Weekend Fashion/Social Blogging

I love dresses – even when I’m stressed or cranky, when I put on a dress that I really feel good in, it can totally change my mood. Jet came to see me yesterday, and he brought me a great little black dress and these boots, both from Kenneth Cole. With black patterned Wolford hose, they're a perfect outfit.

But let’s be real, I live in jeans and casual tops most of the time. I caved in and bought a pair of Chip And Pepper jeans, which I’ve been wanting ever since I tried on a pair in Nordstrom a few weeks ago. They’re really soft and velvety, and something about the way they are cut makes me look like I'm two inches taller, which I like. Now, of course, I want more of them.

Some of you are going to hate them, but I’m sort of digging on these gold jeans. I’m all about metallics this fall, and this top would look cute with them.

Other items on the shopping list: something like this. It'll be warm, which is big for me, since I am always cold. And it's black and shiny!

And another pair of leather pants. Can't decide between this pair and this pair.

Now I have to think about what I'm going to wear tonight, because Monk and I are going to - get ready for this - a non-kinky-people's party. That's highly unusual for me, I'm curious what it'll be like. The last time I went to a non-kinky party, I wound up corrupting Scarlett. (Or at least speeding her along the path to corruption, since she probably would have gotten there anyway.) I wonder who Monk and I might collect at this shindig.

The new column is out. But first, a small rant...

I get a lot of emails about my Stranger columns, and most of them are very sweet and thoughtful, and I love getting those. Some of them also have really good insights to offer, and I like that, too.

Occasionally, however, I get email from people taking me to task about this column or that, and most of the time, it's about poly issues. What people actually say varies, but the underlying theme is: you talked about how you do poly, but that's not how I do poly, so your column is bad. I have been accused of "doing more harm than good" by presenting only my own views and experiences and not other people's.

Let me just point out a few facts. First of all, I have a very short column. As much as I try to narrow down each particular topic, there are always going to be aspects of whatever it is that I simply cannot include because it would exceed my word count. Expecting me to touch on every possible permutation of every poly situation is unrealistic. The way poly people whine at me about this reminds me of the column I wrote about the gotcha games that queer people sometimes play with each other. I have, in fact, interviewed other poly people for the column, and I'm sure I'll do so again. And if you read all of my poly columns instead of just one, you may find that the things you think I'm dismissing are topics I have had to split off and address separately.

Second: The Stranger is a free weekly tabloid. It's a great little paper, but it ain't the New York Times. The first law of writing this column is that I must entertain and amuse the readers - most of whom aren't dedicated poly people. Each column must be written so that a casual page-flipper who's never even heard of polyamory (or whatever I'm talking about) could pick up the paper, read the piece, comprehend it, and find it interesting. Thus, the columns need to be fast and fun. Anything that isn't fast and fun doesn't make it to the page.

Third: Perhaps you've noticed that I do not call myself Dr. Matisse. That's because I don't have a Ph.D, and my column is not a scholarly work. I'm a damn professional dominatrix writing about my personal opinions. Demanding that I cite sources or quote studies is ridiculous.

I have been writing this column every week for almost six years. It has been a great thing for me, but it has not been easy. There are weeks when I stress myself into a knot trying to come up with something witty, pithy and sexy to say. (And I can look back at certain of the columns and see clearly that I did not succeed. Ouch.)

So I am fine with suggestions, but if you write to me just to tell me how wrong, wrong, wrong I am doing this, then my answer to you is: If you can do better, please tell me the name of the paper where your column is published and I will read it and learn from it.

Or you can just bugger off. Your choice.

Okay, that's the end of the ranting. Here's the new column, about (you guessed it) polyamory.

Today, a thank-you to Belle De Jour for her mention of me in her blog recently...

And speaking of sexy British things, Agent Provocateur has got Maggie Gyllenhaal all tied up. Very pretty...

I had dinner with Miss K last night, and we wrestled with the ever-absorbing (to us, at least) issue of control. The non-erotic kind, that is. As in: you see someone you care about – an adult person, capable of taking care of themselves - starting down a path that looks to you like it’s going to end up in a trainwreck. What do you do?

