Today, I have not one but two pieces in The Stranger. The regular column, and a separate article about local porn producers Rodney Moore and Farrell Timlake.

In other news: I so cannot wait to see this show. It's going to be amazing.

Bye!

So, now that the roaring insanity of my life has been whipped back onto its haunches… I believe I promised to tell ya'll something about my trip to Texas.

I have to consider what can I talk about, though. It would be indiscreet to tell some of the stories here, you see. Like how during one of the bondage (?) classes, Extremely Annoying Presenter X was adroitly skewered by a barbed remark from the back row, and I laughed so hard I had to duck down in the booth to try to control myself. No, I shouldn't say any more about that one.

Some of them you just had to be there for. Like GrayDancer’s keynote speech – soon to be featured on his podcast – during which he stripped down from a garish kimono, to a t-shirt that said “100% Kimono Boy”*, and then to a rope corset and g-string, and then to no clothes whatsoever. Yep, that's right, buck naked, in front of all of us. That took guts. I generally hate speeches and ceremonies, but I liked this one.

The important part is: Twisted Monk sold a ton of rope. I mean – wow. A lot. And it was really interesting for me to be there sort of incognito. (I was not introducing myself as Matisse, you see.) A handful of people knew who I was, but I think I largely flew under the radar, which was just fine with me. I get plenty of time in the spotlight - this was Roman’s show. It was great to see all the people that wanted to see him and talk to him and get rope from him – he worked really hard to create what he’s got, and I’m proud of him.

We did co-star Saturday night, though, because the same sweet pretty girl that we did the kidnapping scene with offered us a re-match at the dungeon party. So we did what any right-thinking perverts would do. We threw Miss Red down on the floor, Roman sliced off her clothes with a knife, and we proceeded to pummel, clamp, flog, crop and pierce her naked body.

Now, there are some thing you can count on at any dungeon party, and one of them is that is you get a cute girl naked, people are going to stop and look at your scene. So I’m thinking that was one of the reasons why, when I stepped back for a moment to catch my breath, I saw that damn near everyone who wasn’t engaged in play already was standing at the minimum polite distance away, watching us. It was flattering, if slightly startling, because I hadn’t been aware of them all coming to our corner of the room.

But perhaps another reason was that Roman and I put on a good show when we co-top. The party attendees weren’t the only ones watching, however. I forget sometimes that other places are not as bloodsports-friendly as Seattle.

Snippet of an email I sent to a freind the next day:

Monk and I thrashed this cute girl last night, and the damn Dungeon Monitor stood over our scene the whole time scowling. I think he didn't like us doing needles. But hey, there were no rules against them.

My pal's reply:

Imagine - the Austin ROPE Symposium, and the DM didn't like needles! You are such a nasty transgressive girl.

Oh yeah. I forgot. You get spoiled in your hometown, when everybody knows you, and the DMs don’t bother you. Especially when the hometown is Seattle. The scene we did with Miss Red was pretty to look at, extremely fun to do, and definitely physically intense for her. However, it would not be regarded as edgy or dangerous here in Seattle. In Austin, however, the DM acted as if we were about to do heart surgery with chainsaws. Oy. It did not enhance the mood.

But we had a good time in spite of that. There were actually a number of attractive Austin people I would have enjoyed playing with, and I regretted that by Sunday night I was really too tired to do another scene. But perhaps I’ll get other opportunities.

______

*Gray is not, in fact, a Kimono Boy, which is what made it so funny. However, I imagine that there probably was a serious Kimono Boy or two in the audience.

Also: I have time tomorrow and Friday, so if you've been thinking of seeing me, call me...

Okay, I know I said I’d tell stories today – but I’m buried under a small avalanche of obligations and deadlines. More soon, I swear.
I will share one snippet of information, though. If you ever wish to engage in a meat orgy near Austin, this would be the place. And dear god, they even have mail-order. That's dangerous. Thanks to Goose & Gander, Hannah, and Red & Chance for turning Roman and I on to this fleshy delight, and for all their helpful hospitality this past weekend.

Back Home
Short Version: I had a very good time in Texas. I ate great BBQ, thrashed a cute girl, helped Roman sell a lot of rope, and hung out with some cool folks.
Now I have to get caught up with my life after being gone for five days, so more stories tomorrow!

So I’m leaving on a jet plane today. But while I'm getting strip-searched at the airport, you should definitely go read about Dan Savage’s latest bit of political theater. I think it rocks. We'll see if he gets arrested.

And, armed with your sense of humor, go read this rant from a feminist stripper: A Guide to Laying Down the Hardline in the Bedroom

And of course read my column: Why Be A Slave?

