Prompted by a pal’s remarks in a private journal, I read this article yesterday in the NYT about women who have rather time- and money- intensive personal-care routines. Nice to read about how relatively low-maintenance I am. Lord knows I feel like I spend more time than I really should having various beauty-type things done to me.

Articles like this arouse conflicting emotions in me. What I am clearly supposed to think when I read this is “Wow, those women are ridiculously vain, self-indulgent and shallow, and their priorities are terribly skewed.” Indeed, they might be. I don’t know those women. But I dislike feeling that they’ve been hand-picked and set up by the NYT for me to simultaneously envy and loathe.

And maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think some of what they do is that excessive. I get my hair done every three weeks, and my eyebrows waxed, and I have an amazing dermatologist who takes care of my skin. So, a thousand bucks a week? No way. But not because I disapprove of the idea of cosmetic self-improvement. (I wonder if that hyperbaric oxygen chamber thing really works?)

In the matter of the lead interview subject, Ms. Grace: I do think that two different physical trainers seems odd. But don’t you love how they’re lumping physical fitness in with manicures? Rather different things, I would have said. Regardless of why you want a buff body, the long-term benefits of having one are greater than the benefits of perfectly buffed toes. So I think that’s cheating.

What also interests me is how while the Times delights in detailing exactly how much all these things cost the interview subjects, they don’t tell us what percentage of these women’s income those fees make up. If Ms Grace makes, say, four hundred thousand dollars a year in her job as a realtor and she feels that looking a certain way helps her make that money, then a thousand dollars a week to maintain her looks is not that unreasonable.

Okay, maybe it’s a little high. And if she makes $150,000 dollars a year, then a thousand a week begins to seem out of balance. But in fact, it’s her money. Would the Times approve of her more if she spent it on fine wines, or sports cars, or antique art? Because I have seen articles in the Times detailing the joys of all those things, with nary a suggestion that it wasn’t the best and highest use of someone’s money.

And I love this snarky little injection about how if a woman invested the money she spends on manicures she’d have a fortune when she’s 65. The implication is that women in general should never get manicures, because it’s frivolous, and that seems both condescending and unfair. It also suggests – without actually saying so - that these particular women are managing their money badly, something I doubt the Times really knows.

Now, do I think young women should save and invest money? Hell yes - I wish I’d started younger. But to present it as an either/or is overly simplistic. You could make the same comparison about damn near anything. If you gave up the non-essential pleasures in life that cost money and saved the cash, yes, you’d have it when you were old. But what about having some enjoyment in life while you’re living it? How many things do we all do just because it’s nice and we enjoy it, even if the pleasure is fleeting?

I also completely agree with these women – looking good helps you in the world. There is not a shadow of a doubt about it. And looking good has as much to do with one’s perception of oneself as it does with how other people react to you. I myself have had beauty things done where I thought, “The only person who’s noticing this is me.” But I was noticing, and it was driving me nuts, so, I dealt with it, and I was happier. So I definitely don't think that looking good must involve spending lots of money, but if you've got it and you think it helps, go ahead.

But this article is manipulative journalism, and I think it's manipulating women in a way that's not pretty. We’re supposed to shake our heads at these women, but we’re also being subtly encouraged to consider our own beauty routine, whatever that is. Does it need upgrading? Could we find more ways to spend time and money on it, perhaps even within the NYT’s very own advertisers? Because there are plenty of ads for beauty products and services within those very pages.

You can call it foolish to set such store by appearance, but it’s a trait of human nature and it always will be. And in a capitalist culture, people are going to sell things designed to appeal to that. People have to make their own decisions about what they want to buy. But I think a newspaper like the NYT should be above using editorial space to stir up resentment of other women’s choices and using that emotion to make money for it’s advertisers.

The new column...

And a reminder: I'm out of town from July 10th to the 18th. I'm getting booked up, so if you want to see me before I'm gone, call me.

