I had a highly satisfactory date with Roman last night, and I’m looking forward to our anniversary date Sunday. Life is good.

Happy Gay Pride Day, to those of you celebrating that this weekend.

And to entertain you on this sunny Friday, here’s a column about some of the things I learned as a young sex worker.

My life returns to its normal state of twisted perversion today: my sainted Mother flies back to Atlanta. So all the people who have been patiently waiting for me to respond to phone calls/emails/carrier pigeons, your time has come.

Mom and I were doing some shopping while she was here. I don’t spend a lot of time shopping, because hey, I don’t have a lot of time. But she likes it, so… It sort of reminded me of all the reasons why Madison Avenue gets on my nerves. I mean, I do buy and use various beauty products, some of them expensive, so it’s not like I’m down on the whole concept. But if you want me to pay upwards of 100 bucks for a jar of skin cream, you need a better name. Or at least a better label design. Because when I look at this jar, what do I see?

Lamer. That’s what this jar says to me, and whether it’s their opinion of the customer or a statement about the product, it doesn’t inspire me to plunk down my credit card. Especially when the ad copy begins, “Even now, it is not entirely clear how Crème de la Mer works...” Honey, for $110 an ounce, you better tell me precisely how it works. Otherwise I’ll just stick to my Aveeno.

Equal Opportunity Kink

So all of ya’ll know I play with girls as well as boys, even though I don’t have a female lover these days. But what you may not know is that Max plays with guys as well as girls. It’s funny, he’s never had sex with a man, although he reserves the right to do that if he ever decides he wants to. (I personally think it’d be hawt to watch Max get a blow-job from some cute tied-up boy, but hey, I’m kinky that way.)

But so far, Max is just enjoying the unique energy of his gay leathermen friends. And they definitely enjoy him right back, so he’s often invited to come to boys-only BDSM parties and wreak some rope-based havoc. He attended such an event recently, taking not one but two attractive guys from our circle of friends. Neither of these guys identify as gay either, they’re just open-minded, which I think is a very cool thing to be.

Now, my Max? He doesn’t go to a play-party and not play. I think I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen that happen, and in fact, he usually plays with more than one person, because my sweet darling partner is just a slut that way. And I admire him for it.

I knew for sure he’d be playing at this particular party, because the host has a sixteen foot ceiling with suspension points installed in it. You've heard of size-queens? Max is a height-queen. The higher up in the air he can get someone, the better he likes it.

Thus, here is our friend, the intrepid C, dangling very high up in the air.

He's so pretty...

Busy Monday

Late night pizza in Seattle, finally. I’m so happy. It's the simple things.

Proof that I’m not the only kinky curmudgeon.

This is where Roman and I are going to spend our upcoming 2^nd anniversary.

A new kinky movie. I don't know much about it yet, although I've fired off some emails. Frankly, the trailer makes it look good in some ways and kinda silly in others. I mean, a global sex-slave market that runs around kidnapping kinky women from rich guys? Please. Such an organization would have to beat off applicants with a stick, pun intended. If there weren’t tons of people who liked the idea of giving up control to a strict and repressive overlord, we wouldn’t have the current presidential administration.

Okay, that’s a joke, sort of. But really, the trick for such an organization would be finding appropriately wealthy owners with the pictured lavish estates and tons of free time. Cute little muffins who’d want to be slaves to such people are a dime a dozen.

There seems to be some doubt as to this film's release, but if it comes out, I will see it, if for no other reason than I recognized my pal Lydia in the trailer. Not the starring role, but she appears briefly several times in the clip. She models a lot and she’s done indie films before, so I’m not wildly surprised to see her in this, although it always makes me giggle when I see the very toppy Lydia pretending to be submissive. I think she’s switched on a few occasions – who hasn’t? – but a slave? Pfft! Not bloody likely.

Now I've got a date to torment one of my favorite guys and then go have a decadent dinner. Bye!

Lazy
I had a sweet, slow-moving morning with Roman today, so I'm late with the link, but here it is: the new column...
Have a lovely weekend, everyone...

What I Need

I need a lot of things, but the two things I want right now are a hot stone massage and new photographs. Okay, maybe not right this instant, but soon. Perhaps you can help me.

Massage: I’m not a big fan of the traditional Swedish massage that you generally get when you go to a professional. The long strokes usually feel uncomfortable to me, like it’s pulling my skin. It’s never relaxing and sometimes it’s downright painful. (And not in a good way.) Oddly, when friends and lovers rub my back, it feels good - they usually do smaller, deeper, more circular strokes, and I love that. But I’ve never been able to get a professional masseur/masseuse to do it the way I like it.

However, I may have found something I like. My mom and I always go to spas together when she’s here visiting, and on our recent spa trip, I had a hot stone massage, and it was very nice. It seemed like using the rocks made a difference in the type of strokes the MT used, and adding the heat element worked nicely for me, too.