Plan A) Shut up. Grown-up people get to make their own mistakes and work out their own destiny. As amazing as it seems, millions of people actually conduct their lives every day without your personal guidance. You may have suspicions, but unless you’ve got a crystal ball, you actually don’t know the future, so don’t harsh their squee by dumping your issues on them.

Plan B) Tell them your concerns ONE time, then resort to Plan A. No fair acting pissy and resentful if they don’t take your implied or stated advice.

Plan C) Do whatever you think you must to prevent the Bad Thing from happening, even if it’s less than strictly ethical or honest, and even over the protests of the person to whom you fear they will happen.

One of the over-arcing themes of my life is learning what things I really have control over and what things I don’t, and how to be peaceful, and even happy, with the latter category. So I am a highly sensitive instrument for this type of situation, having been through it, oh, about forty-seven thousand times myself before I learned how not go there.

Whether you are eventually proved right or wrong has nothing to do with it. The question is how much control you get to have over other people’s lives. The answer: not much. And yes, I say that as someone for whom ritualized demonstrations of control are both a sexual orientation and a profession. How do you think I know so much about it? Why do you think it’s played such a big part in my life? I know the shapes and the boundaries of control very well. The kind of control I get when I do BDSM is like an ice-cream cone – it’s delicious, but you have to consume it on the spot, you can’t put in your pocket and pull it out to eat later. And when it's gone, it's gone.

So if it’s a relatively minor issue, then I go with Plan A. If someone wants to get a haircut, or a lover, or a pet that I think they’d be better off without, well, unless they earnestly and specifically ask me what I think they should do, I don’t say anything.

It’s a bit trickier when worst-case scenario might involve, say, a doctor, or a lawyer. Or a tattoo-removal technician. That is when I will implement Plan B.

But Plan C? Don’t ask me what a bad idea I think that is. Unless you really want my opinion.

Kinky girl Hannah had something very right-on to say today about how tops must trust their bottoms...

"I hear a lot from people that tops who bottom make better tops, that it helps them to understand what their play partners go through, that it makes them more empathetic and more tuned in to a scene. And that's certainly all true and valid. But I think topping is going to make me a better bottom. Being on the opposite side, relying on Nina and trusting her to be honest, to partner with me in this so I can deliver an experience we'll both enjoy and cherish....it's daunting, and I have a whole new appreciation for the skills of a top."

This struck me because I have had a few clients come to see me lately who were people I'd only met once or twice before, some three or four years ago. They were nice guys, but I was sharply aware of the difference between playing with them and playing with the guys I see all the time. It's trust. I don't have to think so much with people I know well, I can just do it. There is a charm to a new bottom, but I really value the guys I know so well....

For sale: costume for a winged fantasy creature. It’s part of the ongoing closet-purge. But I’m not selling this on eBay because of the size of the wings. Shipping it would be an impossible hassle. Whoever buys the outfit will have to pick it up in person.

Let me tell you the story of this outfit. It was made for me by local fashion designer Orion to wear in a fashion show a couple of years ago. I’ve been in a number of fashions shows, but this one was the most challenging, because of the locations. It was on the steps of the Seattle Art Museum downtown. If you have ever seen the stairs there, they are quite pretty – very broad and marble and curving. But they are not regular standard-sized steps. The breadth of them means you have to step down and then take, like, a little half step, and then step down again. They’re a little bothersome to use even in the best of circumstances.

The night of the show, the hair and makeup people teased my hair so far out that I looked like Medusa, and put a ton of glittery make-up on me. That was fine, but then Orion put a string of beaded fringe across my eyes. “An alien veil,” he called it. He also had all us models carrying, in one extended hand, a large glass globe filled with glittery beads. So, there I was, wearing sky-high platform heels, carrying a goldfish bowl in one hand, with these beads hanging down over my eyes. When it was our turn to walk, I looked down those long, broad, slippery marble steps lined with people and thought, “I can hardly see with these damn beads across my face. I am going to fall right on my butt in front of everyone and shatter glass everywhere.”

