I’m thinking about being unfaithful.

It’s not that I don’t care about him. It’s just that…well, the excitement is gone. We’re stuck in a rut. He’s a great guy, I can’t say a thing wrong about him, it’s just that I’m craving something new and different and he seems unwilling to give it to me.

Yes, it’s true: my relationship with my hairdresser, once so idyllic, has grown stale.

But I’m very conflicted on what to do about that. I’ve been going to see Craig for over seven years. He is an excellent stylist, and I have never had a bad experience with him. I have no fear when I sit in Craig’s chair, because I have absolute confidence that he won’t screw up my hair. That’s worth something.

And while I’m not a girl who tells her hairdresser all her intimate secrets, he knows a good bit about me as a person, and I about him. There’s a certain intimacy there. It’s a comfortable relationship.

Then, too, the salon where he works is very, very nice. It’s not just my hair I get done there, all my little beauty-maintenance needs are tended to within those faux-marble walls. Everyone knows me by name, and they’re all nicely attentive without being fawning. I dislike fawning.

But…but…but – I’m bored. I’ve been faithful all this time, but now I have the seven-year-itch, apparently. You see, I think a woman’s experience of getting her hair done (or her nails, or a facial, or most other beauty services) is in some ways comparable to a guy going to see a sex worker. We get flattered and pampered, it’s often something that feels good, and it often makes us feel not just prettier, but happier as well. True, we’re paying money for something that we could, in many cases, do for ourselves. But that wouldn’t be as much fun.

A few days ago I picked up this month’s issue of Seattle magazine, which is generally a complete waste of paper and four-color ink. But this month was the Beauty issue, and they had a big spread on the “best local salons”.

I was miffed to see that my salon only got a brief mention. Hmph, I thought, they must not be advertisers.

There were, however, profiles and glossy photos of other high-end salons and individual stylists – their training and skills, their unique strengths, their personal philosophy of hair - and as I read, my interest was piqued. It was like a bunch of personal ads for hair stylists. I thought, I wonder what one of these people would do with my hair?

Of course, there’s nothing like shopping around to remind you of why your current partner is so great. I punched up some of the salon websites and looked at the hairdresser’s bio pages. One of the most often-mentioned boys is pictured with a sour, forced little smirk on his face and the admonition that clients must…“Shift your perception from vanity to integrity…” Uh, sweetie? No. Integrity is for elected officials. Vanity is the whole reason your profession exists. It’s damn sure the only reason I’m paying a hundred bucks to get my hair done. If you don’t understand that, I have no use for you. Besides, what the hell does that triangular soul patch under your curled lip have to do with integrity, can you tell me that?

Another stylist in the same salon states: “You were born with a certain skin tone and it’s appropriate for a certain look …pay attention.” He’s got a more appealing photo, but the tone of that seems a bit peremptory to me. That’s the thing – it’s not just skill, it’s personality. While I dislike too-obsequious people, I will not tolerate a salon where the staff acts like they are supermodels and you are one of the great unwashed, whom they will deign to anoint, in a manner of their choosing. No, no, no – that’s not how this works. I am a polite client and I tip well, but I expect you to act pleased to see me and my money, and I absolutely get the final vote on what happens to my hair, regardless of what you think of its integrity or appropriateness.

So I’ve picked out a possible candidate for an illicit fling. I’ll have to do a walk-by and sort of scope the place out, maybe go in and pick up a brochure. It’s nice to know that if I do it and things go badly, my old sweetheart will take me back and repair the damage. I’ll tell him it was all a terrible mistake and swear never to stray again. Until next time…

Skip this if you don’t want to read all about how wonderful my clients are. I don’t want to induce a diabetic moment in anyone...

So, I have lots of fabulous clients, and they all treat me well. (Or else they wouldn’t be my clients.) And how much I enjoy playing with them is not directly tied to the amount of money they spend. In my early years as a sex worker – especially as a dancer - I endured the company of many a well-heeled twit. So I know all about that.

However, I have a lot of guys who are extremely sweet and generous to me. They all rock.

But… today a special thank you must go out to Armani.

I’ve known Armani for a long time – in fact, Armani met me before I ever was Mistress Matisse. You see, back when I was still dancing/escorting, I was pals with a pro domme here in Seattle named Lady Rebekka. Rebekka was an extremely talented top, but she was a big girl, and one day she said to me, “The thing is, sometimes I just need a Barbie doll – you know, eye candy. Do you want to do some work for me?”

“As a dominant or as a submissive?”

She shrugged. “Both, if you want. A lot of guy would like to watch me top another girl. Nothing heavy, just a little slap and tickle.”

I was game. I was already kinky in my private life, and I trusted Rebekka.

So I worked with her here and there, and one afternoon she called me and said. “I know we haven’t done this before, but, I’ve got a guy – a nice guy, I’ve seen him before – and he’s looking for a cute girl who’ll take a spanking. Just with his hand, nothing too heavy. Will you do it?”

I thought about it. I am not really a masochist, and I usually hate impact play, it just annoys me. But the money was tempting, and I was curious. Pro subbing for real – what would that be like?

“Sure, why not,” I said.

That’s where I met Armani. He’s a switch, you see. I remember thinking that he was indeed a very nice guy, but that afternoon persuaded me that I shouldn’t plan a big career in professional submission. Talk about topping from the bottom! (No pun intended.)

