A Saturday shopping post, skip if you're just looking for kinky stuff...

So, I'm wanting a longer David Yurman chain, and by longer I mean: longer than 20 inches. 24 inches at least, 26 or 28 inches would be cool. It's actually surprisingly hard to find any high-quality chains that length. (I want a long one because I've got necklaces in shorter lengths, although this heavy chain is very pretty. And I mean a fairly plain chain, although I am also really lusting for this as well.)

I keep looking around on eBay - but I think that much of the jewelry sold there as "David Yurman" is fake. I mean, when you see stuff like this advertised, and then you see the David Yurman merchandise bags being sold on eBay, well, it's hard not to imagine that there's a high probability of getting counterfeit goods.

Has anyone actually bought good jewelry on eBay, and do you have any people you recommend dealing with? Maybe I'm being too paranoid, but even with good eBay feedback, I'm just not willing to spend a chunk of money on something without some strong assurance of it being bona fide.

Alternately: it doesn't absolutely have to be Yurman, although I always like his stuff. Any have any experiences buying a high-quality chain by a different designer?

Books On The Bedside Table

What am I reading? Well…

The Art of Seduction by Robert Greene and Joost Elffers
And The 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene
I was gifted with these two books yesterday by a client who is new to me, but quite delightful. I’ve dipped into The 48 Laws of Power before, but I hadn’t seen the one on seduction before, and it’s very interesting. It’s not about candlelight and mood music, it’s about the psychology of seduction. All kinds of seduction: sexual, emotional, political. I remarked to Monk that it was a bit like reading The Gift Of Fear: I found myself nodding my head and saying to myself, Yes, yes, that’s true, I’ve seen that happen…Yes, I’ve done that… and yes, someone did that to me once, and it worked!

Women & Money: Owning the Power to Control Your Destiny
by Suze Orman
I’m sorry, was there someone on the planet who didn’t realize Suze was a lesbian? But it’s nice that she’s coming out about it. Regardless of that, it’s an interesting investment book that talks about how women relate to money. Some of it tabs with me and my relationship with money, and some - not so much. But then I think professional sex workers have a whole different attitude about money than other women. We're more comfortable with cash, and yet less practical about it. Spending money as fast as you make it isn't the end of the world when you're a single girl in her twenties, but as time goes on, it's not such a smart choice anymore. I myself am working to get very practical about money while I'm still making it.

Heyday: A Novel by Kurt Andersen
This was also a gift from someone who knows I like historical novels. I haven’t started it yet, but it looks great, and the author’s previous novel – though quite different from this one - was widely praised.

Pickpockets, Beggars and Ratcatchers: Life in the Victorian Underworld, by Kellow Chesney. Monk got me this and it’s great. It’s extremely dense, written in a rather academic style, but well researched. I love reading about the social subcultures of other times - probably because I would be considered by many to be something of an underworld character myself. But in a hundred years, I'll simply be quaint, like Eliza Dolittle in My Fair Lady.

Lost Painting : Quest for a Caravaggio Masterpiece by Jonathan Harr
“The mysterious fate of a lost masterpiece, an art restorer's obsession, and Caravaggio's troubled life are the focus of this riveting work of history.” I haven’t started it yet, but it seems as if it will blend art history and biography in a way that I love.

This week's new column...

And a note, in case you didn't know. I do indeed compile the Kink Calendar each week. But the little "joke" listing that appears there? I don't write or submit that. Someone else does. (I'm not sure who anymore, frankly. Except that no, it's not Dan Savage, either.) I don't even see it until the paper runs, so I have no idea what it's going to be. If you hate it, send your complaints to The Stranger, who will deal with them as they see fit. It's not in my power to change or delete those listings.
I might also suggest that you try to keep a sense of humor about the matter. The Stranger treats pretty much everything and everyone with irreverence. (At the very least.) Sexual matters are not going to be exempt from that. But I doubt that their attitude is going to truly cripple the flowering of sexual expression in Seattle.

My very silly appearance on The Stranger's Justify Your Pod is up.... Dave was great and fun, but it's always so weird to hear yourself talking - I think it's even odder than video, with the disembodied voice thing. However, I should get over that if I'm going to do podcasts...

Some other notes...

Scheduling! I've got a big trip coming up. I’m going to be gone from March 17^th until March 27^th!

The first half of that ten days I’ll be in San Francisco, getting my picture taken by Craig Morey! I fly home Weds and then Thursday Max and I leave for Kinkfest.

We’re coming home Monday the 26^th, so the 27^th is the first day I’ll be available for appointments. The 16^th would be the last, and I’m already booked up a good portion of that day. So carpe diem, gentlemen.

While I’m on the subject of my boys, let me just give a shout-out to the great guys who brought me various gifts last week, as their Valentines Day tokens. I was gifted with a cool custom-burned CD of rock and roll tunes, an interesting-looking book about dominatrixes, and the new CD by Pet Shop Boys.