Bye!

Voicemail Follies

Gentlemen, it’s been suggested to me that I give a quick primer on “How To Leave A Message For A Sex Worker”. In some ways I am a poor candidate to do this, since I am sometimes bad about returning calls from guys I don’t know, even though they may have left a perfectly fine message. But I seem to have the floor, so here we go…

Rule Number One: Listen to the outgoing message! My message, for example, says that I only see people Monday through Friday. And yet I daily get messages asking me for Saturday appointments. It discourages a girl.

Rule Number Two: be simple and direct. “Hi, my name is Bob, I saw your ad/website and was calling to get more information. You can call me back at xxx-xxxx.”

See how easy that is? You can add more information, such as: “Please don’t call me back after 6pm.” Or, “I’m only in town until Tuesday.” But please do not leave your entire erotic history on my voicemail. Please. If I wind up meeting you, I’m going to ask you all those questions again anyway, and if I don’t, the point is moot. The entire message should not be longer than about fifteen seconds, maybe twenty. More than that and you’re fast losing my interest.

Rule Number Three: Say your name and your phone number twice. And say them s-l-o-w-l-y. No name? No call back.

Also: If I call you back and a woman answers, I will hang up. Thank god for call blocking.

The goal is to sound like you are not a strange and unusual person. What kind of message makes us ladies think: “weirdo”? Here are some recent examples.

BEEP!
Knock-knock! Who’s there? Anal Bob! Anal Bob who? Anal Bob for you Mistress! Call me, xxx-xxxx!
END OF MESSAGE. PRESS NINE TO DELETE.
MESSAGE DELETED.

BEEP!
Who am I, Mistress? Who am I? I am lost. Guide me. I am your creature, your possession…In this world I am called…Axillium. xxx-xxxx.
END OF MESSAGE. PRESS NINE TO DELETE.
MESSAGE DELETED.

BEEP!
(Long pause) Xxx-xxxx. (Long pause) Call me back.
END OF MESSAGE. PRESS NINE TO DELETE.
MESSAGE DELETED.

Since I have to go out of town soon, and my voicemails will stack up while I’m gone, I’ll be able to tell who reads this blog and who doesn’t….

In a startling break with tradition: the new-column link today, instead of tomorrow! Feel free to express your thoughts about pubic hair here. I know you'll have some, because apparently it's a real hot-button topic to everyone but me*.



* Okay, maybe not everyone but me. But good lord, the people commenting over on Salon.com were quite, quite vehement about their views on pubes.

I picked up voicemail today, and here’s one of the messages I got:

(Recorded voice) Hi! This is a call from Club VIP Escort dot com! We’re an escort directory soon to be the biggest escort directory in the world! We’d like to help you post your ad on Club VIP Escort dot com today! Press one to be connected to a customer representative!

It was one of those smooth, unctuous, “announcer” voices, clearly a professionally rehearsed and recorded spiel. Ah, I remember the old days, when sex workers were scandalous outlaws and we never, ever got telemarketing calls. Now I get freaking robo-calls from escort-mall websites. Lordy.

The occasional annoyance aside, however, I am not averse to using tech toys in my professional life. Thus, I have a question for those of you who use online calendar programs. I’m thinking of integrating one into my scheduling system so my good regular guys can always see when I’m available. I’ve looked at Google Calendar, of course, but what other ones are good?

I'm busy writing a column, so meanwhile, enjoy two photos of my dear sadistic partner Max rigging a sweet young thing at the Abbey party. That ceiling is twenty feet high, by the way. Reason number 47 why I'm really glad we're poly.

Getting Ready For Takeoff
In The Air

The Abbey party was a rousing success. The food was beautiful, the music was great, and the entertainment was lovely and perverted.

The conversations were fascinating as well. Some memorable remarks addressed to me throughout the course of the evening:

“I want you to sit on my face on my deathbed.”

“So I said to her, ‘the wrong rapist has your keys’.

(As I slapped a woman’s chain-mail covered breasts with my be-ringed hands) “My tits sound like a snare drum!”

“You’re a really good writer. And I’m not just saying that to get in your pants.”

Malixe took some great pictures, but the process of collecting various people’s consent to use their image always takes longer than one wishes, so I have no good pictures today. (Monk got first dibs, so go check his blog for some cool shots.)

I do have one of me, though, which I will use to illustrate the fact that half my friends did double-takes when they saw me.