Recent iTunes Downloads

I got some reasonably current stuff…

Bubbly, Colbie Caillat. A simple song, but she’s got a sweet voice.

Tainted Love, Marilyn Manson. Loved the original, and this is an awesome cover.

Makes Me Wonder, Maroon 5. It’s got a fun funky seventies sound to it.

Rockstar, Nickelback. I know, everyone sneers at Nickelback, but hey, I liked This Is How You Remind Me, too, so obviously I have plebian tastes.

U+ Ur Hand, Pink. Fabulously bitchy dance music, every bit as good as Get The Party Started. If I still stripped, I’d dance to this song.

Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol. Monk turned me on to this plaintively sweet song.

Then I succumbed to a total eighties rock blowout…

Rock Me Tonight, Billy Squier
My Sharona, The Knack
Dream Police, Cheap Trick
My Kinda Lover, Billy Squier
Rock Of Ages, Def Leppard
The Stroke, Billy Squier
Dancing With Myself, Billy Idol
Everybody Wants You, Billy Squier

You should see me dancing around my house, playing air guitar. I’m not even embarrassed.

As promised...Video clips of two pals of mine doing evil, evil things to each other. There are needles, there are boobs, and there are loud shrieks of laughter and some bad words. I love my friends.

Clip One: "Oh, it is so your turn!"

Clip Two: "You rock!"


The sidebar to this is: I really need to find a place to host my not-quite-porn video clips. I put up three clips in Photobucket: these two, and then another, not for public viewing, that included the faces of the women playing. For some reason, that one video clip, and one still photo, got pulled by the site for violating TOS. But for the moment, these two clips remain.

What makes them okay and the other clip and picture not okay? I have no idea. It's in a password-protected album, so I am guessing no one just happened onto them. Very mysterious.

These clips may get pulled too, so carpe diem. Meanwhile I'm looking for another place to put them...

Semi-private social event: So, a bunch of women I know are getting together at a private location next Sunday afternoon to have sort of a group rummage sale of women’s clothes. It’s not our wish to publicize the address of this, and thus have random strangers dropping by. But if you’re a woman in the Seattle area and you’d like to do a little shopping amongst various sizes and styles of nice, gently-worn clothes (both fetish and regular) it's possible we could arrange that. I make no promises, but drop me a note telling me who you are, and we’ll see about giving you the location. Bonus points if I’ve ever actually met you…

Do My Research For Me?

I'm wanting to create some poll/surveys for various questions about sexuality. What I'd like is for people to answer a series of questions, and for them to have a space to add additional comments/clarification after each individual question.

My second choice would be for there to be a single place at the end of the list of question to add comments.

Any have any suggestions about a free/low-cost place to host such things? Or for a super-easy bit of software to create and host it myself? Webspace is not the problem, I just don't want to have to learn complex new software for this.

I've googled this and I see that there are some options, although many of them seem to be vote-only, without the comments part. But I'm interested in personal opinions.

I am really not that into astrology.

However, sometimes Rob Brezsny is sort of spooky. He's lucky we don't burn witches anymore.

Snippet from a conversation I had recently: “If you already hate yourself when you get into sex work, you’ll have bad experiences, because you won’t be able to tell when someone is treating you inappropriately until it’s too late.”

I mused yesterday, as I often do, how happy I am with the clients I have. Not just because some of them are sweet enough to give me beautiful gifts, although those are nice. But there’s something eternally charming about having a man just light up when you come into the room, stare at you with ardent appreciation and tell you, every time he sees you, and with obvious sincerity, how beautiful and wonderful and amazing he thinks you are. Even when one is a trifle cranky – as I have been the last day or so – how could my ruffled fur not be smoothed by such silky strokes? Purrrrr.....

I suppose it is a measure of my ego that I think this is precisely how I should be treated. So call me spoiled, but I believe that expecting to be valued and treated well – and accepting nothing less – is the reason why my experience as a sex worker has been positive rather than negative.

