Seattle question: Max has some old home movies on 8-mm film (no, nothing dirty) that we'd like to get transferred to DVD. Does anyone have a specific business in the Seattle area they'd recommend? We'd prefer not to mail them off somewhere.

Scanty posting this week, I know. Life has been busy. But here's the new column and kink calendar.
Enjoy the weekend...

An Invitation

Ring Ring!

Me: Hello?

Caller: So, is this Mistress Mah-TEE-cee?

Ya’ll know I have a theory that if you can’t pronounce my name, I’m probably not going to like you. You think I'm kidding. But it's really odd how often there's a connection between "can't say my name" and "asks me for inappropriate things".

So if you want to come see me, repeat after me: Mah. Teese. Slight stress on the first syllable, and that last e in the second syllable is silent, so it rhymes with geese. Henri would be spinning in his grave if he could hear how people butcher the name I borrowed from him. But since this caller sounds like a too-young (read: under 30, not my preferred age group) white boy, it’s possible art history is not his strong point.

Me: It’s Matisse, and yes, this is she. Can I help you?
Caller: Well, I was, like, wondering what you were up to?

What am I up to? No good, that’s for sure, but what’s his point?

Me: Are you calling to get information about a session?
Caller: No, I was just hanging out, and I was wondering if you wanted to come over and do some E with me.

Me: (foolishly) Excuse me?
Caller: I’ve got some Ecstasy and I was wondering if you wanna come over and do it with me.

I’ve heard of cockeyed optimists before, but I would say this guy’s cock is definitely poking him in the eye and impeding the blood flow to his brain. But I long ago ceased to be surprised by how hope springs eternal in the masculine breast. You can see plenty of examples of it through history. Just yesterday I was talking with Steve (hi, Steve) about how before the invention of a shipboard clock, there was no accurate way of calculating longitude and thus no absolutely reliable way for sailors to know where the hell they were going. The kind of insouciance required to get onto a boat and say, “Hey, let’s try sailing in that direction and see what happens” is amazing when you think about it. I mean, for all those guys knew, they were going to sail off the edge of the world, or be eaten by sea monsters, or who knows what. But off they went.

This guy would have made a great pre-18^th century sailor. However, his optimism is utterly and completely misplaced in this context.

Me: No. No, I don’t.
Caller: Well, d’you wanna spank me then?

It’s nice when the answers are so simple.

Me: No, I don’t.

Click. He hangs up. Since navigation at sea is now a matter of science rather than luck, perhaps a career in telephone solicitation might suit him better.

Happy 4^th of July. It's my least favorite holiday, actually, as I don’t like the terrible traffic and the fireworks being set off by random people who not have the smarts to handle them safely. But still, here it is, so – have a nice one.

Just a reminder for those of you who like the short, link-oriented blogging style: I also post, usually at least once a day, over at the Slog, which is The Stranger's blog. Here's what I put up today...

The Slog is fun and fast-moving, which I like, and it does keep one up on lots of local events and gossip. I'm not sure if there's a way to search for my posts specifically, but if there is, I'm sure some clever person will find it and tell us.

This week’s column: Some BDSM Terms Defined

I knew it would stir some response, but I think it was mere minutes after this column went live on the Stranger website that I got an email taking me to task for my use of the words “orgasm” vs. “ejaculate”. The writer describes his method of anal stimulation, calling it…

…hard and aggressive stimulation. During this stimulation, my penis is flaccid. But at the crescendo of the stimulation, come gently pulses out of my mostly flaccid penis and fills the palm of my other hand. I note in your article you mention ejaculation without orgasm is this what you mean? I beg your pardon but I consider this to be an orgasm as well...albeit a different one but one nonetheless. Woman have different types of orgasms...woman are ejaculating as well. Men should be able to have different types of orgasms as well.

Darling, far be it from me to tell you what is an orgasm for you and what isn’t. I mean, an orgasm is a distinct physiological event, and I’m sure a medically trained sexual researcher could hook you up to some machine and measure your various levels of whatever, but that’s not my specialty. As far as I’m concerned, if you say it’s an orgasm, it’s an orgasm.

But yes, I have heard stories about – but not witnessed – men being “milked” into producing a large quantity of ejaculate without feeling that they had an orgasm. I am mildly skeptical, but if I’m ever in a situation where someone demonstrates this for me, great. I’m open to new ideas.

The stories I hear always have a very dominant/submissive overtone, with the man being “forced” to continuously produce fluid. I think this fantasy centers around a primitive fear (some) men have about being, shall we say, robbed of their manly essence? And where there is fear mixed with sexuality, there will inevitably be a fetish.