And then we started walking. Don’t look down at your feet, Matisse. Chin up, extend both arms out from your sides, balance the bowl, don’t bump into the other models, and look as cool and calm as an alien reptile would be. Don’t look at the crowd or the camera flashes will dazzle you.

Somehow I made it to the bottom of the steps without looking down, and without falling down. Everyone clapped for us. I heard Miss K, who was also a model, mutter, “Thank you God we don’t have to walk back up those damn things.” Miss K also told me later that a male friend of hers ran up to her after the show and said, “Please please, tell me the winged girl is single!” So as you see, it’s an attention-getting outfit.

I am sure some official photos exist somewhere, but I only found one in my archives, and it’s not the best photo of me I’ve ever seen. But you can get a sense of the outfit.

I’ve worn it about twice since then, because as you can see, it’s not something you throw on as a whim. I almost kept it just out of sentimental value. But it seems like a shame to just let it sit in a box, when it would make a great costume for someone. I’d actually be happier to pass it on to someone who would be thrilled with it, and have fun wearing it and being admired in it.

The basic outfit is a boned and lined bustier/corset-type-top and tight pants, with matching gauntlets. You could wear that without the rest of the costume and it’s a sexy outfit. But there are also the wings and an alligator-type tail, which make it an amazing and utterly unique costume.

The wings have adjustable elastic cords that you slide your arms into. The tail attaches to the back of the corset with hidden hooks. The gauntlets are of the same fabric as the pants, and they come down over the back of your hand to a finger loop. The pants have an invisible crotch zipper, so you actually can pee in this outfit without having to take off the corset to get your britches up and down.

I snapped a bunch of pictures and put them in a online album, here. So check it out if you're interested.

This outfit was custom-made for me, so it’s not exactly a standard size. I would say I was a big six or a small eight when this was made. The pants are very stretchy, and of course the corset is very much adjustable. Exact dimensions of all the pieces are as follows:

The wings are 44 inches wide and 32 tall.

The tail is 8 inches wide and 28 inches long.

The waist of the boned bustier seems to be about 29 inches when it’s all the way closed. But as it laces, it could accommodate a waist several inches bigger. If you’re bigger than a D-cup, you might spill over the top some, but if you’re smaller than that you’ll probably be fine.

Laid flat, the waist of the pants seems to be about 14 inches, and when stretched out, about 16. They're designed to fit like leggings.

Email me with a reasonable offer, tell me how much you'd love wearing it, and it’s yours.

Complete and unedited email from the inbox….

I, 25, years old, nice, one, young, male, slave, I am sitting down turkey I,
machine, technician work, Your, *Web, page, visit, and, me, a lot of,
influence, All, life, your, slave, toilet, and, prostitute, Become, only,
for_you, work, spend, want, For this , what must I do? I am serious in this
subject I do for you in the prostitution Young, and, beautifull, I will in
the joint send my picture I accept your all rules Beg, me, all, one, life,
Slave, dog, toilet, become, honour, present
Good, one, driver, cooking, and, garden, business, very good,
Really, serious, beg, me, service, take,

Wow. I thought I liked commas. I understand that he’s probably using an online translator that could turn Shakespeare into shlock, but what’s with all those commas? Does he stutter in real life?

I’m also wondering about the phrase “in the joint”. He’s in prison? I didn’t know Turkish prisoners got web access. Things have changed since Midnight Express, apparently.

I was unaware that Turkish men were such impressive multitaskers. I mean, he’s asking to be my slave/technician/prostitute/dog/toilet/driver/cook/gardener. That’s a lot of hats.

And pretty disparate hats, too. You would want to be sure not to overlap, say, cooking duties and toilet duties. Combining toilet and driver would probably go badly, too. (“Oh, hi, Officer. Mind the puddle, there.”) Toilet and gardener could work together okay, I suppose. But I would also avoid toilet and technician. If you’ve ever pissed on an electric fence, you’ll understand why. Toilet and prostitute? Hmmn, could work, with certain clients. But others might get - yes, I’m going to say it – pissy! (Oh, I just crack myself up sometimes.)