So that was my first and last foray into pro-subbing. But a couple of years later I opened my dungeon door to a new guy and thought: hey wait, I’ve met you somewhere before… Armani recognized me too, and remembered me from Rebekka’s. We laughed about it, and we’ve been seeing each other ever since. So Armani can really say "he knew me when…"

Which makes it really sweet that he bought me this very generous gift in honor of Valentines Day.

It's nothing I would have dreamed of buying for myself, which makes it all the more delightful a gift. I’m very touched and slightly overwhelmed by it. So thank you, sharp-dressed man…

One of the things I like about Seattle is how much cross-orientation BDSM play I see. By that I mean, people whose professed sexual orientation doesn’t dovetail with that of their play-partner. A straight man playing with a lesbian, or a gay man playing with a woman. I kid Monk about all the lesbians (and gay men) he’s done BDSM with, but I’ve played with a fair number of queer boys, too. It’s just cool to me that we don’t fuss so much about identities if we like someone.

Like Sunday night at the Wet Spot Bondage Party. I showed up, dressed to hang out and socialize, no toy bag, nothing. I had no plans to play. (I don’t play very much in public anymore.) When I got there, I saw that among my other friends, a gay-man pal of mine, JP, was there, with his cute blonde boy. (By which I mean: a young man. He’s over eighteen!)

We chatted a bit, and I wandered off, and when I turned around, JP had that same cute blonde boy was nicely suspended in a leather harness. JP is a leather-bondage kinda guy, and he’s got quite the collection of straps and rigs. So picture a boy hanging vertically in a harness that looks like it should have a parachute attached to the back of it. He was wearing leather pants, but his shirt was off.

I admired this from an appropriate distance, but then JP waved me over and invited me to poke and prod at his helpless boy a little. He’s generous that way. We both did so, making some playfully threatening remarks, and then JP said, “You know, this boy here, he’s never done needles.” He looked at me meaningfully. “I don’t really do needles.”

“Never done needles?” I said in astonished tones. “No! With this nice smooth skin? What a pity…”

“Did you bring any with you?”

“No,” I said thoughtfully. “No, I didn’t. But I could get some.”

“Oh, you think you could?”

I grinned at him and turned around on the spot. Raising my voice very slightly, I said, “Anyone got any needles I could borrow?”

Instantly a chorus of different voices answered me:

“Sure, I have some.”

“Oh yes, right here.”

“Yeah, what gauge you want?”

“Spinal tap or regular? I got some eighteens.”

Monk waved at me from his scene nearby. “Take my kit, babe.”

“I love this bloody, bloody town,” I said to JP, and went off to get Monk’s case of needles, gloves and alcohol wipes.

So I put a couple of needles in the virgin chest of that very sweet young gay man, and he seemed to like it pretty well. Even when I thumped on them and twisted them and pinched them. JP let another pretty woman do a little light knife-play with him, and that seemed to work well, too.

Just to round out the evening genderwise, I had to push Jae around a little. (Defined as: pin her to the floor, squeeze, twist and pull her labia as hard as I can, and then drive the point of my elbow into her pectoral muscle. With most of my body weight on it.) Hey, she taunted me. That’s consent to be hurt in my book. It’s nice having someone I know I can just leap upon with no noticeable negotiation/foreplay, and to feel confident that she’ll be fine. She’s just lucky I didn’t have the Cobra Stinger in my pocket.

Full and exact text of an email I got last week:

hi mam im lloking for 24/7 servitude

I am filled with emotion by this email. The care, the crafting, the raw human effort – it’s breathtaking. What can I think but that this person would bring exactly this much sincerity and dedication to my service? How can I resist such a passionate entreaty?

But no – am I worthy? Humble dominatrix that I am, am I truly, truly worthy of such painstaking servitude and towering devotion? Stay your hand, Matisse. Your time to accept such a one as this has not yet come. In fact, it may never come.

I am at peace with that.

I've spent most of this week doing things no decent person should do. Yay! I haven't used that super-evil paddle yet, but I did use my new electric toy, the Cobra Stinger extensively. I have flogged, restrained, pierced, spanked, penetrated, zapped, pinched, and teased until the cows came home. It's good to be me.

Want to see a few pictures? Okay. But doooooooon't go look if pictures of needles through nipples or peni in peril flip you out. Really. These are up close and personal.

All right, don't say I didn't warn you...

Clamped and pierced. (Putting the chopsticks on like that is not only sadistic fun, but it holds the nipple taut, so it's easier to get the needle through, even if there's already a lot of scar tissue in there.)

And: Pink lingerie, and a really, really big sound. Not the audible kind. (Although he does make some nice noises when I put it in.) Seriously, this thing is hefty. Urethral sounds start out being about as big around as a barbeque skewer - 3mm or so. This one is about as big as my finger - 12 mm, I believe. And ribbed for her pleasure, no less!
When the sweet nasty boy who's recieving it in the picture brought it to me, I looked at it and, "You have got to be kidding me. You could club seals with this thing."
"Oh, it'll fit," he assured me.
"Wait, you've already tried it, haven't you?"
"Do I look crazy? I wouldn't give it to you if I hadn't made sure."
Smart man.

Oh, and - the new column: Not Too Emo

Not Writing

I’m not feeling particularly creative this week. Or perhaps I should say that all my creative energy is being channeled into my (many) sessions. That’s a win for my clients, because while I’m always good at what I do, I am just burning down the house in my dungeon these last few days. I am in the zone, baby – the kink zone.

I like the way that feels for its own sake, and it’s intensely gratifying to me when I can leave a trail of wrung-out, panting, exhausted – but happy - men in my wake. I feel like a force of nature.