However, the place we were at is way over on the Eastside, and while the massage was nice, I wasn’t impressed enough with the spa overall with to trek back over there again. (It wasn’t terrible. It was just kinda meh.)

So, okay, Seattle massage fans, who does a good hot-rock massage, in the downtown/Cap Hill/Leschi or Columbia City neighborhood?

Photos: I need new pictures. Now, I do have a ton of friends – yes, like you, Malixe – who shoot as a hobby or semi-professionally, and I’d like to do some stuff with them. But I need new professional images for the MM.com website, so I want to book a glamour shoot with a serious professional photographer with a studio and fancy lights and a makeup artist and all that jazz. (I also need a new website, but that’s a whole other matter.)

Normally I would call Tommy Edwards for this. I’ve worked with Tommy numerous times for years, and he rocks. But this time I feel like I want something different, a fresh eye, new ideas. I like this guy’s work, and it’s exactly the kind of thing I need. She has some interesting stuff, too, although I don’t know it’s quite as glam as I need. Any of you model-girls know anybody else good for glamour work? In Seattle, needless to say - I’m not traveling for this.

All suggestions warmly appreciated.

I Love My Regulars

It’s weird how things go in streaks in this business. I’m always busy, but for the last few days, the phone, it will. Not. Stop. Ringing. I mean, like crazy.

And almost all brand-new people. Now, I’m not saying I don’t like to meet new guys ever. Every one of my dear and cherished regulars was once a new client to me. But I have to admit: I’m spoiled. When the guys I know call me, it’s easy. 2pm, Thursday? Sure, I can do that. Or No, I can’t, but how about Friday instead? It’s just a matter of logistics.

When new person calls, I have to stop whatever I’m doing and sit down and really listen to what they’re saying, and think about both the intended message (My name’s Bob and I’m into spanking and role-play) as well as the subtler ones. And I have to assess, based on that information, whether this is someone I want to meet. No one else can do this but me. I’ve wished many times that I could outsource the screening-new-people duty, but it’s simply not possible. I trust no one but myself to make this call.

So being in the dungeon with a new person? Fun. Spending time on the phone weeding out the roughly seventy percent of new callers that won't pan out into a session date? Not so fun.

It’s easy to tell who’s been reading my blog, though. Yeah, ya’ll know who you are. You wisely don’t say anything you shouldn't and so, hey, I usually like you. Other guys, who just found my number on god-knows-what adult entertainer’s site, just call up and say things like this:

Me: Hello?
Caller: Yeah, I’d like an appointment for this afternoon.

Guys, you’re not reserving a table at a restaurant. You’re calling a stranger to talk about spending time alone together engaged in a rather intimate activity. Let’s put it this way: if you approach a woman in a brusque, impersonal fashion like this, how do you expect her to treat you warmly and intimately? It’s in your best interests to observe some social amenities. Like saying “Hello”, for example.

Not to mention, of course, that the chances of getting a same-day appointment with me bring to mind the words “snowball” and “hell”. There’s a reason why I hide my phone number on my website. I’m trying to force people to know some basic things about me before they call. I’ve toyed with removing my phone number from my print ads, giving only a URL, for the same reason. I’m not ready to take that step yet, but the day may come.

But really, this is all just a lead-up to saying: I have some really great regular guys, and if you’re one of them, I’d just like you to let you know that I appreciate you. I'm blowing a kiss to you all - you guys are cool, and I’m glad you’re around. You make my life so much nicer. Thanks.

iTunes Nostalgia

This is the time, and this is the record of the time. This is the time, and this is the record of the time.

~ From The Air

So I recently downloaded an oldie-goldie from iTunes – the “Big Science” album by Laurie Anderson. If you haven’t ever heard it, it’s an awesome mishmash of music/spoken word art-rock weirdness. It’s considered Anderson’s most “commercial” album – which means she got some radio airplay, especially in the UK – but while purists may sneer, I love it. My favorite song is “From The Air”, but they’re all good.

I discovered the album the summer between my freshman and sophomore year at college. There were several key things happening at that particular point in my life. I had a sugar daddy – he was my first foray into sex for money. He paid my rent, bought me my first car, gave me an allowance. It was a cushy situation moneywise, but stressful psychologically.

I was living, as roommates, with another woman, who was clearly, but clearly, a lesbian, although she was so far back in the closet you could have used her for a shoe rack. And perhaps in connection with her state of extreme closetedness, Sandra was a big ole pothead. I mean serious.

Now, I’ve never been a big fan of pot. I do get a slightly buzzed feeling, but mainly I just get sleepy, and my eyes get all slitty, occasionally I got the munchies, and that’s about it. It’s just never done much for me. I haven’t smoked a joint in years and years. But that one summer, I smoked a lot of weed with Sandra and other people, and it seemed like fun.