All snarkiness aside, though…If you ignore some of the commas, there’s kind of a lilt to snippets of this, an odd sort of poetry. “Only for you, work, spend, want…” and “Beg me, all one life…” There’s a bit of rhythm.

But I don’t think I want a young Turkish man to come to Seattle and be my slave of all trades. He’ll have to write translator poetry to someone else.

Busy day yesterday: I went with Monk for his check-in with the doctor about his broken collarbone. (It's healing just fine, although these things never go as fast as one would like.) Then I spent a charming two hours tormenting a sweet man of my acquaintance, and after that I showered, changed clothes, and had dinner with my mother and her husband. Kinda one of those all-over-the-map days.

I’m also in the middle of a closet purge. Given that I’ve been getting a lot of new clothes lately, I felt it only right that I should get rid of a bunch. So, eBay, here I come. Here’s a link to what I have listed so far. It’s just the tip of the iceberg, I have several dozen more items. In this ginormous pile of stuff is fetishwear, street clothes, shoes and boots, some corsets, a couple of outrageous fetish costumes from a local fashion designer, all kinds of things. I’ll be putting up new items every few days until it’s gone, just so I don’t get stuck trying ship out everything at once. So keep checking back there.

Oh, and – the new column. Sticky sweet goodness….

Well, this is...interesting: platform shoes with built-in alarms for sex workers.

Given that more women are assaulted by husbands, boyfriends or family members than strangers on the street, ideas like this always make me scratch my head a little. It seems more appropriate to give them to women who’ve filed restraining orders against stalkers.

Plus, how long would the time lag be between a sex worker signaling that they were in trouble, and someone getting to them? I would imagine it’s going to be long enough to get hurt rather badly, if that’s what the other person’s intent was. (Handheld alarms designed to scare attackers away already exist, so you don't need these shoes for that feature.)

These shoes remind me of the call in/call out security system that some outcall ladies use. It usually works like this: you call a designated third person when you arrive at the location and you’re with the client, they call you back when it’s time to leave, and then you call them back when you’re safely outside and away.

There’s nothing wrong with that system as far as it goes, but if someone means to hurt you, neither phone calls nor these shoes will stop them. All it does is give the police an idea where to start looking for your body, however many days later.

I say that last sentence with an ironic twist to my lips that isn’t quite a smile. The idea that all sex workers live in minute-to-minute peril is a myth propagated by a society that doesn’t want women getting any dangerous ideas about what they are allowed to do with their bodies. In the well-over-ten years I've been in the sex industry, I can count on one hand the number of times I've felt like I was in real danger from a client. And none of those times ended with an actual assault. Was that fate, luck, divine intervention, my skillful handling of the situation, or was the danger just my imagination? I don't know. I will never know. I just know it hasn't happened.

However, a certain number of sex workers do get beaten or killed every year. Unfortunately, they are very frequently the most desperate of women, working on the street and often living on it. They are likely to be dealing with a substance addiction as well. Those high-tech shoes wouldn’t last a day before they were either stolen or traded away for money or drugs. Thus, those who need them the most are the least likely to have them. Sad but true.

I Got The Music In Me

For a while now, I’ve been meaning to blog about my severe case of what I call “Musical-Tourettes Syndrone”. But I hadn’t quite found the right way to describe exactly what I meant. So imagine my surprise when I found out that apparently, Stranger editor Christopher Frizzelle has Musical-Tourettes, too. He doesn’t call it that, but what he says is exactly what I do.

“There's a glitch in my brain that constantly scans what people say for references to the adult-contemporary-pop canon of my childhood, and if a friend says, "I'm tired," it's not unheard of for me to reply, no doubt obnoxiously, "I'm tired of play-ay-ing on the team/Oh, it seems I don't get time out anymore/Ooh-ooh-ooh." If someone says, "Here she comes," I will say, "Watch out, boy, she'll chew you up." Whenever I come across the word "wordplay," my mind sings: "You play with words/You play with luh-uh-uhve."