It’s true that I don’t wear hats that often. But even so, it seems that this silver latex cowboy hat that Jae made me has magical powers of disguise, because lots of people told me they didn’t recognize me at first. Or maybe it was my outfit, which was uncharacteristically wacky. Sort of an 80’s/glitterpunk-fetish look - rubber bracelets, multiple belts and all. I tend to be a basic black girl, but you have to break out sometimes. Plus, the floors in the Abbey? Concrete. Uneven concrete, at that, and no way was I going to walk around for several hours in spike heels on such a rough industrial surface. I had to wear something I could pair with my big ole New Rock boots.

I'm not praying, by the way. I'm watching Tamara The Trapeze Lady and clapping in delight.

So the party was great. Now, the next big events? Well, August 27th is my 7th anniversary with my darling Max, and we have some plans for that. And then Monk and I are off to Austin on the 31st. It never stops around here.

The new column - fans of the phone calls, take note.

Meanwhile, everyone around here is gearing up for the Abbey party this weekend, which should be tremendous. The outfit Monk is wearing - well, he's just going to put the rest of us fetish-fashion queens in the shade, that's all. I'll be there early to help greet guests, and keep things going smoothly, and Max will be there rigging in a prominent position. The worst part of the evening will be trying to stay away from the desserts Matt is providing. It's going to be fabulous.

Speaking of fashion, I need an opinion from the girls who dig purses. I myself hate them. But I need a bag to carry my stuff around in, obviously. So I'm thinking about buying a black nylon Kate Spade bag, just because it's so perfectly basic that I'll never have to think about it. So what do you think: this one - a little more hip in terms of style, but perhaps a bit bigger than I really need. Or this one: smaller and trimmer, but is it too suburban?

Books On The Bedside Table

Tesla: Man Out of Time, by Margaret Cheney.
I’m about halfway into this and it’s interesting. I’m liking the personal feeling of it as much I like learning more about Tesla and his huge contributions to science. A lot of period flavor, too.

I, Fatty: A Novel by Jerry Stahl.
Xavier loaned me this, and I read it in one night – it’s not a long novel, and it flows quickly. It's both compelling and sad. It’s a faux-memoir, but Stahl creates such an authentic voice for Fatty Arbuckle that it’s easy to forget, for pages at a time, that it’s not a true autobiography of the rise and fall of the 1920's actor.

A Simple Plan By Scott Smith
One of those best-sellers I haven’t gotten around to reading, although I like suspense novels. I’m told it’s pretty intense, so I’m saving it for when I have a free evening to burn all the way through it.

Dangerous Relationships: How to Identify and Respond to the Seven Warning Signs of a Troubled Relationship by Noelle Nelson
No, this is not a sign of trouble in any of my relationships. I’m scheduled to be part of a panel next month at the Wet Spot about how to meet people safely, and I thought I’d do some reading to help clarify my ideas about how to pick up on danger signals early in interactions with people. I've sort of pre-skimmed through it and I would say while Ms. Nelson may not be presenting any new information to me personally, she organizes the material well. And we'll see what a more careful perusal yields.

Indecent Secrets: The Infamous Murri Murder Affair by Christina Vella
Read it already - it's an account a famous 1902 murder trial in Italy. I liked the story, although the writing wasn’t all that good, in my opinion. But it does demonstrate that a murder trial where the accused become celebrities is not unique to modern America.

The Royal Physician's Visit: A Novel by Per Olov Enquist
Another best-selling, award-winning book I didn’t read when it first came out. Having read it now, I’m mildly puzzled by the rave reviews. It’s good, but the text was originally written in Swedish, and then translated to English, and it shows. So, sure, an enjoyable-enough book. But calling this prose “elegant”? Um, okay. If you say so.

Between Silk and Cyanide: A Codemaker's War, 1941-1945 by Leo Marks
I’m about a hundred pages into this one, and it’s very good so far. Marks writes in a droll, offhand tone of voice that I particularly associate with a Brit talking about issues of life and death, and so far his gift for vivid characterization – both of himself, as a smart-aleck twenty-year-old, and of others - has me deeply engrossed.

Ask The Right Question

I got two emails today asking me for advice on personal questions. One I fired off an answer to right away. The other – well, maybe ya’ll can answer it, because I lack the time. I’ll show you what I mean. (Note: both letters were edited slightly for length and/or identifying details.)

Over the past months I've become a fan of yours, enjoying your "Control Tower" as I do. And your latest prompts a question, and though I don't know if you
respond to such individual inquiries, surely it can't hurt to ask.
On the matter of how to deal with a sex-worker, I don't want to offend anyone, and I much appreciate your advice….So my question is: would it be unreasonably risky
to ask of a lady advertising a "flat rate, incall," exactly how much of her TIME
I could expect to enjoy, for that figure?
It's been (many) years since I've visited such a professional, and the memory is pleasant, but I expect after this lapse of time, I probably need to be "schooled."

