Snippets of my day yesterday…

I go to a Capitol Hill bank to make a deposit. Sitting in the drive-through, I put my slips through the teller’s drawer. She picks up the paychecks from The Stranger and says from behind her glass, “Oh, do you work for The Stranger? A lot of people from The Stranger come here.”

I have a habit of not chit-chatting with strangers, and certainly I do not volunteer personal information to them. It always startles me slightly when people I don't know - even bank tellers, whom one supposes have access to a certain level of one’s personal information - ask me such questions. I think of it as a ladylike reserve. But Max informs me I’m a bit of a curmudgeon, so I tell myself, I’m sure she just means to be friendly. Thus, I smile and say, “Yes.”

“Oh, what do you do for them?”

Ok-ay. “I write for them.”

“What do you write?” She's still smiling brightly at me as she counts my money. Do I want to have this conversation? Not particularly. Do I see a polite way out? Not really. I suppose I could claim to be Erica Barnett, but that’s not the name on my check.

“Control Tower.”

She furrows her brow quizzically at me. Ah, so fickle is fame. “I’m Mistress Matisse.”

“Oh. OH. Oh, really.” She looks down at her desk, away from me. “So, anything else for you today?”

Hey, don’t ask the question if you don’t want to know the answer.

***

Later, I’m standing in my dining room with Nerdygirl and her um-friend. (This gal needs a blog moniker and an official job-description, but I am not authorized to assign her either.)

Monk is modeling his outfit for Folsom Street Fair for us. “I just need to make sure I look gay enough,” he says seriously. You see, Monk is always one to wear the appropriate costume for an event, and since FSF is a heavily gay-male event, Monk is dressed like, well, a gay leatherman. But I won’t give details, as he might want those for his blog.

“Honey, I think you look as gay as a straight guy can look,” I say.

“But is gay enough?” Because with Monk, whatever it is he’s doing, it can’t ever be just-okay. It has to be faaaaaaabulous.

“Dude, you could be a backup dancer for the Village People. That’s a very gay outfit.”

Nerdy and her companion agree. Then Nerdy says something about Monk being an otter.

I say, no, he’s not an otter. “He’s not hairy enough to be an otter. Galahad is an otter.*”

“Well, he’s not a twink. Or a bear.”

“He doesn’t really have to be any of them, you know,” I say, laughing. “Especially since he’s not really gay.”

“But do I look gay?” says Monk, getting us back to the important matter at hand.

We all assure him he couldn’t look gayer unless he was fucking a twinkie boy in the ass with a cigar in his mouth.

Hopefully I’ll get a picture of him at the fair proper.

***

*Galahad is actually not gay, either. Although like Monk, he enjoys flirting with gay men.

Further Thoughts On Labor Issues In The Sex Industry

Molly said yesterday: It kind of depresses me to hear you say (I paraphrase) "Just accept your crappy working conditions, that's the way it is and it's not going to get any better."
Sure, if you just roll over and accept terrible working conditions, your work environment isn't going to improve. But workers, in the sex industry or otherwise, have rights to working bathrooms and to have their contracts (number of scenes, whatever) agreed to. If no one stands up and says "Hey, don't treat us like shit!" management won't change.
Maybe I'm just idealistic, but I've seen direct positive results from the labor movement. I think those ideas can be adapted to sex work. Then again, I've never been a sex worker, so this is all theory.

I understand what you’re saying. I myself put in quite a lot of time doing sex-worker activism in the nineties. I helped run a local sex workers organization called Blackstockings, I wrote articles, I made speeches, I produced sex worker events, I helped put out the ‘zine. (Remember 'zines?) So it's not that I don't care, or that I don’t think social change can happen.

But I am a pragmatist, and I am also a capitalist, albeit something of an anarcho-capitalist. I have seen a lot of smart, earnest women expend a lot of energy trying to change the way sex business owners treat their contractors (read: de facto employees) and achieve...not very much. It's great and wonderful that they/we achieved anything at all, given the level of resistance that exists, but to me, it was like trying to bail out the ocean with a bucket. I saw that if I worked really, really hard, I might, just might, help create…a slightly better place for women to go make money for sex business owners. Hmmnn. Didn’t seem worth it to me.

I suppose part of it is my family background – I come from a whole nest of self-employed people, and I was raised in an atmosphere where if you wanted something to happen, you made it happen for yourself. The idea that workers have the right to make demands about how a business owner runs their business is sort of strange to me. I’m not saying it’s wrong, because I know, intellectually, that it’s not. I’m just saying that it’s not a way of thinking that would ever naturally occur to me. For me personally, if I don’t like what’s happening in a work environment, my rights are my feet: I can leave and work somewhere else, or better yet, start my own business and run it my way.