But I’m not feeling much like writing. Sorry.

Plus I’m sad to learn that Molly Ivins died. That really sucks.

Maybe I’ll take some pictures tomorrow – I predict I will have ample photo-fodder – and post them in lieu of really writing. I’m sure I’ll get back to my usual rhythm soon, though…

Wow, it’s being an extremely busy week! All very good stuff, but still - whew!

What's new? Well, Monk is back home from Boston, which is good, because I missed him!

In other totally random news: I bought some hot pink lingerie today, and I will take great pleasure in wearing it while I do terrible, terrible things to people. These days, wearing a lot of restrictive and uncomfortable fetishwear when I’m playing just doesn’t interest me much. For a stand-and-model party it might be different, but overall I’m liking lingerie much more - it’s just more comfortable. Latex makes you sweat like mad, as do layers of heavy leather. Plus, I like the sort of transgressive feeling of wearing soft, girly, silky things while I do hard, mean, rough things to people. And then laugh wildly.

Of course, at casual social events you’re just as likely to see me in my jeans. I was at a women-only party over the weekend, and I was teaching another girl how to do play piercing. Our lovely stunt-model was sitting on the floor, and I was sort of squatting in what I’m sure was a not-very-graceful position. But I didn’t want to touch the floor to steady myself, because, hey, I was sticking needles in someone with those (gloved) hands. However, a couple of my female friends were sitting behind me, teasing me about having plumber's-butt! Yes, low-cut jeans can betray you - bend forward too far, and there you are, exposed. So I suppose there are hazards to any piece of clothing.

Now it’s time prepare for my busy day, which will include a serious, serious workout. I have an event in March that I’m really gearing up for, bodywise. Perhaps I’ll tell you more about that soon…

While we’re on a pictures-of-toys roll…. Look at this nasty contraption I just got over the weekend. It’s a thick wooden paddle someone fixed up with copper wire and some kind of electrical device – looks like a small Taser of some kind? (I’m sure some electrical person will pipe up and tell us.) It makes the evilest little crackling sound when you push the “on” button, and I bet it hurts like a sonofabitch. I haven’t used it yet – no one will let me test it on them, the sissies. But I know someone who’s constantly pushing and challenging me to hit/hurt his ass more when he sees me, and this might be perfect for him. (Yes, I mean you, Bicycle Man.)

(Bigger image here...)

Where did I get this? Well, that’s a story. See, way back when I first came out as kinky, before the internet, there weren’t many places to buy gear, especially in the South. What there was commercially available was often of pretty inferior quality. So people made toys at home, and friends often traded around – that’s how you got new (to you) stuff. And when someone new came into the scene, the people they met would often go through their toy cabinets, find stuff they weren’t really using anymore, and pass it along. My very first flogger came to me just that way – a woman I knew said, “Here, you should have one of these.” It was a nice one, too, I loved it well.

And occasionally, someone would decide to get rid of all their toys. Sometimes they’d get a vanilla partner who demanded it, or - sadly – sometimes someone would become very sick, or even die. I have some equipment I literally inherited from another woman who passed away, and I think of her whenever I use it. You may find that odd, but it’s very much a done thing within the old-school kink community. It’s a clan thing, if that makes any sense to you.

So this paddle – and a great deal of other stuff – came from the collection of a man who was getting rid of everything. He’s older, his health isn’t good, and he had come to the conclusion that he probably wouldn’t be playing much any more. And while I can’t say much more without feeling like I’m compromising his confidentiality, let’s just say that if he died suddenly, and the wrong people found his secret playroom, well, it would be a pretty serious scandal. I can understand why he thinks it’s better that he give his things away now.

His friends helped him dismantle his dungeon, packed his stuff, and took it away. And the call went out, “Want some toys? Come over and pick out what you want…” So I went over and chose a few things, some for me and some for a young kinkster who hasn’t amassed a toy collection yet.

It’s funny, I’m used to buying toys now – it’s so easy to drop into one of the local sex shops, or get online and order whatever you want. I’d forgotten how it feels to pick up someone else’s toy and think about all the history that’s in it, and how now you’re going to add to that. I hope when it’s time for me to go, that people will want to take my toys and use them well. I like thinking about that.

Fans of the silly phone calls will enjoy this week's new column...

In other news, Blue Eyes, that sweet man, brought me a cute little toy this week...

I've seen these before around town, but hadn't bought one for myself. It's sort of like a little baby cattle prod. I've got a lot of electrical gear, but no wireless handheld stuff, so this was fun. It's not super-powerful, but it's a noticeable tingle, for sure. He wiggled and gasped very nicely.

Jae was there playing with us and I had a very good time zapping her with it, too. I love the way she squeals. Apparently the effect is heightened on wet areas - who would have guessed? So, see, it's not my fault, if she hadn't been - ahem - moist, it wouldn't have been so bad.

I believe it's available through HoydenGear, if you want one. (Warning: site has loud music and no easily-findable music off button. Adjust your speakers accordingly.)