Mr. Frizzelle is speaking specifically of Hall and Oates songs - I don’t know if he does this all the time, with all different kinds of music. But I do.

I’m kidding about it being an actual disorder, of course, it’s not really. It’s just this really absurd habit, but it is pretty deeply ingrained in me. I have trained myself not to do it out loud in front of anyone but Monk. (Unless I have been drinking champagne, and then all bets are off.) I thought I was the only person silly enough to ever do it out loud, so I was quite delighted when I found that, if encouraged, Monk will do it, too.

And it’s silly enough even when other people can actually recognize the music. Part of my problem is that because I was a theatre major, I have lyrics from various musicals that I worked on/performed in forever etched into my head. No one else but another theater geek knows the lyrics to "Fugue for Tinhorns" from Guys and Dolls, but if you say to me, “Can do, Matisse”, in my head I’ll start singing “I got the horse right here, his name is Paul Revere, and here's a guy who says if the weather's clear, can do, can do, this guy says the horse can do.” If someone remarks in my presence “Just you wait”, then mentally, I hear Eliza Doolittle singing “Just you wait, Henry Higgens, just you wait, you’ll be sorry but your tears will come too late…” And I must firmly repress the urge to sing along.

Aside from musicals, it’s mostly unintentional quoting from seventies and eighties songs that brings on my little tic. I think it’s true that music from your childhood really get imprinted on you. So if you’re ever talking to me, and I suddenly look distracted and seem to be singing under my breath, feel free to join right in - if you know the words.

Edited to add: Now that I mention it, I do see one theatre-loving man who knows the same musical cues and does this right along with me. It really adds something unique to a BDSM scene when both of you occasionally break into a Rogers and Hammerstein chorus.

The new column: America's Next Top Domme, episode two...

And can I just wax rhapsodic for a minute about a very under appreciated portion of the male anatomy? An unsung hero of CBT, it goes by many names - the taint, the landbridge, or more prosaically, the perineum. That bit of real estate, found between the balls and the asshole proper, is a favorite spot of mine for intimate impact play. Last week, I spent the better part of ninety minutes kicking a really brave and extremely fun guy in the genitals. I mean, hard. Call me Mistress Becks on this one. I don't often get to do intense ball-busting, as it is called, but this gentleman can really take it. We've played together before, not super-frequently, but every so often he'll turn up and we'll spend an enjoyable hour or two together.

This time I had him staked out on the floor in the classic four-point position, so when I kicked, I could really get the top of my foot to smack into his balls, thrusting them apart and ending with a teeth-rattling jolt, right on that aforementioned perineum. (His teeth, not mine.) He ended up rather sore and swollen, and quite happy.

Love my life, oh yes I do...

Edited to add: Also? I need this t-shirt.

Last Friday, a reader mentioned a show I did at Vain a few years ago. He was referring to the Paradise Hotel party, in 2003. It was a promotional party, put on by the people at the Seattle Lesbian and Gay Film Festival. There was a typical DJ/dance/drinks thing happening in the salon space proper, but on the floors above the salon is a very old hotel, long since fallen to ruin and boarded up. This concept of this party was that it would feature a bunch of intimate performance art pieces, one in each of the various small rooms along the hallways, and people could wander through all various rooms at their own pace. It was my understanding that the pieces would all be erotic in theme. Hence the name "Paradise Hotel".

Now, the SG&LFF is a very good event. However, this party was not a trip to heaven for me. The Stranger wasn't impressed with it, and now that the statute of limitations has run out on good-performer-etiquette, I can say it too: it wasn't a very good show. The producers meant well and had an interesting vision, but it just didn't come together well. That happens sometimes.

My biggest complaint was that that most of the people wandering through the little performance rooms were mildly-to-extremely drunk. And doing BDSM in front of drunk vanilla people is about the most annoying thing in the world. The crowd was tilted towards queer rather than straight, which helped, but there were enough heterosexual-frat-boy types making stupid comments to produce some serious eye-rolling from me and my crew. The Paradise Hotel party was the last straw as far as me doing public shows - for free, anyway. Yes, I got sweet-talked into doing that show gratis, it was a good cause and all. But never again. You want me to perform where there is alcohol? Sure. But it will cost you plenty. No, no, don't talk to me about good publicity. Show me the money.