The sex business owners don't care because they don't have to. As it is now, if women quit because they don't like the conditions, it doesn’t matter, because there are plenty more where they came from. There is no financial incentive for them to change, and appealing to their better nature is a joke. Thus, my answer was to quit bouncing from one workplace to another and create my own work environment. I think that’s a better solution. If enough women quit working for someone else and started their own businesses, that would make an impact on sex business owners. They’d be inspired to offer more competitive working conditions, or see their labor pool dry up.

But I think that's unlikely. Many people want to work for someone else. This baffles me, but I see that it’s true. However, I’m hoping that if I keep talking about how I have created what I want, then I will inspire other women to do the same - whatever it is they want.

I didn't dance at strip clubs or work at lingerie-modeling joints to create social change, I was doing it to make money for myself. While I was there, I saw and accepted the trade-offs that come with the gig. But I made plans to get myself out of there and into something better. I’d rather teach women how to do that then spend a lot of energy trying to change the rules of someone else’s game.

Sex Work and Entrepreneurism

Last night Monk told me of an article he had read in Rolling Stone, about men in the gay porn industry. It was mainly about the murder of porn producer Bryan Kocis. But apparently it also touched briefly on how a lot of young men in gay porn don’t make very good money, although many of them hope to. However, their dreams of stardom and riches are frequently dashed – much like a lot of women in the porn industry.

Why am I not surprised by this? Probably because my experience of sex work is pretty vast, and regardless of gender, if you want to make good money in the sex industry, then you need to do two things. One: get in the room with the client, and two: eliminate the middleman.

That means that any form of sex work you do which does not place you in the room with a client should be viewed as temporary and prone to marked fluctuations. Nice extra money, but not to be exclusively relied on to make you a steady, long-term living. So, phone sex, modeling, peep-shows, cam sites, and yes, porn videos – that kind of work can provide a continuous small trickle of money into your pocket, or it can occasionally inject a large wad of cash into your budget. But while I know a lot of people in the sex industry, I don't personally know anyone who has made a decent living exclusively from such avenues for any long period of time.

(And no, the photographer who pays you to model for commercial publication is the not the client. He’s a middle-man. The guy who buys the magazine or joins the paysite is the client.)

The money in those gigs is a bit better if you own the venue. There was a window of time in which mom-and-pop porn sites could do pretty well. But unfortunately I think that era is over - between the federal government regulations, and the expansion of the corporate porn industry, a lot of indie porn sites have been muscled out of business, or at least out of the black.

The women I know who have done best with not-in-the-room sex work are very smart, extremely organized and ferociously self-disciplined. My pal Lydia, for example. I’ve known her for almost ten years. She does a lot of modeling and video work, and has done better with it than many. It doesn’t hurt that she has one of the most naturally beautiful bodies I have ever seen in my life. But that gorgeous figure would not pay like it does unless Lydia had the brains and the drive to make it happen, year-in and year-out. It’s my observation that not so many people have that. And even Lydia does private pro domme sessions.

No, the real money – money to live comfortably, buy a house, create a retirement fund, build some security – comes from establishing relationships with your clientele. So you gotta get in the room with them. Whatever else you do or don’t do with them, you have to look in their eyes, talk to them, and really be there with them. If you can’t do that, then I predict you will never make a good full-time living doing sex work.

And most of the time, you also have to run the business yourself. (I have known some strippers who just danced in clubs and made good money over the long term, but I think they’re the minority.) A lot of people want to just punch a clock, so to speak, and not have to take any responsibility for the success of the operation as a whole. You can find places where you can do that, but the sex industry is the wild wild west. It’s largely unregulated, and the people you’ll be working for are interested in one thing and one thing only: money. They are not interested in your safety or your happiness. That’s just the way it is. It’s like gambling in Vegas – the odds are always in the favor of the house. When I see people in the sex biz fussing about employment conditions or unfair treatment, I always sort of shake my head. I mean, sure, it would be nice if the toilets in strip-club dressing rooms always worked, and porn producers shouldn’t pressure performers to do more extreme scenes than they agreed to. But – that’s not how this industry works. If you want sparkling-clean working conditions and supportive management, go apply at Starbucks. I’m not saying it’s right, but it’s just how it is.

So if you want to make a good living in the sex industry, my advice is: Set up your own shop, run the business yourself, and deal with your clients directly and personally. Don’t be fodder in someone else’s money machine.

Dropped Balls and Phone Calls

So some kinky women I know have asked if I'm going to Wicked Womyn. The answer is: I think not.