From The Mailbag

Hi Mistress Matisse,

I have a friend in an Master/slave relationship (she's the slave) and from some of the things she's said, I think it's not going well….(edited for length)
1) She has considerable familial pressure to get married to the M, and deep down, I think she longs for it, too. So she in turn pressures him to marry, which is probably breaking the rules, but whatever...
2) I've only met the M a few times, and my impression was that he was kind of just using her, but that he's gradually grown to love her and reluctantly entered the M/s phase but he remains a big doof who doesn't deserve her, let alone to be Master over her. I may not be understanding how the dynamic works, but she's explicitly stated that.
3) She doesn't trust him to make the right decisions and she worries that they pushed this too soon. (Fair enough, I wouldn't trust the guy to water my plant).
4) She feels as though, in the community, only a slave has value and that a sub is a meaningless place holder. She feels like she HAS to be a slave.
My suspicion is that she's latched on to this guy in response to issues like "Daddy Abandoned Me"…and other old-boyfriend issues. I think she knows that she can go out and find another guy - she's got the "look" - but I think she's afraid of having another failed relationship. And then there's the whole feeling like a "sub" is worthless and she needs to be a slave.
In the past I've not hesitated to tell her to Lose the Loser but that I'll stand by her no matter what, but I don't want to violate a sacred trust if I can avoid it. What's your take on this? Is it a huge faux pas to try to employ liberation theology, here? Barring that, is there anything I can do or say or any direction I can point her to help her get through this?
Thanks,
X

***********************************

Sacred trust? Bah. It’s nothing of the kind. Frankly, I don’t think I’d label any adult relationship sacred. Important and meaningful, sure. But not sacred.

And regardless of what activities they engage in and what they call their roles, I think anyone in any relationship should ask for what they want, and if they aren’t getting it, then they have the right to consider what they need to do about that. Your friend may like to call herself a slave, but the reality is she’s a free agent and can do as she pleases.

So stripped of all the BDSM trimmings, what’s going on is: your pal has a partner you think isn’t right for her. Can you tell her to dump him? Sure. Will she listen? I very much doubt it. Will it do any good? None whatsoever.

Everyone has been here at one time or another. I myself have a friend in a similar circumstance right now. I’m waiting, patiently, for her to realize she can do so much better. And that’s all I can do – wait. I could keep telling her, over and over, that her lover is a looooooooooser. But it would not change matters one bit. In affairs of the heart, people very rarely listen to anyone else’s advice.

Put yourself in her place – haven’t you ever been the one with the partner everyone said was a waste of DNA? I’ve had one or two of those, and I was always sure that my friends were simply mistaken, that they just didn’t understand that my sweetie had hidden stellar qualities. In time, I was sure they’d all see their error and come to value my darling the way I did.

Ha. They were right, I was wrong, and eventually, I wised up and dumped the loser in question. (No, I’m not referring to anyone who has even been mentioned on this blog. I’m going back to the late nineties.) However, one has to get to the dumping point in one’s own head and heart, even when the process sucks. Loved ones can watch and wish they could spare us heartache, and we often wish they could, too. Jack Twist is not the only one who ever wished he knew how to quit someone. But it’s going to take as long as it does.

To me, it sounds like she needs therapy more than anything, because even if she broke up with this guy, as long as her operating system is out of whack, she’ll just pick someone else who will participate in her dysfunction. But you can’t make anyone else do that, either. No one does anything until they are ready to, and all the advice in the world is not going to make your friend leave this guy, or get into therapy, or anything. All you can do is assure her that you’ll be her pal and love her no matter what.

***************************************

Dear Ms,

I am a (EDITED: he’s European) man, 50 years old living in (European country) for the moment. Been a sub/slave for 5 years. I do have some experience as i am trained to serve domestic, even pain and bondage. Been long time in chastity as well, 8 months at the most, milking prostate during that time.
I crave to become a real slave, into a situation with no end, total slavery, even financially. Note that i have a very well-paid job and as well earning money at the stockmarket.
I crave to become a slave under total control, the Ms control what I wear, eat, financial servitude (my salary goes to Ms account and I live on an allowance for example), chastity, no more women etc...
is it possible??
slave X

******************************************

Is it possible? Anything’s possible. Is it likely? Not in my experience. No one in my immediate circle has a dominant/submissive relationship like the one you’re describing. I have seen some situations that resembled it in some ways. But you know, very few of them lasted very long. Either the level of the D/s gradually dropped, or the relationship ended. I don’t think that’s sheer coincidence. The situation you’re describing has always looked to me somewhat like being a parent of a child who never grows up. I’m not saying that slaves are childish. But that’s a very high level of attention/direction to be focusing on another human being’s moment-to-moment behavior, and it’s simply never appealed to me.

However, I am just one woman, and other women will feel differently. The fact that you could support a mistress financially is a strong point in your favor. I cannot tell you how many men have asked to be my live-in, full-time slave under the assumption that folding laundry and making the beds would pay for their keep, no further financial contributions required.

But recognize that you are asking for a very large commitment of time and energy from a woman. I don’t know as much about the European scene as I do the US, but I’m thinking that unless you want to come to an arrangement with a professional domme, you are going to have spend a lot of time looking for this mistress, and you will probably have to be flexible about things like her age and her looks. And whatever happens, it’s not going to look just like your fantasy, because real life never does.

My only advice is to stay open to people and situations that may not be exactly what you thought you wanted, because you might find something that suits you very well. Otherwise, I wish you luck…

So, this past weekend I was formally inducted into the Official Nerd club. I have a lot of nerdy/geeky tendencies anyway – I read a lot, I don’t watch TV, I’m about five years behind on most pop music, and I hate most sports. I’m an undercover nerd - sex bomb on the outside, geeky introvert on the inside. And I’m okay with that.