However, I went back through the photos that my pal Malixe took, and I did find some good ones. They've not seen the light of day before, because I didn't have a blog in 2003. So, without further ado: scenes from the Paradise Hotel party.

I miss this guy and his sweetie, who have moved too far away from here...

I did take some volunteers from the audience. This guy was great fun!

Here's Jane Duvall watching people do their thing.

I love what Jae lets me do to her.

This one's a tiny bit blurry, and the camera flash washes out the violet wand's purple glow. But I love the expression on Jae's face.

I believe this is a shot where someone in the crowd had just said something extremely stupid to me, like "C'mon, hit her harder!" My answer to those remarks is usually something like, "Drop your pants, bad-ass, and we'll see if you're as tough as she is." No one ever takes me up on that invitation, funnily enough.

I do love Jae. And she loves me. Which is lucky, since she could bloody well have me arrested for some of the stuff I've done to her over the years.

A little after-scene comparing of marks. Always a good chance to cop a feel, heh heh...

Weekend Fashion Blogging

Is this not the most gorgeous dress you've seen all day? I'm slightly surprised that the designer brought it out for fall, because to me the colors and the fabric look like spring/summer. But who cares, the blues and greens are so yummy I just want to eat them with a spoon. And it looks slinky, too. I like slinky.

This one is so not my usual style, but there's something about it that I like. It's exotic.

And more appropriate for the cooler months ahead: After searching high and low because they're sold out everywhere, Armani actually found these Giuseppe Zanotti boots for me in my size! I'm very excited.


Edited to add: I'm sad that I've been outbid on this dress, because I think it's smokin'. But I have a limit, and it's gone beyond it. Curses!

Edited again: (This is the last edit, I swear. I need to stop shopping and get busy with other things.) I really like this skirt, it's a great cut for me, and I'm interested in adding both more white and more gold to my wardrobe. It's a decent price, too.
But please tell me, fashion ladies and gentlemen, what color top I'd wear with it, because I'm stumped. Black seems too contrast-y, and I fear red would make me look like a Christmas-tree ornament. So would gold.
In a perfect world, I'd wear a plain knit shell that matched the white, but I know that the odds of find a plain knit shell that exactly matches the skirt are slim.
I have a rule: if I don't know what I'd wear with something, then I can't buy it. Unless one of you offers me a brilliant solution, I'll have to let it go by.

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It's new-column day, but first, a note: if you read the paper copy of The Stranger, they are undergoing a re-design process right now. For the time being, my column will appear online every week as usual, and I'll link to it here as I always do.

But I will only be in the dead-tree version every other week.

I've already gotten some plaintive "hey, what happened to your column?" calls and emails. And I'm glad you're reading me! However, this is not within my control, so I'm just being patient while the higher-ups shift things around. Any suggestions you might have about it should be addressed to the good people at The Stranger.

And thus, here is the new column...

Books I’m Browsing

The Harlequin: Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter, Book 15, by Laurell K. Hamilton
Yeah, I know, the last couple of them really sucked. (Pardon the expression.) But there was a sweet spot for this series, when it was as addictive as cocaine-sprinkled brownies. I keep hoping Ms. Hamilton will find her way again. (The Meredith Gentry series does nothing for me.) I have yet to find another paranormal fiction line that amuses me so much, and I have read some real dogs of books trying. Hence, hope springs eternal. But I’m buying it used.

Don't Believe Everything You Think: The 6 Basic Mistakes We Make in Thinking,
by Thomas E. Kida
This looks extremely interesting. I’m always very interesting in understanding why people – including me- think and act as they do, and this books looks to be all about the debunking of pseudoscientific crap pushed at us by, say, Madison Ave and the Bush Administration.