The praise and fervor of my boys is not the basis of my self-esteem – that comes from a deeper place in me. But it’s a very sweet frosting on my cake.

Tuesday, edited: Ok, I was a bit cranky last night when I put up that entry. After a night's sleep I'm in a better frame of mind.
Perhaps because I watched this recent video clip of me spanking a charming man and it made me smile... (About ten seconds, opens in a new window.)

Note to clients and friends: If I owe you a phone call or an email, I am not mad at you, and I am not blowing you off. Monday went rather pear-shaped on me, and Tuesday isn't going to be a lot better. (Nothing tragic, just tragically overbooked, is all.)

But I will survive, hey hey. And I will contact you. (Unless you're that very odd man who keeps calling me looking for Jae. You, I will not be calling back. Actually, a number of people seem to think I'm Jae's answering service, which should be sourly amusing to the nice people who can't even get me to call them back in a speedy fashion. So Jae-seekers, you should know that I just delete those messages.)

More phone-related silliness... I just ordered a new phone and I amused myself downloading free ringtones for it. Want to hear?











I’m taking suggestions, so if you think you rate a custom ring, let me know what you think it should be…

Recent phone oddness….

I’ve been getting a spate of dirty phone messages lately from one particular person. That’s not distressing to me – I generally just fast-forward/delete such things, unless they sound unusual enough to be interesting. They’re generally pretty predictable, though.

The odd thing about these recent messages is that, if I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a woman. I suppose I don’t know better, actually. But the caller is certainly representing themselves as male, referring to his dick and how he wants to fuck me with it. It’s very standard vanilla dirty-talk, no reference to anything kinky.

But wow, this person’s voice? Very high. Very effeminate. It’s either a female-bodied person, or a very young boy whose voice has not changed yet. Or it’s a grown man I feel sorry for, because he’s got a voice about one shade more masculine than Marilyn Monroe.

It doesn’t sound forced, either. I’ve had crossdressers call me- in their female persona - with their voices pitched up high, and I know what that sounds like. This sounds like a child, frankly - so that's probably what it is. I’m not disturbed by it – boys will be boys – but it’s just a trifle weird to hear this sweet little voice talking about his cock and what he’d like to do with it when he could still be singing soprano in a choir.

Vacation

I just bought a pair of plane tickets. In July, Monk and I are going on a little trip together. Like, a vacation.

It’s sort of a wild concept for both of us. Going away somewhere, and not working. That’s not something either of us do much, that not-working thing. When you’re self-employed, there is no rest for the wicked. If you step off the treadmill, everything stops moving. And the Mistress? She doesn’t like it when things stop moving, no no.

I like what I do, and I like where I’m going, and I wouldn’t consider doing anything else. So I can see that’s there’s some value in getting away from things once in a while – but somehow I hardly ever do it. Because God knows, the world will come crashing down if I’m not there every single minute overseeing it, right? Right?

Uh, yeah, right, Matisse. Definitely time for a vacation.

(Yes, I know I just got back from Chicago. But while I love leather conferences, they’re not precisely a vacation. I think I get less sleep there then I do when I’m home. Leathercons are about see and be seen, learn something new, perform for the crowd, teach a class, wheel and deal, and make or freshen your professional/political contacts. So, lots of fun, but you often wind up more exhausted than when you arrived.)

Work is such a subjective word. Monk puts in a lot of hours in his shop making rope. He works hard with his body as well as his head. For me it’s different – the time I actually spend with my boys each day is often the smallest part of what I do, and it’s the fun part.

The rest of it? Not so entertaining. Administrative work – mainly answering the many emails and phone calls - probably takes up the greatest amount of my working day. The second biggest job is cleaning and maintaining my space and my equipment - including wardrobe. Way more time-consuming than people realize. That includes shopping for supplies – I go through boxes of latex gloves faster than a surgeon, for example.

And then there's writing, which is a whole separate job.