Blue Eyes was doubly thoughtful: he brought Jae and I both lovely rings. Mine is a delicate ruby, and Jae’s a sapphire. So sweet!

(As an aside: I’m going to have to have mine sized down, as it’s a bit loose. This happened with the ring Armani gave me too. I’m puzzled, because I went to Nordstrom and had my fingers sized in the fine jewelry department. Nordies told me I’m a seven on my right middle finger, but both size seven rings are too big for me. What gives? Has vanity sizing hit the jewelry industry?)

Speaking of Armani, he also gave me something cool last week: these sunglasses. He said, “If you’re going to call me Armani, you have to have something by Armani.” (Hmmn, maybe I should have named him Cartier.)

These are quite the most expensive-looking sunglasses I have ever owned. I love the bling on the logo, it makes me feel deliciously LA-porn-star-like. And because someone was complaining that I don’t post pictures of myself in my pretty gifts, I stepped into my bathroom and took a snapshot in the mirror.

I can see why people like these big shades – I’m not wearing the first bit of makeup, my hair is all rumpled, and that’s my oldest comfy t-shirt, but with the glasses on, I still look reasonably presentable, don’t I? Too bad I live in a gray and cloudy climate, I'd wear them everyday.

The other set of previously mentioned new nipple-torment devices…. They look like bells, don’t they? And I call them nipple toys, but in fact I put Jae’s girl bits in one of them and it worked just fine…For me, anyway.

Now I'm off into my day. Bye!

Edit: A note to gentlemen of my acquaintance: I have some time available this week, so if you've been trying to get to see me, call me soon before it's all booked!

I've been reading Rob Brezny's poetic astrological predictions for years now. I love the way he writes. If my friend Otis was an astrologer, this is the kind of thing he'd write.

Scorpio Horoscope for the week of February 22, 2007
In the coming weeks, you'll attract cosmic assistance whenever you add to your repertoire, branch out artistically or socially, or start gathering seed money for a project that may take years to ripen. Mythically speaking, the coming weeks will also be a good time to have intimate relations with a fertility god or goddess, and to plant magic beans that will grow into a beanstalk that reaches the sky. "Is that it?" you may be asking. "Nothing but good news?!" My only caveat, which is pretty minor, is that you might add a few pounds to your frame. If you're a hetero woman, that could be caused by a pregnancy unless you're careful.

Interestingly, some cool things are indeed perking along for me on the artistic front, so hopefully Rob is correct and cosmic assistance will continue to come my way.

But the stars above are apparently unaware that I'm getting ready for a photo shoot. No pounds will be added to me! And if I turn up pregnant, either Max or Monk are going to be having a very serious conversation with their doctor, because they've both had vasectomies. No babies, not me, no way...

The new column…. By the way, I’m not purposely picking on sex-work job-seekers lately. (It’s not like I haven’t ever been one of them myself.) Mere coincidence, I promise.

All this talk about music… I’ve been looking for an mp3 of the Darth Vader theme music, to play for – of course – Max. I figured we’d use it an intro to all the bondage workshops, that kinda thing. (I’m kidding. Sort of.) But I can’t seem to find it on iTunes, so – anybody got it? Or know where I can get it?

Also – why the heck can’t I find that David Bowie song “Never Met a Girl Like You Before” anywhere? I can’t ever figure out what album it’s on. That is Bowie, right?

Social note: I think Monk and I are going out dancing Saturday night. He’s threatening to take me to the Baltic Room for Bollywood music. I’m game, but the only thing better is if I could find an eighties night somewhere, because that would be so delightfully wrong. Sadly, those all seem to be mid-week, and we’re apparently too Puritan-work-ethicy to go out on a school night. Or something.

In other news: I got two new sets of really, really nasty nipple torture devices last week. I hesitate to even call them clamps, because that really doesn’t do them justice. They are sheer evil. Yesterday I got to use them on Jae, and it was biiiiiiig fun. She quite liked them, but then she’s a sick and twisted girl. No wonder I’m so fond of her.

I put them on her nipples, and that was fine, and then I put them on her labia, and that was great. I slapped them, I hung weights off them. And then I touched the Magic Wand I just happened to be holding in my hand – switched on – to them, and that was quite simply the most delightful thing in the world. I had to dodge back quickly, though, because Jae has an ability to writhe wildly even when you think you’ve got her secured, and she about knocked me down!

Ring Ring!

Me: Hello?

Caller: (female voice) Yeah, I’m calling about your ad.

Uh-oh, looks like I’m going to have to tell another woman that I’m not taking female clients these days. Unless she’s part of a couple, and even couples are sometimes more challenge than reward. Not always, but sometimes. When couples are good, they are very, very good, and when they are bad, whoo, they are horrid.