Not because it's not a great event. I've been before and had big fun. And I think women, even straight women, can get a lot out of a women-only event. Granted, I'm not straight, but I know women who are entirely heterosexual (yes, really) who they tell me they always learn a lot of new stuff and have fun hanging out without the whole guy-energy thing happening. So especially if you're still learning about BDSM - and god, who isn't, really? - women's events are cool.

That said, I forgot to register. I think it was a freudian slip - we have guests coming, and then I leave for Folsom in a week, and then I get back and dive directly into a visit from my mother, who I love, but who wants all of my attention when she's in town. Like, all of it, all the time. I just think I'm going to feel a little socialized-out by the time Oct 12th rolls around.

And then I heard registration was closed - they got filled up. C'est la vie, I thought. I should stay home and chill anyway.

However, apparently some pals of mine are planning the most awesomely awesome scene I have ever heard of in my life, a pure stroke of Milton Bradley genius, and I'd like to see it. And Jae let me know she wanted me to thrash her severely, which is always a charming prospect.

"But registration's closed," I told Jae.
"Ma'am," she said impatiently, "you're Mistress fucking Matisse! Talk to somebody. Call in some favors. They'll let you in."

Huh. I don't share her utter certainly, but... it does seems like this local notoriety ought to be good for something. Perhaps I will fire off some emails and see who I can sweet-talk about admission to one of the parties, at least. We'll see how far reputation gets a girl in this town.

Future Projects

I have had some ideas lately about some future projects I’d like to do. Let’s see what ya’ll think of them.

Video clips: I’m thinking of creating a series of short video clips, about 3-5 minutes each, designed to demonstrate some very basic BDSM skills. Now, I do not even want to deal with the current 2257 regulations about distributing adult content. So I’m going to learn a lesson from Monk’s Youtube success and just do clips with no nudity. It’s my thought that if there’s no naughty bits showing, I can post them to Youtube and not have them pulled.

I did ask Monk what he thought would happen if I used a blow-up sex doll for the demos. You know, it’s not a person, right? Thus, not obscene.

He furrowed his famous brow at me and said skeptically, “You’re seriously considering uploading a video to the web of you flogging a blow-up doll?”

Yeah, okay, I guess that is a bad idea. Hey, I’m just looking for work-arounds, here. Here’s what is on my list so far:

• Basic spanking and flogging techniques.
• A tour of the most common electrical toys and what they do.
• Play piercing demo and basic FAQ.
• Nipple clamps, and other types of clamps as well: how to choose them, where to put them, et cetera.
• I cannot actually do anything with anal penetration, which is a pity, since it’s a skill everyone should have. But I can talk about choosing a butt toy, with examples, and discuss some of the basic issues.
• I want to do something with genital bondage, obviously, since it’s a favorite of mine. I’m thinking of using a lifelike dildo for the CBT clip. And I suppose they do make rubber facsimiles of pussies, don’t they? Although I’m not sure I'd be able to keep a straight face, since those things just look ridiculous to me. So that’s a problem.

I don’t have a videographer/editor nailed down for this. The person who did Monk’s is great but rather busy, so if you’re local and you want the job, talk to me.

Ditto if you want to be a model. Yes, you must be able to show your face. I can’t pay you, but I’ll do my best to make it fun for you, and if you have a web site of your own, I’ll plug you shamelessly.

Now a question for the ladies, especially ladies who don't consider themselves especially kinky. I'm thinking of pitching some of the glossy women's magazines about some how-to pieces. You see those "How To Drive Your Man Wild In Bed" headlines, but the advice always seems pretty ho-hum to me. What bit of sexual lore would you really like to see explained in an article?

I’m also considering, just considering, creating a site for text-based paid content. The subject matter? Why, only the question I get asked every bloody week: How do I become a pro domme? If everyone wants to know so bad, seems like I should teach them – for a fee. At this point I think it would be broken down into chapters, like a textbook, and you’d have to buy access to each one individually. I would probably build in prerequisites – you would have to buy each chapter in sequence, you couldn’t just buy chapters 7 and 13 randomly.

I’d sort of dig teaching it as an online course, with tests and stuff, but I’m not sure how to do that easily. And that's a pretty big project, so it's not going to happen overnight.

So that's what I'm thinking about for now. All this after I finish a certain other writing project that I'm behind on.

From The Stranger Slog: Hey, was one of ya'll checking me out?

The new column in The Stranger: a look at pain tolerance.

So, let's talk about the column for a minute, because things have changed. I learned this week that instead of being in the online version every week and in the dead-tree paper every other week, I am now going to be in both the paper and online every other week, period.