So Monk and I are taking off for a week. We’re not going to a kink event. We’re not bringing fetishwear. We’re not bringing huge toy-bags. (Just a few little things…) We are going someplace warm, and we’re going to sit on a beach, and do nothing productive whatsoever. For several days in a row. We’re going to eat a lot of food that’s bad for us, and have drinks with umbrellas in them, swim in the ocean, read trashy novels, watch bad cartoons on the laptop, and sleep late. That’s about it.

I think we won’t even tell where we are. Perhaps we’ll post pictures and see if ya’ll can guess. (If I know you in real-life and you know where we’re going, you MUST NOT say. Don’t spoil the game.)

And I’m so extremely pleased that Tambo feels just perfectly fine about us going off together. She is so the rocking partner.

So, once again – I’ll be gone from July 10th to the 18th. Meaning, the last day you can see me is the 9th, and the first day I’ll be around again is the 19th. I will be seeing people the weekend of the 7th and 8th, though, so if you’ve been yearning for a weekend date with me, let me know.

And try not to let the world crash while I’m gone, okay?

The new column. Fans of the weird voicemails, take note...

Yesterday was the birthday of two very cool people: Prince, and Jae. They have both given me a great deal of pleasure in my life, even though they have occasionally both done things that left me completely baffled. It must be because they're artists... So Happy Birthday to His Purpleness, and Happy Birthday to Jae...

I know, I’m not posting a lot this week, but hey, I’m way busy, getting back in the groove after being out of town. Plus, I have some additional writing to do right now, so ya’ll are getting shortchanged a bit.

***

So, some mundane and non-sexy stuff. Seattle people: I need a good yard person. Does anyone have any recommendations? I don’t need a landscape designer or anything, but I’d like more than just a guy with a mower, if you know what I mean. I could find that on CraigsList.

I admit right here that part of what I need done involves blackberry bushes. Yes. The dreaded blackberries. And just to make it even more fun, my house sits on a slope.

Before you start posting comments, be aware that no matter what you say, this will not be something I’ll be dealing with myself. These lily-white hands? No way. I will be paying someone to deal with this – that’s what I’m looking for. So, names and contact info, not strategies. Unless I can hook up a defibrillator up to the blackberries and kill them that way.

The other thing I need is a glass-repair person. And I have a resource for that, but if you're a kink-friendly professional glazier, talk to me, I have a job for you.

***

Fashion fans: The Herve Leger dress on eBay (see last Friday's entry) went to someone else, which is okay. It was four or maybe even five hundred dollars worth of pretty, but I'm not sure it was twelve hundred and some-odd dollars worth of pretty. So I’m not sad.

But what is very sad is that the gold and black Wolford dress seems not to exist. None of the stores have it, in the US or overseas. It's very cruel of them to tease me so. So, fine, whatever, Wolford. Michael Kors wouldn't do that to me would you, Michael? Even if I do think this cute little number is a trifle overpriced, I'm certain that Nordies would actually have it to sell it to me! (The skirt is sexy, too.)

And I like everything about this dress except the buckled straps. (Although: why is the model posed as if she has a stitch in her side?) My experience is that metal details on shoulder straps make them fall down. Now, of course I sometimes let straps slip off my shoulder just to be flirty and provocative. But only when I want them to.

***

Note to my boys: I’m probably going out of town from around July 10^th to around July 18^th.

***

I think that’s about I have to say. Now I must go back to work on other things…

One other Shibaricon story…And another story to file under: “Do as I say, not as I do.”

It was Friday night at the dungeon party. I had just played, and I was feeling pleasantly endorphin-buzzed. I was taking a stroll around the room, looking at the other scenes, and walked up to a group of people who fall into the category I call conference pals. Conference pals are folks from other cities that I tend to encounter a couple of times a year at the big kink events. Not close friends, but I enjoy them when I see them, and we occasionally swap an email here and there.