On related topic...my gf has "orgasms" when we enjoy anal sex together. What are these things she has? You imply that there is such a thing as an ejaculation without an orgasm does that also mean there are orgasms without ejaculation?

On this one I’m quite clear: I have known (yes, in the Biblical sense) many men who told me they had orgasms without ejaculating. I think some guys purposely do this as part of Tantric sex practices, although I don’t know that for sure.

What’s happening with your girlfriend, I have no idea. Like you, if she says it’s an orgasm, I’m not going to tell her it’s not. The both of ya’ll just go on with your anal orgasming selves. You should take her to see The Wet Spots play when they're here early in July, since your answer to their musical query is an enthusiastic "Yes!"

While we’re on this music thing… YouTube video: A young Stevie Wonder doing a funkalicious rendition of my favorite song by him, Superstition. On Sesame Street, no less!
I think in the studio version has a harder edge to it, which I like, but this has almost more a big-band sound. It's cool. Stevie Wonder and the Stones were my mom's favorites bands when I was little, so I grew up listening to this kind of music.
I think I need to wander over to iTunes and spend some more money. Hot weather requires lots of music.

Another Album From The iPod

Things To Do In Denver When You’re Dead Soundtrack

I’m a fan of buying movie soundtracks. I like getting a CD that has a lot of different sounds, but with one unifying mood. I bought this CD in 1995, just as I was breaking up with my last serious female lover, Deborah B. We were trying to keep it civil, but it was a tense time - I needed to get myself out of her house and into my own apartment. The prospect of getting out of town for a while, and generating a large chunk of cash at the same time, was what made me decide to take a chance on a type of sex work I’d never tried before: the legal brothels in Nevada.

I’d talked briefly to one woman who’d been down there, but I didn’t have much to go on, and there was very little information on the web at that time. I had some phone numbers, but people who answer the phone at brothels aren’t usually interested in giving one any information beyond the bare minimum. I’d need a medical test and a license from the sheriff, they’d feed me and house me (for a fee) and I had to stay at least one week, although they’d prefer longer. Sounded like a cross between a women-in-prison movie and a girls summer camp – albeit one where I’d get paid.

Actually, I had no real idea of what I was getting myself into. But I was a little angry, a little bitter, and definitely in the emotional space to say “What the fuck? Why not?” Taking a chance suited my mood very well.

Still, I decided to drive down rather than fly, reasoning that if worst came to worst, I’d be able to just get back in my beloved red Supra and get out the hell out of there. So I packed up a bunch of come-hither outfits, threw a stack of CDs in the car, and said a half-sad, half-resentful goodbye to Deb.

This CD got heavy rotation on the drive south. It’s got great blues - "Born Under A Bad Sign" and "Take On Some Insurance On Me, Baby". It's got some songs from bands I'd never heard of - like Ape Hangers - but which proved to be excellent to turn up really loud and sing along to. "This is my life and I know what to do with it!" I always skipped past Dean Martin singing "You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Loves You", though. Not what I wanted to hear just then.

It’s got Morphine, and Tom Waits, and Johnny Cash, and it’s got this one song by Blues Traveler covering a Bob Seger number, "Get Out Of Denver". Now, "Get Out Of Denver" isn’t a really deep, meaningful song. (I think it’s about scoring drugs, actually.) But listening to the catchy guitar and hook-y vocals as I drove ninety miles an hour across the rocky desert of Nevada was a great way to get myself pumped up for big changes in my life, both immediate and longer-term.

Spending a week in the brothel turned out to be an interesting experience, although not one I decided to make a habit of. But I did make a healthy stack of cash, with which I returned to Seattle to get a new apartment, and a new life.

Also: I still have some time available this week Tuesday, Weds, and Friday.

I had a really sweet time with Roman yesterday. Hotel Andra is a gorgeous place, I definitely recommend it for the boutique-hotel experience. Big thanks go out to blog-reader Kelly, who helped Roman arrange the very pretty room and sent us a bottle of champagne. We drank it sitting there looking out over the lights of downtown. So that was all good…

But today, my laptop is being wonky, and I had to drop my car off at the Saab dealership because it’s leaking coolant, like big-time. I probably won’t get it back until late tomorrow, if then. Arg. I hate being car-less.

Such are the ups and downs of life. But I have a lot of ups and very few downs, really, so I can't complain. And it's sunny and warm, yay! So maybe I'll go sit out in the yard and see if I can get my laptop to behave itself.

Two years ago today, Roman showed up on my doorstep. With him, he had a bouquet of flowers, a bottle of champagne, and his famous thousand-watt smile. Armed with these weapons, he complimented me, confided in me, listened to me, made me laugh, made me blush, and just generally made me feel like the most fascinating and the most beautiful woman in the world.

And he still does. Happy anniversary, sweetheart.

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...