The main reason it was fun was because of my friends. One of my early rules about getting stoned – one I’ve observed to this day, about all substances – is “never do drugs alone”. For me, getting high was a social thing. I was too young to get into bars – most of the time – so it was my equivalent of martinis after work.

Plus, I knew it would piss off Tom, my sugar daddy. Tom was a rich redneck fifty-something Republican who knocked back gallons of Chivas Regal but though that “mari-joo-ahna” was a demon weed smoked by “those coloreds”. (And that was his polite way of referring to black people.) Most of our other political opinions were equally antithetical, which made being his girlfriend-on-the-side an exercise in biting my tongue.

I’m sure he sensed it – I’m not a very good actress even now, much less at eighteen. So the more he tried to control me and get me to be what he wanted me to be, the more I developed passive-aggressive ways of defying and annoying him - while still getting him to support me, of course. I didn’t mind the sex part, it was just that we were so wildly incompatible in every other way.

So, cut to me and Sandra and another pal or two hanging out in my apartment, with the bong, some bottled wine coolers we’d gotten someone to buy for us, and a bag of M&Ms. Sandra says, “I found this really cool album, you guys have to hear it.” And she puts on “Big Science.”

One of the things one notices about this album is that Laurie Anderson talks a lot in a very deliberate, measured voice, and she says odd things that don’t make much sense. It’s very artsy.

However, it struck all of us that in fact, Laurie Anderson was talking just like we were talking: in a slow, draggy voice, with lots of non sequiturs. Therefore – in our THC-fogged minds - Laurie Anderson must also be stoned! Cool! Cheech and Chong be damned, Laurie Anderson became our stoner heroine. (Really! Listen to “Walking and Falling” and then tell me that woman doesn’t sound like she’s baked. Just try.)

After that, Big Science got a lot of airtime in my apartment. Sandra and I got to where we could recite large sections of it from memory, which we were prone to doing at inappropriate moments, especially if we actually were stoned.

Tom hated it. So naturally I insisted on playing it while we had sex.

That fall I broke up with Tom, moved back into the dorm, and drifted away from Sandra. The Big Science album got lost and while I thought about it occasionally, I hadn’t heard it in years. Then for some reason it came to my mind, I searched for it on iTunes, and as I listen to it, I can almost smell the pot, taste the M&Ms, and hear Sandra’s laugh.

So if you read his blog, you already know. But if you just got here: My other partner, Monk (usually referred to here by his blog nickname, Roman) had a fire in his shop Wednesday night.

Not a good thing. Quite bad, in fact. In what I’m told is the usual way, the water from the sprinklers, and the firefighter’s axes, did more damage than the actual fire. (Not that I’m dissing the firefighters, you understand.) Monk, Nerdy and Tambo spent all yesterday mopping and sweeping and carrying loads of now-worthless merchandise out to the dumpster. And then I bought them stiff drinks.

Today, they are able to summon, barely, some flickers of optimism about the future. But it’s a helluva mess. He sent me some pictures. Here’s Monk and Nerdy (I think that’s Nerdy?) looking at the outside of the building. A shot of the standing water on the floor, and a box of Bridget Harrington’s new bondage book, ruined by water damage.

He'll get everything going again, of course, and there is insurance, although god knows what getting money out of them will entail. (I do not have good experiences with insurance companies.)

In the wake of this, I’ve gotten several emails from kind readers asking me if they can donate to a relief fund. It’s a very sweet idea. I mentioned it to Monk, and his reply was: “Wow, that’s very kind and generous of people. We’ll definitely get back up and running no matter what, but if readers want to do something to help us along and speed up the process, I would think that was a really nice gesture on their part. It would certainly help me make sure all my employees still get paid on time.”

So if you want to, you can donate whatever you want here, through Paypal, and I’ll see that it gets to Monk.

Monk also said that cookies, supportive emails, and some patience are very much appreciated. Oh, and pictures of naked boobies. Those help, too.

Oh, and the usual Friday fodder: My new column, and the calendar...

Cat Suspension

I've been meaning to post this for a while, because it's funny. I'll pause while everyone makes the obvious joke to themselves....

And now I'll tell you the story behind it.

There are two ladies in Seattle (both of whom read this blog, I believe) who like rope bondage. One of them apparently bet the other that she could suspend her cat. I forget what the stakes of the bet were - perhaps someone will remind me - but this photo was offered as proof that in fact, you can do a two-point horizontal suspension on a cat. Although I don't recommend this as practice for suspending humans.

I would also point out: I think this is an extraordinarily accomodating feline. I myself have a cat, she's nineteen years old, and never, at any point since I plucked her from that mobile home in Tampa with the "Free Kittens" sign, would she have been willing to tolerate such lese majeste.