So a dozen people, give or take a few, were milling around one of the suspension frames, and it was obvious that some sort of scene was about to happen. So I stopped and began chatting with various people, waiting to see what was going to unfold.

Now, I’m not really sure how the next step developed. As I said, I was pretty endorphin-buzzed, and I was making no real effort to process anything analytically. I was just letting sights and sounds sort of flow over me. It was pleasant.

But somehow, a cute girl was bouncing up and down in front of me, saying, “Matisse! Matisse! You have to single-tail them! Will you single-tail them?”

Uh, what?

The story was thus: three guys were going to do hip-harness on themselves, much in the manner of climbers, and suspend themselves, next to one another, from the suspension frame, and lean back so that they were hanging upside down. Their female friends had announced their intention of tormenting them with whatever kinky implements were at hand.

The whole situation had a rather charming touch of adolescence to it. The guys were showing off their rope skills and their ability to endure a physically strenuous position. The women were testing their mettle by upping the stakes, while still rewarding them with a lot of feminine attention. It reminded me of being a kid on the playground. And while this certainly wasn’t your traditional BDSM scene, we call doing BDSM “playing” for a reason. It is play, for grown-ups.

And then one of the ladies decided: hey, there’s Matisse! She should be the one to apply the sting to the suspended boys.

So let me get this straight: three good-looking men are going to hang themselves upside down, and you want me to hit them with a very nasty whip? Hmmn, do I want to do this? Let me think about that.

One nano-second later; “Sure!”

The whip was fetched. Now, what I knew but did not say was: it was a friend's whip, which means it was a four-foot single-tail. The single-tail I usually use? A three-foot.

Also: I’ve never single-tailed anyone while they were upside down. They were all wearing pants, which meant that their legs and ass would be less vulnerable. (Although a single-tail can bite you through your clothes, for sure.) But their backs would be at an unusual angle, and fairly low.

So, a longer whip than I’m used to, and a different angle of attack, and three guys who I have never played with and don’t know the first thing about. Oh, and let’s not forget I’m endorphin-high.

Does this deter me? Not at all. It’s not like a girl gets this kind of opportunity every day!

“You guys consent to this, right? Good.” I went and stood behind them as they swung into their positions. The frame resembled a child’s swing set: V-shaped supports with a long pole in the middle. They were lined up like bats getting ready for a day’s sleep. Only I was going to keep them from resting easy.

Before I could strike, though, a friend appeared beside me. “Take off your top,” he suggested.

“What?” I was wearing a very sexy Dolce and Gabbana leopard print bustier, with matching panties, and black boots. “Why? They’re facing away from me, anyway.”

“Look, you’re gonna beat the guys, the least you can do is do it topless.”

I rolled my eyes slightly. “I think you’re sympathizing with them a bit too much. And with this long whip, I’ll probably catch myself on the backswing, too.” But there seemed to be some crowd support for the idea, so I shrugged, popped open the tiny hooks and eyes, and discarded it.

So there I was, the Topless Top. I started slow, getting my range and also getting a sense of how much each man could take. It was fun to see if I could catch one man with a good sharp stroke and make the other two react in sympathy/anticipation.

It was also interesting to see how much I respond to verbal feedback. Two of the men were being pretty stoic. One of them, B, I’ve seen play before, and I know he’s a high-capacity guy, so that was all right.

The other, L, I have never seen bottom ever. In fact, I hadn’t even known he switched until then. So I had no idea where I was on his pain-scale.

But the fact that they weren’t making much noise made me inclined to hit them harder. The third man, though, was giving me much more of a reaction, moving and making noises, so I found myself easing up a bit just a bit on the strokes I gave him. Neither reaction was wrong, but if definitely informed my level of intensity.

The scene didn’t last long – there’s no way it could have. Hanging upside down is stressful enough as it is, and I caught them all some pretty stingy strokes. So, maybe fifteen minutes or so? My sense of time wasn’t at its sharpest.