I'm not sure how the schedule for that is going to look, but when a new column of mine appears in The Stranger, I will certainly link to it here.

I'm not sure what's going on with the Kink Calendar. My best guess is that it'll run when I do and that I'll expand the event coverage to cover two weeks instead of one.

If you have opinions on the matter, I encourage you to express them to the good people at The Stranger.

Meanwhile, Rob Brezsny had this to say to me this week:

"Of all the signs in the zodiac, you routinely enjoy the most interesting problems. No one else can compete with your talent for dreaming up original sins, either. I expect that in the coming weeks, you'll once again assert your mastery in these two areas, leaving the rest of us muttering in amazed awe as we behold the beautiful, stinking, useful, hellacious, intriguing messes you stir up. Congratulations in advance for the resourcefulness and courage I know you will summon from the abyss of your subconscious mind."

Sometimes I think that man should be burned.

Ring Ring!

Me: hello?

Caller: Yeah, hey, hello - are you a dominatrix? Is that what you are?

The caller has a heavy East Coast accent – it’s not quite pure Noo Yawk, but it’s something like it. He’s also talking really fast. And sweetie, if I think you're talking fast, you're really talking fast.

I’m willing to accept that his manner of address is a regional-cultural thing, but to my ears, it sounds rude and abrupt. I get a mental picture of a big guy who looks like he should play a minor role on The Sopranos, a low-level mobster-type.

And I have a feeling this guy and I are not going to click together, but let’s see if he can salvage the conversation.

Me: Yes, this is Mistress Matisse, and -

Caller: Yeah, because I was looking at your ad here? So you’re like, what, you do like slave stuff? You like beat people and stuff? Is that what you do?

Me: No, I -

Caller: Do you like beat people hard and stuff like that? Or do you do like massage or whatever, or what? Hey, do you do half hour sessions? How much for a half hour?

Me: Actually, I -

Caller: Or, hey, what about, like, do you ever do slave stuff yourself? Like you be the slave and somebody else be the master? Like that? So where are you, exactly? Are you in Seattle? Where are you located? Or do you come to me?

Me: Stop! Stop talking.

Caller: What? Wha’d you say?

Me: Stop. Talking. You’re asking me all these questions and then interrupting me when I try to answer. Be quiet and listen to me and I will answer them for you.

Caller: Oh, yeah, okay, go ahead, yeah, like, tell me where -

Me: Be quiet. No, I don’t do half hour sessions. In fact, I am not taking new clients at all without a reference.

This is mostly true, although if I really think I’ll like you, then I make exceptions. However, that does not apply here, since I hate this guy. I don’t know if he’s on drugs, or if he always talks this much, this fast, and this unceasingly. Frankly, I hope for his sake he’s smoking meth, because at least then, when he comes down, he’ll stop talking.

And he must not be a mobster, because if he was hanging around other mobsters, someone would have whacked him by now just for being so annoying.

Caller: A reference? Like what? What do you mean a reference? Like somebody else to tell you I’m like a good slave or, what, like you mean –

Me: Stop talking and let me answer. I mean I need another mistress, or maybe even an established escort or sensual touch practioner, to say she’s met you and you’re a nice guy.

Caller: What about a half hour appointment? Can you come to my hotel? Just half an hour? Do I need a reference for that? You don’t put people in jail, do you?

Me: What? What do you –

Caller: You know, like jail, like arresting people? You’re not like that, are you? Like a cop?

He asks me that as if being a cop was some unfortunate moral failing that someone might fall prey to, a bad habit. Perhaps he is still subscribing the ancient and completely false idea that if you ask an undercover cop if they are a cop, they have to say yes. That’s not true and never has been. Cops can deny being cops until the cows come home, and still arrest you if you do something illegal. Not only is this guy not a mobster, he’s obviously never even seen any movies about mobsters where they get infiltrated by undercover agents.

But whatever. I am so done with this conversation.

Me: I’m not taking new clients, so I suggest you look elsewhere –

Caller: No, hey, what about –

Me: Goodbye.

I hang up and then put the phone down on my desk. It’s in vibrate mode, and it immediately begins to buzz again, the clip rattling against my desktop. I don’t answer. There’s a pause, and then it starts buzzing yet again. My cat, sleeping on the desk next to it, wakes up and bats at it slightly with one paw as it jitterbugs around in a half-circle. Next time the buzzing stops, I turn it off completely. I haven’t bothered to clear messages from that line today, but I have no doubt that when I do, the fast-talking Yankee will have left me any number of long messages where he talks and talks and talks, asking questions that he will not be hearing the answers to.

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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...