But last Saturday I participated for the first time in a rite of social passage for the deeply unhip, and that is: a role playing game. Now, I can already hear the protests – how dare I call RPG nerdy? It’s kewl. People, no. It’s fun. But it’s pretty seriously nerdy/geeky. It’s nerdier than being in the band in high school. (Which I wasn’t, although I dated guys in the band, so there you go.) It’s nerdier than being in the Science and Math club in college. (I wasn’t in that, either, although I cracked up every time they announced the next meeting of the S&M club in the dining hall.) And it’s nerdier than not knowing a damn thing about Runway. (Which I don’t. Except that I think Seal’s wife is on it. Since Seal had a lot of big hits in the nineties, I know who he is.)

Not surprisingly, many of my kinky pals are also pretty geeky/nerdy. (There is a definite overlap between certain social subcultures. For example, take these groups: BDSM people, pagans, Ren Faire people, Goths, poly people, and science fiction/fantasy fans. These social groups interlock like the Olympic rings – if you actively participate in any one of them, you definitely know people in some of the others. And chances are good you actually belong to more than one group. Why is this true? That I can’t say, although it’s amusing to speculate about after a drink or two.)

I knew that my pal Griffin was a gamer and that he has, in fact, designed and published his own game. And when Griffin found out I’d never done RPG, well, that just wouldn’t do. So he and his lovely partner Liss organized a dinner and game-playing night, designed to introduce little old me into the joys of RPG.

We played Vampire: The Requiem, because while I’ve read some Tolkien, I’m not really into the classic D&D characters and storylines. So we did the vampire-themed game, which I’m told is a favorite of teenage Goths everywhere. I wore extra black eyeliner for the occasion.

It was lots of fun. Griffin is a good game-master, and Galahad and Monk are experienced gamers who are highly amusing to watch. I was slightly self-conscious about being the only new person, and I was just kinda feeling my way along, trying to learn the rhythm of the thing. But the boys both threw themselves into character and totally went with the story. Tambo, Nerdygirl, and Alex also played, and they were quite good, too. (It entertains me no end that Monk’s sweet, soft-spoken wife Tambo likes to play feral, violent characters whose solution to any problem is to kill something.)

And while wouldn't want to do it every weekend, I can see why people dig this. It’s a fun way to interact with your friends, and it’s a creative, active thing - sort of like group story-telling, where everyone takes a turn making up the action.

So just in case you thought I spent every weekend beating my slaves - imagine me instead laughing with my friends around a dining-room table as I roll the dice to see if I can shove a stake through the heart of another vampire. Oooo, kinky.

This is one of those brief-entry-because-I’m-busy-writing-a-column posts. So, some random thoughts I had today...

About books: Did you know that it takes an average of 475 hours to write a fiction title and 725 hours to write a nonfiction title?

About my latest expensive addictions: fresh pineapple and blueberries - why couldn’t I just love chocolate like a normal girl? And Sledge long-sleeved T-shirts.

About my fashion abberations: Every now and then the urge to wear something pink overwhelms me.

About my latest cheesy eighties pleasures from iTunes: Radioactive and Satisfaction Guaranteed, by The Firm. I know, I know - The Firm? But it’s Paul Rodgers and Jimmy Page, for god’s sake. How can that be bad? I used to dance (as in: strip) to Satisfaction Guaranteed all the time when I worked down south many years ago. It’s got that great hip-grindy beat and the suggestive refrain, and for some reason the serious blue-collar guys, with the farmer’s tans and the permanent line of black under their beat-to-hell fingernails, loved this song. Friday afternoons between 6 and about 8, the bar’s full of construction workers who just got paid, the DJ would play me this song, and I’d totally bank. It's funny how many of my music-memories involve stripping.

Books On My Bedside Table...

Who Was The Man In The Iron Mask? And Other Historical Mysteries, by Hugh Ross Williamson.
“This is a title of historical "whodunits", in which the author uses techniques of modern detection to answer such questions as: Who was Elizabeth I's father? Did Buckingham poison James I? Who was the Man in the Iron Mask? And who was King Charles I's executioner?” It's sort of dense, with small print and a lot of footnotes. Total history-geek stuff. I’m loving it.

Smart Women Finish Rich by David Bach
My mom gave me this for Christmas, since she’s aware that I’m gotten quite interested in personal investing over the last few years. Part of it is questions to ask yourself about what you want from your investments, which is very thought-provoking. For example, since I don't have children, I have no interest in building up wealth to leave them. I'm all about providing for myself in my old age.
The other part is advice on how to actually pick your investments, which is less pressing to me because I have an extremely good personal financial advisor who tells me what I should do, and plus I have Max, who knows his way around basic personal investment quite well and is happy to explain stuff to me. But education is never a waste.

The Great Mortality: An Intimate History of the Black Death, the Most Devastating Plague of All Time, by John Kelly
“The author tracks the medieval plague from its beginnings in Central Asia to its devastating impact on the teeming cities of Europe, painting a vivid picture of what the end of the world looked like in the 14th century.” My interest in history has typically been in post- Renaissance periods, but I do like socio-medical stuff, and this was interesting. You know that Monty Python sketch where the medieval guy is wheeling a cart along crying out, “Bring out your dead!” and people are throwing bodies onto it? Apparently they actually did that.

A Thread Across the Ocean: The Heroic Story of the Transatlantic Cable, by John Steele Gordon.
“Shedding fascinating new light on an American saga, Gordon explores the laying of the transatlantic cable in 1866, one of the greatest engineering feats of the 19th century.” I’m not so much on American history, but the engineering aspect of this caught my fancy. Strange to consider that communication between America and Europe used to be only as fast as a ship could sail. And it looks like Gordon gets into the personalities of the different people, which is what makes a book like this interesting to me.