The amusing coda is: because someone present was the official Shibaricon photographer, photos exist of this little event. I haven’t seen any – I imagine it’ll take awhile before the photographer is able to process through all of them. But I’m sure some will float my way sometime, and if I deem it appropriate – and get everyone else’s permission – I’ll put one up…

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For your entertainment...

The new column in The Stranger...

The other side of yesterday's story.

Legal Note: The conviction of kinkster-gone-too-far Glenn Marcus was upheld. Here's some interesting analysis of it by a kinky lawyer.

Bye!

Ok, I have a busy day, but here's one story from Shibaricon....

It was rather late Sunday night, and I was sort of hanging out in the dungeon, thinking that I should really go upstairs to bed, but not quite wanting to leave the last party.

As I was strolling idly around the room, looking at the various scenes, a gentleman of my acquaintance, whom we shall call L, came up to me and said, “Matisse! You have to come over here and help me.”

What could it be? He led me over to where a lovely young woman was standing tied to a post. Very beautifully tied, in a body harness and lots of tight rope. L explained that she was a reader of mine and that she was terrified of me. So, he said, I should step into the scene for a brief while and do something mean to her.

Now, it’s not something I teach people to do, but it’s actually not at all unheard of for people to do what I call grazing on someone else’s scene. The thing is: You can’t invite yourself, the top has to invite you. And you better be sure the top knows what he/she is doing. And you need to ask some questions about what’s okay to do and what’s not.

Or else…you’d better be like me and think, what the hell, I’ll be able to figure that out as I go along. I am so bad sometimes, I amaze myself. So understand that I am not advocating this kind of thing, but it does happen.

I stepped right up to the pretty girl, who was giggling madly and nervously, and she started sliding, still tied, down the pole, until she was sitting at my feet, butt on the floor and legs out in front of her.

“I hear you’re scared of me,” I said, looking down at her. “But hey, I'm not scary, I’m a pussycat, really…”

I had no toys of any kind with me, so I decided to use one of Monk’s tricks. I placed my booted foot on her tightly bound and charmingly helpless-looking breasts, and started to lean my weight onto them. First a little and then – encouraged by the deep, guttural, good-pain noises she was making – rather a lot. I assume she’s had some kind of warm-up, I thought. Oh well, if she hasn’t, she’s having it now.

Then I sort of rotated my foot a bit. More noises. It looked pretty painful. What fun.

When I took my boot away, there was a nice, boot-shaped red mark on her chest. Then I knelt down and slapped the sides of her breasts a bit, eliciting more nice squeals.

At one point L came up, inserted a piece of banana into her mouth, and informed her that she was not allowed to chew it. She just had to hold it in her mouth while I hurt her.

“Oh, that is so mean,” I said. “See, I would never do anything like that to you. I just do stuff like this.” And I pulled out a trademark of my play with Monk: I got her pectoral muscles between my thumb and forefingers and squeezed, really hard. That got some good loud noises.

Pretty Girl’s husband was standing a few feet away the whole time, grinning and making encouraging gestures. That’s always nice, to have the spousal blessing.

So I did that sort of thing for a few minutes, and then L took back over. I often find it delightful to do little cameo appearances like that. It’s like the tapas of kink.

Shibaricon

I'm checking off my lists: My hair is done and my clothes are packed. Both the house-sitters are in place and fully briefed. I took the battery out of the stun gun so it wouldn't accidentally go off in my luggage and get me put on the no-fly list. (But I bet they still search my suitcase.) I think I'm ready.

So I fly to Chicago today, and I return next Tuesday the 29th, and thus I'll be taking calls again as of Wednesday. Otherwise, my business phone will be turned off most of the time I'm gone. I will try to answer emails if it's a genuinely time-sensitive matter, but don't hang your hat on that.

And to all the people who whom I already owe emails: sorry, sorry, sorry, I have been so busy. When I get back next week, I'll get all caught up, I swear!

Now I'm looking forward to a highly amusing weekend....