Get your rope gossip fix: Roman’s off vending rope to the masses at Shibaricon, and he’s going to be doing a live SKYPE cast (sorta like a podcast, but listeners can ask questions in real time) with bondage blogger Graydancer. Get the app, listen and chat with the kinky rope guys! It’s happening today, Friday, at 6:30 Central time, which means 4:30 Seattle time.

In Other News: I very rarely talk about my clients here, not because they aren't fabulous, because they are, all of them. (Or else they wouldn't be my clients.) But if I talk about what a good time I had with one of them... well, the others often seem to get a bit - dare I say it? - jealous. Or maybe it's just a competitive thing - you know, the testosterone. But regardless, I don't wish anyone to feel left out, or that I didn't have an equally good time with them, too. So I generally just don't talk about anyone at all, even though I often wish I could.

But still, I must blow a kiss to the two boys who have lately showed up with the most charming pervertibles imaginable. Last week: Golf shoes. Yeah, with the sharp spikes on the bottom. No, I don’t play golf - these shoes will never see grass. But skin? Oh yes, they're really nice for walking on people. Oh, well, but walking isn't really the right word. I actually think of them as dance shoes. Like tap dancing, a little moonwalking, the twist, and some pirouettes.

This week: A reciprocating saw, minus the blade, fitted up with a dildo on the business end. It makes a really cool noise! The saw, I mean - although other cool noises were made also...

So, a new twist in my relationship with The Stranger – I’ve now been given Slogging rights. The slog is The Stranger’s blog, and I made my first post there yesterday. I’ll mainly be posting short snippets with links, as opposed to the longer pieces I usually put up here. I have a list of sites I’ll be culling for interesting tidbits, like this one and this one. But if you see a news story, especially a local one, about sex, sex work, polyamory, BDSM, or abortion/birth control rights, feel free to send it along to me. Personal-essay blog posts are also a possibility, although it would have to something well-written, and something of more than just vague prurient interest.

In other news: Roman left yesterday and I miss him. Max leaves today, and I'm going to miss him, too. But I am being sort of deluged by pals who are taking advantage of this free weekend to call me and make dates. It's nice to have friends.

Browsing on Amazon

Yes, I know, it’s the evil empire. But I get a lot of gift cards for them from my very sweet clients, which I like, so here we go….

First, a book I've had on my list to buy for awhile:

The Glorious Deception : The Double Life of William Robinson, aka Chung Ling Soo, the "Marvelous Chinese Conjurer" by Jim Steinmeyer.
I have kind of a thing about nineteenth century magicians. Sure, Houdini was cool, but where do you think he got the ideas for a lot of his tricks? He even named himself after a famous French illusionist, Jean Robert-Houdin. I also dig stuff about the “spirit mediums” of the time - fascinating examples of how people will overlook the most blatant fraud to believe what they want to be true.

Amazon thinks I'd like Stumbling on Happiness by Daniel Gilbert, and they're probably right. The publishers blurb: “Do you know what makes you happy? Daniel Gilbert would bet that you think you do, but you are most likely wrong. In his witty and engaging new book, Harvard professor Gilbert reveals his take on how our minds work, and how the limitations of our imaginations may be getting in the way of our ability to know what happiness is.” Well, I’m a pretty happy person overall, and I think I know why I’m happy, so it’ll be interesting to see if that lines up what Dr. Gilbert thinks is making me happy.

From this book, I clicked on another intriguing-looking title, The Undercover Economist: Exposing Why the Rich Are Rich, the Poor Are Poor--and Why You Can Never Buy a Decent Used Car! by Tim Harford. Another pop-economics book, but it looks at least as interesting as Freakonomics, which I (mostly) enjoyed. Add it to the list.

From pop economics to pop psychology: The Psychology of Harry Potter : The Boy Who Lived by Neil Mulholland. Yep, I’m a fan. Mildly embarrassing but true. Plus I'm on this roll with popular culture analysis, so why stop now?

Speaking of culture – or the lack thereof- this looks worth reading: Choosing Civility : The Twenty-five Rules of Considerate Conduct by P. M. Forni I’m guessing (hoping!) I know them already, but hey, it’s not something one should leave to chance. Plus, as someone who's often admonishing people about bad manners, it might have some instructional concepts I could steal – I mean, be inspired by.

I had a really lovely weekend with some of my pervy friends, and now it’s Monday again. Max and Roman are both leaving me this week! Not for long, of course. They’re going to Shibaricon, which I elected to skip. I’m sure it’ll be a fine event, but I just didn’t want to spend the time and money. (Plus, you know, some of those kimono boys, they’d be cranky with me.)

So Roman will sell oodles of rope, and both he and Max will tie up and torment various ladies (and perhaps a boy or two, who knows), and I’m sure they’ll both have a grand time. While I’ll miss them both terribly, I think I will enjoy having some time alone. I’m going to hang out with some pals of mine – like Jake, for example - who’ve gotten lost in the extreme busyness that has been my life lately.

I do have one play-date lined up, and I’m looking forward to that. It’s a second date, which in some ways I enjoy more than the first. First play-dates are, for me, always a bit cautious. I’m exploring the territory, seeing what happens when I push here, what happens when I poke there, making sure my play-partner doesn’t go anywhere I cannot safely retrieve them from when I’m finished. But second dates – well, having some knowledge of the terrain, I always feel like I can relax and enjoy myself more. So I have some fun ideas* in mind, although since he graciously offered to cook me dinner afterwards, I suppose I shouldn’t ruin him so completely that he's unable to make a demi-glaze.

Oh, what the hell, we can always call out for pizza.

*However, my play-partner for this scene can be assured of one thing: whatever I do to him will not involve Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Which is not true of a certain other man who is now on my Boys I Really Need To Torment Until They Howl Like Rabid Jackals list. Yeah. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon, my yellow-shirted pal, your number is so going to come up. Did you know I once rented a funeral home to create an appropriate setting for a scene? And Krispy Kreme isn’t open twenty-four hours anymore. I bet if I bribed the cleaning people sufficiently I could get an hour alone with you in there, late at night, with all those dangerous-looking machines. I wonder how hot that glaze is when they dribble it all over those doughnuts? I could take pictures of you, tied to the conveyer belt, and put them here on the blog, as a warning to those who would - against my express wishes - bring those sweet, delicious little pastries of high-calorie evil into my house.

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.