The Family That Couldn't Sleep: a Medical Mystery, by D. T. Max
"Beginning with the story of an Italian clan whose members die of a mysterious inability to sleep, Max traces science's tortuous path toward understanding prion diseases—a category that includes scrapie in sheep, B.S.E. in cows, and kuru, a disease spread by cannibalism which decimated one New Guinean tribe." I think I mentioned this a few weeks ago, and it’s as good as I thought it would be. I now have a basic grasp of what prions are, and how they work - or don’t. Not for the hypochondriacs, though, or the easily suggestible. You’ll start flipping yourself out every time you can’t sleep, thinking you have prion disease.

The Life and Revolutionary Times of Eugene Vidocq: Criminal, Spy and Private Eye, by James Morton. “A gloriously enjoyable historical romp through the eighteenth century - in the company of a man who was many things to many men - a jewel thief, a spy, a policeman and a private eye.” Exactly the sort of thing I like - a biography of an unusual and little-known person who led an interesting and varied life. I haven’t started it yet, but it looks like great fun.

Breaking The Spell: Religion As A Natural Phenomenon, by Daniel Clement Dennett
This looks fascinating. It’s a scientific analysis of religion and it’s pros and cons, and a discussion of how religion came to be in the first place. Although human nature being what it is, anything that can be called opiate of the masses could hardly fail to be invented. I'm sure it'll be quite thought-provoking.

It’s last Tuesday, I’m sitting in my office, and the scene outside my window is dazzling white. I’m working on the computer, being happy that I don’t have to leave my house today, when the phone rings…

Ring ring!

I weigh the wisdom of answering it at all, but it might be someone I actually want to talk to, so…

Me: Hello?
Caller: Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes, this is she.
Caller: Yeah, how soon could you be at the Westin?

Now, that’s a question with many different answers. If I could tell Scotty to beam me there, I could arrive instantly. If I had wings and could fly, I bet I could be there in ten minutes. If my mother was there on her deathbed, I would get there very quickly even if I had to steal the neighbor’s Jeep.
But as it is, the answer for this caller is: never. Never, ever, in this lifetime, as far as you’re concerned, pal.

(Long-term readers and real-life clients will know already how outrageously rude I find it when strangers start out by just assuming I’m going to grace them with my presence merely because they wish it, and that the only point to be negotiated is when and where. Ha. There are qualifications to meeting me that go beyond the possession of a phone and a copy of The Stranger’s back pages. Mainly: I have to think I’d like you. I don’t think I’d like this man.)

And I’m not really interested in discussing this at length.

Me: No.
Caller: What?
Me: I said no.
Caller: Well, when could you be here?

Excuse me, are we having the same conversation?

Me: (very slowly) No. I am not coming to the Westin.

There’s a long pause, like he’s waiting for me to explain myself further. I don’t. With this caller’s apparent lack of listening skills, I think less is definitely more.

Caller: So you can’t come down here?

I don’t believe I used the word “can’t”. That word subtly implies a sense of constraint, and I feel perfectly at ease about not going to Westin to meet this caller. But let’s not quibble.

Me: That’s correct.

Click. He hangs up.

I go back to my work. I need to get a separate line for my good boys…

The Mistress is a busy girl today.... so entertain yourself with the new column.

Prompted by a reader comment yesterday, here is a snippet from a type of email I get occasionally…

Why don’t you write about what you really think about your work/clients?…Your fears and dark moods? You’re always so artificially upbeat and perky, you’re not a spooky mistress, you’re like a cheerleader!

Spooky? I think this particular person has confused BDSM with Goth. No, I am not spooky. I am kinky.

And I am always mildly surprised when random people tell me that I should be writing this blog to suit their specifications. (Especially when you consider that hey folks, you ain’t paying me for this. If you want to hire me to write something, you just speak right up and we’ll talk about that.)

I don’t write about my sex-worker angst because I don’t have any. Bear in mind, I’ve been in the industry since I was nineteen. I’ve worked through a lot of the beginner issues and I’m in a really good place with my career now. Sure, I get stressed and cranky sometimes. That power outage last month? I had to cancel appointments, I lost money, and I was so cranky about that. I was the newly-elected Mayor Of Crankyville during those few days. Believe me.

But huge, sweeping bouts of work-related emotional trauma that encompass my whole being? Nah. Doesn’t happen. I’m a boringly even-keeled kinda girl. I hear that I’m messing with your ideas of what a sex worker thinks and feels, but – deal.

And – as I say this for perhaps the ten thousandth time – questions like this presuppose that I have an adversarial relationship with my clients. That's way off base. I’ve met a few genuine assholes in the course of my career – although not as many as you’d think. Most guys I’ve met had good intentions. Sometimes they just need to be schooled a bit in the fine points.

Far more than assholes, I’ve met guys who didn’t mean any harm, exactly, but who had a lot of intense issues about their own sexuality. I can help with that in some cases, but some guys bring so much negative energy to the session that I simply can’t deal with them. It’s too bad, but the amount of work it takes to stay centered and keep good boundaries with someone like that – it’s exhausting. I’d rather spend the time with someone with whom I can relax.

So I’ve phased out all the guys that I didn’t like playing with, and I’ve learned how to pick new clients that I will like. And I have worked my way to a place where I do get to pick and choose. I hardly see anyone new anymore, it’s almost all guys I know. They treat me extremely well, and I try to treat them just as well in return. To include: protecting their privacy. I take that very seriously.