This is an example of a very good can-I-ask-you-a-question? letter. Why do I like it? For one thing, this writer lets me know he knows something about who I am, which is nice. I get tons of emails from people who don’t seem to know who anything about who they are talking to.

He also acknowledges that he’s asking me to spend my very precious personal time answering his question, which is nice.

But, by far the most important thing he did right is : he frames a very specific question that I can easily respond to. (The answer, in this case, is that it’s perfectly appropriate and reasonable to ask a sex worker how much time you get for how much money. After all, that's what we’re selling - our time.)

It took me no time at all to dash off exactly that reply to this gentleman. He got the info he wanted, and I was pleased to help out a reader. Everybody wins.

Contrast this with another letter.

My lady and I enjoy a bit of kink and have been interested in expanding on what
we know (and that isn't much). We both love it but it's getting a little
blah...We would like to know more about rope work and spanking/ using paddles,
crops, etc. Thank you for taking the time to read this.

Now, understand – I don’t think this writer is a bad person, not at all. And it’s not all wrong - he does politely acknowledge me having taken the time to read his letter. Points for that.

But the trouble is, this man does not frame a specific question - at least, not one that I can easily see. He and his partner want to learn more about bondage and impact play. Well, that’s certainly a desire I support. But what exactly are they asking me? Do they want me to recommend a book to them, or videos they might watch? Are they looking for kink events to attend? But I can't help with that unless I know where they live, and he doesn't say. I don't think he's asking me about a couples session, but I suppose that might be it, too. I just don't know.

I do like to be helpful to people if I can. But the truth is, if answering your (I think) non-business-related email is going to take me longer than two minutes, your odds of getting a response are slim. I just don’t have time.

So perhaps you, my kinky readers, will help this second writer. What are your responses to his question?

Meanwhile, I have a column to write and boys to torment. Bye!

I had a lovely week last week, which included time with several guys I’ve known for years and really feel connected to when I see them. That’s always a good thing.

Interestingly, there was also a session with a man who’s fairly new to me, in which I several times wondered, “Is this whole thing working for him?” It’s rare for me to be unsure about a scene when I’m doing it. At the risk of sounding all woo-woo, I can almost always find someone’s energy, connect with it, and make the scene come together. But this man is very quiet, very still, and he goes very much inward with his energy when we play. I know there’s something intense happening in his head - but it’s hard to feel him. I had to just trust that if he needed something to be different, he would say so.

Afterwards as he went to leave, he turned to me at the door and said, “Thank you, that was wonderful. It’s really nice when you have a fantasy and the reality turns out to be even better than you’d hoped for.” That’s a great thing to hear, and it was especially so given that I’d been unsure.

Other highlights were: a Leo birthday party, during which I placed a six-inch spring clamp on the head of a friend's dick. And then I gave him a brief lap-dance. Also, Jae came over for dinner Sunday and helped Max and I eat the rest of that crab. I'm certain she saved me from another round of seafood-intoxication.

Note to clients: Usually late July and August is a slow time of year, but this summer has been insanely busy, and I’ve had to decline a number of guys I would otherwise have enjoyed seeing. However, I still have a fair amount of time left this week, so if you’ve been wanting to get time with me, carpe diem.

Here's the new column... Roman and I had a lovely time celebrating his birthday yesterday, and I have a socially jam-packed weekend ahead, with a barbeque with some of Max's old pals, and then yet another Leo birthday gathering in the evening.

But before I bound off, a quick greetings to James, over at Seattlest, who apparently liked the Ezell's entry. It's funny, I check my stats occasionally so I know, intellectually, that a lot of people read this blog. But that doesn't feel real to me most of the time. It's like I think I'm just talking to two dozen kinksters who know me in real life. So when some stranger makes a post about this blog - especially someone who doesn't present themselves as kinky - it always sort of startles me. It's not unpleasant. Quite the contrary, it's rather nice. It's just...unexpected.

Today is the birthday of my sweetheart, Roman. I’m really glad he came into the world 36 years ago today. I love that he's handsome and sexy, and that he wears silly hats, talks in fake foreign accents, and sings along to bad pop songs with me. And I also love that he’s smart, driven, extremely hardworking, ferociously loyal to those he loves, and willing to walk through his fears and emerge victorious the other side.
And I get to spend the evening with him celebrating all that, which I’m very pleased about. Happy Birthday, my darling. I’m so happy you’re in my life.

Another Food Related Post

Although only slightly. Really it’s a post about how I'm not the only one who gets dumb phone calls.