The Pleasure's All Mine: Memoir of a Professional Submissive, by Joan Kelly
Looks like an interesting twist on the more common pro-domme memoir.

The Art of Detection (Kate Martinelli Mysteries), by Laurie R. King
I prefer Ms. King’s books about Sherlock Holmes and his wife (!) to the modern-day stuff, but she creates good characters and has a knack for building up tension and dread in a thriller.

The Emperor of Scent: A True Story of Perfume and Obsession, by Chandler Burr
I don’t wear perfume. For one thing, I have a not-very-acute sense of smell, so I’d probably put on too much and make people’s eyes water in elevators. Also, alcohol-based perfumes leave tiny brown blotches on my skin wherever I’ve applied it. Some kind of allergy, apparently. I tried the essential oil thing for a while, but really, between hair products and lotion, I’m sweet-smelling enough anyway.

But I like knowing how things work. Publishers Weekly says: “Nobody knows for sure what makes our noses work the way they do, not even the $20-billion-a-year perfume industry's legions of chemists, whose jobs depend on appealing to those noses. So what happens when Luca Turin, a likable scientist who happens to possess an unusually sensitive nose, proposes a new theory of smell that promises to unravel the mystery once and for all? That's what readers find out in this often funny, picaresque expos‚ of the closed world of whiffs, aromas and odors-and the people who study them.”

Really nice things that happened yesterday:

I went with Monk to see a shoulder specialist, who was extremely helpful and reassuring. He told us everything was going as it should be, and he fixed Monk up with a high-tech brace/cinch sort of thing that gives him much more mobility and much less pain. Yay. Kisses to the fabulous medical man who helped me arrange the appointment.

Then I went off and had a dee-lightful interlude with Armani and another young lady, who may identify herself if she wishes to. Red, warm behinds were the order of the day.

Oh, and that Prada bag? It got Armani’s vote, and he ordered it for me. I think there are some tall black patent boots in the works as well. Example # 3,427 of how I have the sweetest guys in the world.

I listened to (yes, I’m admitting it) Kayne West’s new song, Stronger. Several times. It’s embarrassingly catchy.

Upcoming stuff: Miss Candy is having a kinky-ish fitness fundraiser in Cal Anderson park at 2pm this Sunday. Here’s the very lovely poster for the event, but basically, she’s having a 30-minute Boot Camp class, which I gather is some sort of exercise-based torture. (I so don’t do exercise classes.) But there’s a pushup contest, raffles, free food and drinks, and all queer and queer-friendly people are welcome.

Also, I am judging the Northwest LeatherSir, Leatherboy & Community Boot Black Contest the weekend of August 31st /Sept 1st. If you’ve never been to a good old-fashioned leather contest, here’s your opportunity. Way back in the day, leather title contests like this used to be one of the few publicly-accessible kink-based events. Not so much anymore – there are so many other social venues. But there’s a charm to them – just look at Miss Candy, who is the reigning Washington State Ms. Leather. She’s extremely charming!

I myself never ran for a title because, frankly, I thought I’d hate the high level of kink-community attention one receives when one is a title-holder. Every little move you make gets scrutinized and talked about, it’s a lot of pressure. I mean, you can’t so much as pinch someone’s tits without…
Oh, wait a minute. That happens to me anyway. Whoops. How did that happen?

I've decided that on weekends I'm going to post, if I feel so inclined, about fashion. So if you're just here for the kink, come back Monday.

Ladies (and metrosexual gentlemen), I need a new purse. You were all very helpful the last time I had to make such a momentous decision, and here I am again. Last year I did indeed buy a black nylon Kate Spade bag, and I've liked it. But it has to go, because it's just a shade too small. I carry so much stuff around that 13 inches across by 10 inches high is just not cutting it. The damn thing is always spilling over and when it's packed full, I can't get to anything in there. Annoying.