True, some guys tell me, “You can write about me, I’m okay with that.” But there are still problems with that, as I talked about here. I don’t want my guys to feel jealous and competitive, so I don’t write much about clients at all.

Sex work is not something I do in order to have something interesting to write about. This is my career. I have a lot of clients say to me, “Please don’t quit or move anywhere, don’t retire.” I find that very sweet – and I’m not going anywhere. This is what I do, I like it, and I’ll be doing it until I’m quite old and the phone doesn’t ring anymore. And after that happens, then I will write a book all about how I did it, and there will be some stories there that I haven’t told before.

But that’s a long way away. And you’ll have to buy the book!

Writing a column, and downloading from iTunes…

Ship of Fools, World Party. Loved this song when it came out in the eighties, and I used it have it on vinyl. I was delighted to find it on iTunes.

Tall Cool One, Robert Plant.

Little by Little, Robert Plant. Love the lyric hooks with the Zepplin-y riffs.

Who Do You Want To Be, Oingo Boing. I remember dancing to this one the first time I ever snuck into a bar underage. It's another oldie-goldie I had on vinyl. I say I had it, although actually, I think there’s still a dusty crate of old albums sitting in the back of a closet somewhere. And I still have a turntable, too - although I’m not sure I have a needle.

The Rockafella Skank, Fatboy Slim.

Cherry Bomb, The Runaways.

Brother of The Mayor of Bridegwater, The World/Inferno Friendship Society. I don’t know why I like this song. It’s just…strangely catchy.

Let Love In, Goo Goo Dolls.

She’s Crafty, Beastie Boys. Because I am. (Even though the Beastie Boys don’t seem to mean that in an entirely complimentary way here, heh.) This song was on the jukebox at The Lusty Lady when I danced there, so I have shaken my naked behind to it a lot.

Sex And Candy, Marcy Playground.

Red Right Hand, Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds. I have a fantasy about having sex with Nick Cave while he sings in my ear the whole time. And there’s another version of the fantasy where I do a threesome with him and Tom Waits. And they both sing. (Tom would sing something from Bone Machine, of course.) I think we'd all have to drink whisky and smoke cigarettes for it to really work, though.

Okay, back to work…

I had an amazingly nice weekend. I love my whirlwind social life, but it’s very nice to get to spend relaxed time alone with Monk. Sunday I slept late  – yay – and then Monk and I went to Banya 5. This is so the weather for hot tubs and steam rooms. I swear I could feel all the molecules in my body, which had sort of shrunk down lately with dry cold, get all warm and lubricated and say, “Ahhh….”

And I booked both of us a salt scrub. Now, a salt scrub, if you haven’t had one, is one of life’s great pleasure/pain experiences. It is just what it sounds like: they put you on something like a massage table, take handfuls of coarse sea salt, and scrub your body with it. It exfoliates all the dead skin off you. My general experience with spa scrubs is that the first so-many strokes feel good, and then it starts to be a little intense, and then right before you’re about to say, “Whoa, ease up a little,” the scrubber moves to a different part of your body. Sort of like being taken right up to your safeword, over and over.

At most spas it’s done like this: you lay under a drape, they scrub one small area at a time, wipe all the salt off, and then cover it up again. Very chaste and discreet.

This one was different because of the setup: the whole room is a wet room, all tile and concrete, with a drain in the floor, and lots of hoses and buckets around. The girl giving me the scrub offered me the option of drape or no drape, and I chose none, of course. I took off my swimsuit and lay down naked on the black vinyl-covered table. (It looks a lot like the table I have in my dungeon, actually.)

She tied on a black rubber apron and started off by pouring buckets of warm water all over me. Big buckets. It’s interesting to lie on a table and get totally drenched like that, and just see and hear the water going everywhere.

Then she rubbed me down with some honey-something-or-other mixture, just kinda slopping it anywhere in a charming fashion, and then poured more water over me to rinse me. And then she scrubbed me - very thoroughly. I think I’m now an eighth of an inch smaller in circumference, she scrubbed me so hard. Yow. But my skin is all soft and gleam-y, like a pearl.

So while there was nothing whatsoever sexual about this treatment, I did look around the room – and around the whole spa in general – and think about what kind of wet room I’d like to build into my house. I don’t do scat scenes, so I don’t need such a room for that. But I do other wet, messy things, and plus, tiles and hoses can just be very sexy all by themselves. I want to do some remodeling on the house this year, and while I don’t know for sure if a big bathroom redesign is in the cards, it’s definitely something I want to get some bids on. I’m a big fan of warm and lubricated.

First, about the new column. The Stranger is doing a re-org of both the website and the dead-tree paper, and things have been a little confused. Thank you to all my fans who wrote the webmaster and said, "hey, where's Control Tower?" They were still in process, but have no fear, here is the link.

I haven't seen a paper copy of this issue yet - but it's possible I got bumped. No one has told me so, it's just a hunch I have. So if you're a paper-reader, and I am not there, I'll be back next week. (Edit: I checked. I got bumped. Whoops. Oh well, read me online for this week.)

The Kink Calendar, sadly, will now be online-only. Sorry, kids, they needed some space. There will be a little blurb in the paper saying "Hey, go look online for the kinky events!"

Okay, now we have that squared away... Boys, prepare to be bored. (Unless you're a drag queen. Or seriously, seriously metrosexual.) Because the rest of this post is all about makeup.