Me: Okay, is this for you and your boyfriend or husband?

Caller: Boyfriend or husband? No. It’s just me.

She sounds taken aback that I would ask such a thing, and I’m noticing that she sounds very young. She’s also affecting a sort of urban/hip-hop inflection that I imagine she learned from MTV and Quentin Tarantino movies. Perhaps we should just ask the vital question…

Me: What ad of mine did you see?

Caller: The one where it says you hiring.

That’s not a typo – she said “…you hiring”. I thought I had left the South.

Me: Uh, no, I don’t have any ad that says that.

Caller: This ain’t your ad in the adult section that says “selectively hiring”?

Me: I have an ad in the adult sections of some papers, yes, but it doesn’t say I’m hiring. It says I’m selectively taking new clients.

There’s a brief pause while she, presumably, re-reads the ad and ponders the difference between clients and employees, and I meditate on the sad state of the American public school system.

Caller: …Oh.

She hangs up. Good lord.

I think I should get rid of that ad text anyway, since it’s been made clear to me that people are not interpreting it the way I want them to. Which would be, “I’m not saying I won’t see new guys at all. But - I don’t choose to see very many.”

Frankly, my worst nightmare is running a sex work business where I have to run “help wanted” ads and hire off the street. Pray for me that day never comes.

I got an email lately, from a woman who told me I wasn’t allowed to publish her note. She told me all about her relationship with a man who repeatedly hurt her emotionally and displayed disrespect for their relationship, and she wanted my advice.

I gave her the short answer: he’s broken, you can’t fix him, dump him. As I typed that reply to her, I winced, because my left hand was sore. I’ve got a whip-weal across the backs of my fingers, half a dozen thin red lines of slightly raised flesh. It’ll be fine tomorrow, but right now, it’s still tender.

How’d that happen? Well, I had my hand on someone’s ass while I was beating it, quite viciously, with a thin little rubber whip. And I missed my target and hit my own hand. My aim with a whip is almost always very accurate – good eyesight and a lot of practice will get you that. But occasionally, even I get off-center.

(Why did I have my hand there at all? To keep an ass-toy from popping out.)

It was pretty painful, but I bit my lip and didn’t yelp, and just kept the scene going. That’s what you do.

But it reminded me of a fundamental truth: some rules are the same for everyone. Whips hurt, whether you’re the top or the bottom. Emotional wounds hurt, too, no matter who you are. You can be a Gorean master, or a smart-ass masochist, or an old-school Mistress. But all those roles, and those aspects of who we are, mean nothing when it comes to basic ethics and integrity. The rules are the same there. Being kinky never exempts you from that. I personally think that sexual outlaws should make doubly sure that our honor and integrity is in place, because the world would have us think that we forfeit that when we pick up – or bend over for – the whip.

So if you write to me, you can tell me all about what you and your partner do in the playroom, and what you call yourselves and your relationship, but many times, that’s all just smoke obscuring the main issue. Step back from all that and ask yourself – what’s really happening here? Is it okay with me? If not, then ask for it to stop. If it doesn’t, pack up your toys and leave.

Amusing event of the upcoming week: The Stranger wants me to come be on the "Justify Your Pod" podcast. This is a little show where Stranger writer Dave Schmader listens to the music on your iPod, and then makes fun of you for your uncool musical tastes while you attempt to, well, justify them. Dave has always seemed like a cool guy (meaning: when he edits my columns, he doesn’t butcher them), and it's a good concept, and it'll be fun. I have such cheesy taste in music anyway, he'll have fodder for days.

And frankly, I’m sort of looking forward to an interview where I actually do not only talk about BDSM, sex work, and polyamory. Not that I don’t like talking about those things, because hey, they are cool. But it’ll be fun to talk about random silly things for a change, like what’s on my iPod.

I predict he’ll give me shit about my taste for stupid-teenage-movie-soundtrack songs, and my extensive collection of Pet Shop Boys tracks. Oh, and those Eddie Money songs. Definitely going to give me a hard time about that. What else is embarrassing? Oh, here’s some other bad ones: Digital Underground, The Humpty Dance, Ricky Martin, She Bangs. Judas Priest, You’ve Got Another Think Coming, Tony! Toni! Tone! Born Not To Know, ABBA, Gimme Gimme Gimme (A Man After Midnight). As you can see, my bad musical taste spans all different genres.

However, there’s one problem: for Dave to listen to my tunes, I have to give him my iPod. Like, for several days! Eeek! I am getting really twitchy just contemplating life without my Nano. Clearly I must go and buy another one. Max and I want one to live at our house, anyway, for our dungeon. (Talk about justify - listen to me justifying the purchase.) I think a visit to Best Buy or some such place is in my future.