A few days ago I went to Ezell’s to get some fried chicken for Max and I. We go there every couple of weeks, when we feel our bad-cholesterol level needs a boost. You can practically feel your arteries narrowing from just breathing the air. But it’s very tasty.

Behind the counter, as usual, was a trio of black teenagers and an older woman, also black, who I see there every time I go in. She’s the one who usually takes my order, and I believe I would describe her as matriarchal in both appearance and in manner. She’s friendly, but she’s in charge of that kitchen and she knows it. Everyone else knows it too. I grew up in the South, and my childhood was populated by a number of kind but commanding black ladies of a certain age and Junoesque proportions, so she always makes me smile.

I told her what I wanted and as she moved to get it, one of the teenagers handed her a cordless phone. She talked into it as she got out a Styrofoam box.

“Ezell’s Chicken, can I help you?”

I could hear the voice of the person on the other end, but not well enough to understand what they were saying. The matriarch’s brow knit as she listened.

“Re-heat it? Well, just put it in the oven.”

“...”

“On low. Turn the oven on low, and put the chicken in.”

“…”

The matriarch let out a little sound of annoyance and replied to the caller.“250 degrees. That’s low.”

“…”

“Well, it depends how hot you want it. Leave it in there for five minutes. Then check it.”

“…”

“No, not in the box,” said the matriarch, as she selected a pair of original-recipe thighs with a pair of large steel tongs. “Put it on a cookie sheet or something, and put it in the oven for five or ten minutes.”

“…”

But the Queen of Ezell’s patience had reached its end. “I have to go now, I have customers to take care of, good-bye.” She handed the phone back to her assistant, shaking her head “Lord…”

The teenager asked, “Was that someone who lives with you?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, no it was not. My children know how to cook chicken. I don’t know who that was.” She met my eye and shook her head, giving a gentle snort. “Calling up here, asking me how to warm up chicken.” I smiled and said something about silly people. She gave me my chicken and I thanked her and left.

Maybe I should let her answer my phone calls.

One Of The Seven Deadly Sins

Oh my god. Last night I was very happy, but slightly uncomfortable. A friend of Max’s with a seafood connection offered him a sweet deal on a big box of Alaskan crab legs, which Max took, because he knows I love crab legs.

Max said, “We have a whole bunch of these. Do you want to have a dinner party or something?”

“No,” I said. “I want to eat them.” Because I am greedy.

And so last night Max steamed me up a large – but large – portion of those crab legs. They were big, beautiful crab legs with lots of meat. I ate them all. Max ate some too. But mostly, it was me. Yum.

Afterwards….well, maybe it was all the rich crab, maybe it was the several ounces of drawn butter I soaked up with it, but for the rest of the evening I felt slightly – not ill exactly. But if food can intoxicate, then I was a little intoxicated. Thus, I did not write a blog post. Blame the seductive wiles of the alluring decapod crustacean. I’m wondering if I’ll have a food-hangover today. Punishment for the Mistress’s gustatorial excess.

But I’m sure in a few days I’ll be ready to eat some more.

Last Week In Review

It’s funny, some weeks I’ll have a string of fairly mild scenes – a little spanking, gentle roleplays, some foot worship. I enjoy that kind of play.

But I enjoy other things, too. And last week was kind of a bloody, sticky week.

Early in the week, I did a scene during which I tied a boy down to my bondage table and ran my spiky needle-wheel across his already-abused-and-sensitive nipples.

Did I mention he had several 21g needles stuck through each of them? When the little spikes bit into him, he arched his back up, bringing his chest up to meet my hand in that unmistakable “yes, yes, harder, harder” movement. So I pressed down with increasing force, until the muscle in my forearm stood out with tension. He kept rising to meet me, writhing and yowling. A tiny trickle of blood ran down his side - and then things got even wetter and messier. I do so like it when people enjoy my attention.

But afterwards I showed him the wheel, with its needles all red, and said, “So I’ll put this toy aside for just you now.” I’ll have to get a new one for use on other people – once something gets that messy, I don’t even try to sterilize it. It becomes that person’s special toy.

I caned a sweet Australian man who gave me a massage afterwards. (A non-sexual massage, people.) I put Ben-gay onto the most sweetly sensitive places of another gentleman - that's big fun. And then I did a very impressive caning scene with a man who wanted to go further than he’d ever gone – and we did. I was swinging that cane like Babe Ruth. We did at least 300 strokes – I made him count – and then some for-good-measure swats with this really nasty rubber paddle he brought with him. Ouch.

I did have one more sensual scene, involving me in a backless red evening gown, and sensory deprivation and teasing. As I told the gentleman involved, it’s nice to move all over the spectrum.