So, ladies, after some nudging by pals, I decided that perhaps I was in a rut, and thus I have lately been trying out a wider range of hair and beauty stuff. Allow me to share with you what worked and what didn’t.

Girlie stuff I have tried lately that rocked:
Jonathan Product: Create Root Volume Brushable Lifting Spray. We Southern girls like big hair, and this stuff, whoo! Volume is right. High volume. It is the stuff teenage-beauty-pageant dreams are made of. I could be in an eighties music video with this hairspray. I love it.

Shu Uemura Fiber Xtension Mascara. It’s good, although it gets clumpy if you reapply later, so that’s a problem. But still, impressive.

Nars Powder Blush. I got the color called "Orgasm", of course. I don't know if it's really the color of afterglow, but it's a pretty natural-looking shade that blends nicely and stays put better than most.

Nars Cream Eye Shadow. I chose the shade called “Swing”, which is an eggplant color I think looks nice with brown eyes. Teamed with Urban Decay lid primer, this stuff actually - gasp - stays on my eyelids with vanishing or getting all creased. I’m in awe.

And ladies, SkinCeuticals? Woot. Love this stuff. The C+E Ferulic makes my skin so happy and bright. Yeah, it is pricey…but you know, eBay is a wonderful place. I’m just saying.

Stuff that was pretty good:
Frederic Fekkai Technician Color Care Mask. My hair wasn’t really damaged before, because Craig, my Hair God, would never allow that to be so. So I wouldn’t say this conditioner changed my life or anything. But still, winter-time dryness and all, one’s hair needs some extra pampering, and it’s a good intense conditioner.

Jonathan Product: Silky Dirt Shine & Define Crème: Not bad, although I think Secret Weapon is nearly as good and much less expensive.

Stuff I thought was lame:
Smashbox Photo Finish Foundation Primer: Everyone loves this stuff. I tried it and it made me look like a corpse. Maybe the problem is that I don’t actually wear foundation, just a little powder, so… But it felt like I was wearing Spackle. I hated it, so back to the store it went.

Jonathan Product: Create Volume Thickening Foam: Uh, Jonathan, this watery foam of yours doesn’t create anything except crunchy, stringy rat-tail-looking hair. Refund, please!

Stuff that the jury is still out on:
MD Skincare Alpha Beta Daily Body Peel: Well, I don’t know about “peel”, because I am not peeling. However, there’s a 30-day supply of these product-soaked pads – which are rather small, and annoyingly prone to rolling up into a wad – and you’re supposed to rub them all over yourself. So I’ll see what I think when I have used them all up…but I wouldn’t rush right out and buy this.

MAC Studio Fix powder. Again, everyone else loves this stuff, and I’m not sure. It’s a nice texture and the oh-so-glamorous boy at the MAC counter downtown did a good job picking out the right shade for me.
However, it's pretty heavy, which, if that’s what you want, is great. But I’m not used to wearing thick makeup on my skin, especially not for everyday. I think I might save it and use it for photo shoots, any kind of performance I might do, or for going out clubbing, I think it would be fine for that. Max is taking me shopping for (belated) Xmas gifts this weekend, maybe I’ll look for something sheerer from MAC.

Last night was interesting: I got snowed in at my studio. I started a session at four pm with Milo, and all was clear. We were playing pretty seriously for about two hours, and I forgot all about snow. Then, as I slowly returned to an awareness of a world outside my dungeon, I thought, Oh, I should check outside. I pulled back the curtains, and boom, it was winter wonderland out there.

Milo has a 4-wheel drive and he’s used to driving in snow, so he got out on the road to go home. But I went outside and looked down the not-small hill my house sits on top of, and looked at the three-plus inches of snow, and thought, no way. The Florida girl is staying right here.

I was, however, hungry. Now, my part of town is not extensively served by food delivery people. It’s pretty much Pizza Hut and Dominos. So I called Pizza Hut, because I can actually stomach Pizza Hut pizza okay.

They weren’t delivering. Because of the snow. Damn.

Now, I haven’t eaten Dominos since I found out they were owned by a Bible-thumper. Well, actually, I think I’d given them up before that, because their pizza’s not very good. But I believe he’s since sold out, and desperate times call for desperate measures.

I called. It sounded a bit confused on the other end. “Are you still delivering?” I asked.

“….uh, yeah. Yeah. (speaks off-phone: Are we still delivering?) Yeah, sure.”

I was not filled with confidence by that exchange. But in the spirit of optimism, I gave them an order and got on with other things.

Forty-five minutes went by. Dinner began to seem like an unlikely possibility.

An hour. Okay, I’ve officially given up, and instead successfully made arrangement with a rescue party to send in a St Bernard.

Then: ding-dong! I fling open the door to find a small dark-skinned man in a red cap, holding a flat box. Snow was falling steadily behind him.

“Holy cow! I can’t believe you made it!”

“I left car,” he said, gesturing down to the bottom of the steep hill. “I walk up hill.” He held out the box.

“You walked up the hill? Good god.” I took the box. It was warm. “Here,” I said, handing him some money. “That’s for the pizza.” Then I handed him another twenty. “And that’s for you.”

He looked at the bill, seeming confused. “Is too much money.”

“No, keep that, that’s for you, for walking up the hill. Hazard pay!”

He looked unconvinced.

“Take it,” I said.

He smiled uncertainly and ducked his head. “Thanks.”

The pizza itself? About as good as I remembered it: not terribly. But hey, it was hot and it was food. And I hope that dedicated pizza guy bought himself a stiff drink with that tip, because he deserves one.