So that’ll be recorded Friday, although I don’t know when it’ll go live. Hopefully this will be the spur I need to get my own podcast stuff up and going. As a Christmas gift, Monk sweetly offered to get me with all the gear I need. We just have to go buy it and set it up. He and I are spending this weekend together – a rare treat for us – so perhaps we’ll have a chance then.

I haven’t written much this week, have I? I’ve been so busy – lots happening earlier this week, and then I spent Wednesday and Thursday with Max.

One evening we had tickets for the show Buddy, which is a musical based on the life/music of Buddy Holly. It was charming and fun, I enjoyed it. The amusing thing was that we went to dinner at Ruth’s Chris beforehand, and the host there was totally doing a Buddy Holly look. He had the glasses and the hairstyle, the jacket and skinny tie, he even had the build and a slight facial resemblance. We wondered, Does this guy do this all the time – like, it’s his look? Or is this just keyed to the show? You don’t see straight guys – and he definitely seemed straight – doing an on-purpose look so often. (Although some guys certainly do.) And among Ruth’s Chris servers in their plain dark suits, he stood out.

Whatever his reason, he was very attentive to us, checking in on us regularly and bringing us (complimentary) drinks after dinner. I’ve always liked Ruth’s Chris and now I want to go back there another time soon and see if he’s still dressed the same way.

We had a lovely evening, very relaxed. (Mostly. There were moments of delightful tension.) This is a contrast to how our next visit will be. In March, Max is taking me down to San Francisco to model for photographer Craig Morey.

This is a very big deal to me. Very big. Ever since I was just a little baby model/photographer, I have thought Craig Morey’s work was amazing. If had asked me what photographer I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have said instantly, “Craig Morey.” His work is so deceptively simple, but when you shoot yourself, you learn how really hard it is to get the light and the shadow and the angles all just so. Those photos don’t just happen, they are built, and I love them.

And I sort of can’t believe I’m going to pose for this guy. He is so cool, and he is going take amazing pictures of me! And when I meet him, I have to make sure I don’t act like a total idiot fangirl, and jump around waving my hands and saying “Omigod, omigod, you’re Craig Morey!” Since he actually knows that already, and while he’s well-known and admired in certain circles, I’m guessing most of the time he just walks around in the world feeling like a normal non-famous person. Very occasionally people act like this when they meet me, and while it’s sort of sweet, I am always thinking: What? What are you all excited about? Who, me? No, I’m just this girl… Because I generally think of myself as a normal non-famous person. So I’m determined to be cool. Mostly. Maybe a little gushing and wiggling.

Meanwhile, I am working out like a crazy woman, getting even more toned for this shoot, and if you see me the week before I leave you should be afraid, because I will be on the very-low-carb Photo Shoot Diet, and while it works like a charm for short-term water loss, it makes me a bit bitchy. So I’ll look extra-great, but I’ll be extra-mean. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

But I’m not bitchy today…and I’m going to go spend some time kissing Max.

Yes! Due to several cool things that I made happen today with my talent, imagination, and sheer force of will, I am feeling like a Rock Star of Perviness. Hell, yeah! I am fist-pumping the air like a redneck at a monster truck rally.

Yeah. A good day. Now just for balance, go read all about a moment where I wasn't quite so cool.

Dresses

I’m writing a column and window-shopping at the same time…

Is this not the cutest dress? Pucci! I would so wear this, but they don’t seem to have it in my size. And, oh, there’s the minor matter of it being twelve hundred dollars. Ouch!

But as long as we’re pretending money is no object, there’s Versace, and Dolce and Gabbana, and more Versace.

This Jean Paul Gaultier dress is pretty and I'm trying to buy more non-black dresses. But please tell me why she's wearing that thing on her head? It makes her look like a chemotherapy patient.

And I love this JPG outfit,too. It's sort of sexy-schoolmarm meets film noir femme fatale.

Another great little non-black dress. It's the perfect cut for me, and I look great in that color. Not absolutely positively out of my price range, either.

I would so wear this Zac Posen dress. It's adorable.

What I'm more likely to actually buy: this Miss Sixty dress, in red. With black fishnets and knee high boots, a cute early-spring go-out-dancing dress.

I had a weekend jam-packed with nice things...

For example, this box of deliciousness arrived at my door. Wolford, w00t!

I went to a great party where I got to see (and take photos of) some lovely kinkiness. Like this with Monk and a very cute (and scrappy!) boy. It was a very hot scene, so Kirk-and-Spock! All the women at the party were gathered around watching the action with great pleasure. At least, those who weren’t tied up somewhere else.

I have video clips too, but I’ll give them to Monk and he and his rope buddy can sort out what’s okay to post. I think there will be more photos over on his blog, though.

To quote a ruffled-panty-wearing friend of mine: “My life, she does not suck.”

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…