Given her humble beginnings, I don't know where she gets her severe and imperious attitude. Yes, I've had her since she was a tiny kitten. What does that have to do with it? Hey, are you trying to imply something?

(Thanks to Midori and Kelly for the photo.)

Also: I have time available this week Wednesday and Thursday.

Domestic Stress

This is going stun some of you newer readers, but in fact, I do not get my house cleaned by saucy little slaves dressed in French maid uniforms who do it just because they worship me. (Or Max.) That kind of arrangement is always more trouble than it’s worth, in my experience. We pay people to do it.

I’ve paid people to clean up after me for years. I’m not a huge slob – I’d call myself medium-tidy. That means I won’t let dirty dishes sit around, but stacks of books and piles of papers do tend to accumulate, and I’ll often just throw down my jacket wherever. Stuff like that.

And really, what is the point of making good money if you don’t use it to make your life easier? So I hire people. My first housecleaner was great. Then she became a sex worker and started making ten times as much money per hour, and so of course she quit. I had a couple of cool but transitory people after that, and a few flakes, and for several years I’ve had a very nice woman, V, doing our house. I’ve known V for years, we have a lot of acquaintances in common - including some of her other clients - and she’s a lovely person. However, either she’s got more clients than she can really handle, or she’s got some other issues going on, because Max and I feel she’s canceling her days with us – with no notice - more than we’d like. We entertain a lot, and we have a lot of houseguests, and so it’s often an issue for us that the house actually does get cleaned that day. So we’re exploring our other options.

We’ve talked about using Merry Maids or some outfit like that, but I don’t trust those big services. I want to hire an individual person, preferably a sole proprietor, who I can meet and look in the eye and decide that I trust them – or not - and have that person and no other be in my house. I mean, V has her own key, for god’s sake, she usually comes and goes without us being here. I totally trust her. So that’s one of the requirements.

They also need to be if not kink-friendly, at least kink-tolerant, because there’s a lot of kinky stuff around the house. I don’t mean we leave used sex toys around, we’re much too polite to ask anyone else to deal with those. I mean the big ole cage in the bedroom, for one thing, and a lot of somewhat pervy art on the walls, and various magazines and such. V did also vacuum and dust the basement playroom, because the dungeon furniture didn’t bother her a bit. But we’d be willing to excuse a new person that duty, at least until they got used to the idea.

So if you are know (or if you are yourself) an open-minded, professional, reliable housecleaner, with references, in the Seattle area, drop me a note. Good help is hard to find, but we need it.

(A brief note to be super-clear, because some people don’t read very carefully: this is not a personal ad. I want someone who does this for a living, not for erotic gratification, or because they want attention from the Mistress. Professional. For the money. Not sexy. Got it?)

Round-Up of Recent Events

The Human Sexuality class: Went just fine. I’ve done stuff like that a lot, although usually they just want me to talk about one specific aspect of who I am: being kinky, or being poly, or being bi, or being a sex worker. This class got sort of an overview of the whole crazy salad of my life. A one-hour class isn’t really enough to cover everything in a satisfactory way, and I think some of them walked out with their heads kinda spinning with all the bits of information I gave them, but they were great kids and I enjoyed talking to them.

The Mom: Is indeed here, although she leaves today to go up to Victoria for a few days. Saturday night I took her to the Late Night Catechism show at The Act. I’m a second-generation Catholic schoolgirl - my mother went to Catholic school back in the day when the nuns ruled their student with an iron ruler. (Yes, both of us went all twelve years.)

She and her husband loved it, but the show was actually much gentler than I’d expected. It pokes fun at the church, but it’s clearly geared to not offend practicing Catholics. So while the actress, Aubrey Manning, is very quick-witted in her improvisational schticks with the audience, overall the show is amusing but toothless. Although I suppose there are worse things for entertaining one’s mother. I took them to the B&O Café for dessert afterwards, which was also a big hit.

Bondage is the Point Party: Grand as always. It’s great to have a regular party where I can count on most all of my friends showing up. I mean, a party I don’t have to throw myself.

The Kaotians, aka "the Darlington Sex Slave Cult": I got this email a day or so ago.

Tal Matisse

Came across your blog just a moment ago.

I see my father has been doing the rounds again.

I liked your comments after his letter *grins*

wish everybody saw things like you did.

To set the record straight, i only knew lee for about 3 weeks before meeting him - not 7 or 8 months as my father claims.

anyway, good post.

Regards

Zach Nicodemous.

“Tal” is not a badly-spelled indication that he thinks I’m above-average height. Rather it is how people in the Gor books greet each other.

Pervy Phrase of the Day: “…a peeping cyclops”. Isn’t that a cool phrase? I think you should all try and guess what it means. I’ll tell you the right answer tomorrow.

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.