If Kate Spade made a slightly bigger one in the same style, I'd buy it. But she doesn't. So I've been shopping and shopping, but damn, it's hard to find what I want. The requirements are: it must be bigger than what I've got - but not too big, of course. Say, 14 or 15 inches across, and 11 or 12 inches high. It must be black, or mostly black. And it must have a single shoulder strap that goes to my waist. With short little straps, your bag is sort of bunched up under your arm, and I don't like the way that looks, especially on a not-tall woman like me. And I don't know how women deal with purses that one must hold in one's hand or at best, loop on one's elbow. I am always either carrying other stuff, or talking on my phone, or something - I need both my hands free.

I know this will come as a shock, but I really am not all that drawn to leather bags. Not plain leather anyway. Patent leather, okay - or really crinkly leather or something, maybe. But plain leather purses just always look kinda suburban to me. Like a mom purse. (I'm sure I'm going to get blowback from all you leather-bag-carrying women out there for that.) So it can't be just plain black leather.

I admit, I'm looking at pretty high-end stuff. I thought about going honestly fake. But I'm getting really spoiled for more expensive clothes, et cetera. It's not like oh, I simply have to have a designer bag, it's just.... they look nice. So I've narrowed it down to some likely options. Give me your vote:

The perfectly basic black Prada bag. It fit my requirements exactly and it goes with everything - although one risks being a fashion cliche. And the retail price tag is rather ridiculous, I'd have to find one on eBay or something. But it's the perfect size and shape. Impossible to go really wrong with this one.

Perlina Patent Leather bag. A little bigger than I really need. And the shoulder strap is a bit short. But it's pretty.

Elliot Luca Drawstring Bag. A strong contender. I could live without the tassels and I wish the hardware was silver instead of gold. But a good size and stylish without being too-too trendy.

What do you think?

The new column... What does one call that other person you're involved with?

Meanwhile, I'm busy with my world, which is really a lot of fun some days. The key is being creative. Take vibrating nipple clamps. Now, they're nice enough on nipples. But they're much more fun on genitals, and the other day I put a sound in a lovely man's cock, and attached them to the rod. Presto! Vibrating sound. His eyes rolled back in his head, I laughed happily, and Jae was completely fascinated. She loves to watch me do CBT. I had her hold the rig so I could snap a photo. Wanna see?
This one's close up and extremely personal!
Here's Jae looking very absorbed in what she's doing.

Love my life....

Furniture Musings

Every Mistress needs nice furniture, and I'm very fond of the stuff I have. Just three really well-made basic pieces - the bondage chair, the bend-over bench, and this, my table. I don't like my dungeon to feel crowded, and I have found that most of the time, one doesn't really use the super-specialized pieces all that much. Stocks, for example. They look nice in porn pictures, but in real life, many people have a hard time staying bent over at the waist with no torso support. And I don't like any bondage position that relies on a fragile area like the throat as a lock-down point.

So I stay with what works for me. It makes me sad that the brilliant twisted man who built all my furniture has since hung up his carpentry hammer. It’s been about seven years since I commissioned my bondage table from Mr. Wood, and I love the piece, but it’s starting to show its age a bit.

I had it re-upholstered about a year ago and that helped. But eventually I’m going to need a new one, and I cannot imagine where I’m going to get one. I know exactly one kinky carpenter and she’s extremely busy.

And plus I’ll have to think about design. This one, as you see, has two inserts that come out. I wanted to be able to lay someone down on their stomach and still get access to the fun parts. Sometimes I lie on the floor and do CBT on boys from that angle. It’s more scary for them when not only can they not see what’s coming, they can’t even see me. Once I draped the bottom with fabric and had Jae hiding underneath there like an evil little sprite under a bridge. Wasn’t that boy startled when he saw me standing several feet away and felt…someone/something… touching his bits. It was delightful.

But perhaps something different for the next piece. I’ll often be playing and think, “Gee, I wish I could do X right now.” And I try to make notes about what I find myself wanting to do and design accordingly.

However, my next piece of bondage furniture will probably be a new addition: a stand-up frame. I have points in the ceiling to tie people's hands up to, but I want something against a wall. Not a St Andrews cross, I don’t care for those. A lattice-work frame, one heavy enough to take a real beating. If you’ll pardon the expression…