So, I felt relaxed yesterday because I turned in my big article to the Stranger. This was not the regular column, this was a special piece I got assigned, and I’m sort of terrified that it’ll suck. But I hope it doesn’t. It’s way longer than anything I’ve written for the Stranger before. So I was definitely sweating over it some. It’ll be out in next week’s paper, and naturally I’ll link to it.

Meanwhile, many other lovely things are happening for me, which is charming. Armani took me out to dinner last night at a place called Mistral. We don’t go out a lot, so we call this our annual holiday dinner. I've been looking forward to it.

Now, Armani is a person who knows about good food and wine. Me? I call out for pizza a lot. But hey, I’m game to try new stuff. Mistral serves “European haute cuisine” and is apparently often called Seattle’s best restaurant. It’s a small place, like 12 tables, and there is no menu. The chef cooks whatever he feels like making, and the server bring it to you, and you eat it. It’s an eight course meal, although each course is very small.

I have to say that this is a strange concept to me, but, Armani knows his food, so I got dressed up in one of the D&G dresses he bought me and downtown we went. It seemed that there had been a large party booked at Mistral who had then backed out, so last night, Armani and I were the only people there. That was a little odd at first, but it actually wound up being sort of fun, like having our own private chef and dining room. (We were slightly naughty when we were alone in the room, I admit it. I think the server caught us once when she came back unexpectedly. Whoops. I’m sure Armani left her a good tip.)

What did we eat? Oh, I’m bad at this. The server described them all in loving detail, I was impressed with her ability to retain and repeat all the various information from each dish. I'm definitely not going to be able to do that. But there was some sautéed shrimp, and then a seared tuna sort of thing, and some kind of creamy-buttery soup with a scallop in it, and then another fish course. I don’t remember the name of the second fish, I hadn’t heard of it before, although it was a white fish, and the server said it was in the perch family? Then a course where he had foie gras and I had a red risotto, then lamb, then a cheese course, and then sorbets, and then dessert, being an almond cake-lette with ice cream and raspberries. As you may well imagine, we were quite sated at the end.

What did I think of the European haute cuisine experience? Well, the food was very nice, and so was the wine, and the service was excellent. The leisurely pace of the meal suited us, since we had lots to talk about. Not something I’d do every night, but in a dinner-as-performance sort of way, delightful.

Also delightful? The very gorgeous bracelet Armani gave me for Christmas. He really, really spoils me. (The Tiffany website won’t let me right-click and steal the picture to post, so if you want to see it, this is the link to the Tiffany site.)

Some of my guys are sweet enough to bring me gifts, and it’s a wonderful and meaningful gesture whether it’s home-grown tomatoes, pretty lingerie, or a diamond bracelet. But it's really about the relationship. I love the presents Armani gives me, but I also love that I can call him when I have an emergency that he can fix, and poof, he takes care of it. I really value someone who steps up and helps me when I need it, and he does. Over dinner, Armani and I talked about how we have known each other for more than ten years. We have a very special relationship, and last night, we drank to another year of good times together.

I’m still working on the Stranger piece, due today… So meanwhile, enjoy this photo from a play session with Jae and a gentleman of our acquaintance, in which I hooked both of them up my Eros-tek box, turned up the two dials at the same pace, and challenged them to make the other one cry mercy first.
I didn’t get a real clear winner, I think it was actually pretty mutual. But it was a lot of fun trying…

EDIT: Oh wait, the new column is up, yay. Okay, now I don't feel guilty for not writing two days in a row.

I’m having a huge dilemma. I am torn between two objects of lust. I can’t have them both – even a poly girl like myself understands that that’s just not reasonable. But they’re both so attractive in different ways that I just don’t know which one to choose. It's the techie girl's lament: Blackberry? Or iPhone?

I have never had a smartphone, you see, but I think the time has come. I had been leaning towards a Blackberry, because I thought an iPhone would be overkill. I mainly want to read and send email and make and take phone calls. I don’t really need music or video stuff, and I doubt I’d do much web surfing. But I am doing more and more of my scheduling via email, so getting it on the fly is becoming an issue.

Then Jet showed me all the voicemail features on his iPhone, and now I'm wavering again. It would be a hassle to change carriers, though. (I use Verizon.)

So tell me a story of your smartphone, dear readers. Tell me all about the joys and sorrows of your romance. I'm listening...

Event recap: The SML fundraiser Friday night at the Cuff went great. I haven’t heard yet how much money we raised for Lambert House, but we were pretty busy all night. But then Monk and I do put on a good show, even if I say so myself.

We got there at eight, when the bar was still relatively quiet. We had some blog readers come up and introduce themselves early in the evening, and get pictures. That was lovely. And of course lots of gay men. I did get to put a little rope on one cute girl, which was charming.

We’d ask each person, “Okay, do you want a naughty photo or a nice one?” and suit the pose accordingly. But as the night went on, we noticed an amusing trend. Folks would come and get one photo taken with us that was relatively tame. Say, sitting on our laps, something like that. Then they’d go away and have a drink or two. And then they’d come back and say, “Now I want a naughtier photo.” Thus, many of our photos from later in the night feature cute boys in their underwear getting their hands tied up and their nipples pinched.

And some of them were indeed feeling their alcohol. Nothing wrong with that, it’s a bar, people are there to have a good time. But there is an art to dealing with folks who are drinking. For some of the time, we had a line of people waiting, so while we wanted to give everybody a good image, we had to move them through fairly expeditiously. That meant taking control of matters in a nice but firm way.

At one point Monk said to me, “Wow, you’re pretty good at kinda pushing these guys into a position and holding them there.”

I rolled my eyes. “Um, hi, I am a dominatrix.”

“True, but your guys don’t come to see you half-lit.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “I’m probably drawing more on tricks I learned as a stripper.” Never let it be said that sex work doesn’t teach you a variety of interpersonal skills.

Everyone had fun, although few people had a bit more than others. Early in the evening, when people were still acting a little shy, Monk said, “Okay, let’s get this party started.” He grabbed a very handsome boy we knew from the crowd and threw him a hot little five-minute scene.

I told him he should get the Mr. Cocktease 2007 Award for that, because he had quite the ring of eager-eyed men watching him. Some of them were staring at the bottom, who is indeed some sweet eye-candy. But a lot of them got in line for photos with Monk. Which just goes to show they have good taste.

Ring ring!

I look at the phone. I shouldn’t answer it. Frankly, I almost never answer the phone anymore. I’m debating taking the number out of the ads in The Stranger and The Weekly, and just leaving the URL. Because I can’t recall the last time I booked a session with an unknown person who just saw my number in an ad, picked up the phone and called me, without doing any research or thinking about what might be involved. And most of the time when I answer the phone, it’s clear that’s exactly what’s happened. It’s my hope that having to punch up my website and look through a couple of pages to get to my number would make people understand that you’re not going to call me up and get in a room with me within the hour, because that is obviously what a lot of them think. I can’t truly blame them – there are definitely ladies who work that way. I don’t, however.

Ring ring!

Okay, well, as it happens, I’m stuck in slow-moving traffic and I'm bored. (Yes, yes, I talk on the phone in the car. I know that makes me the Anti-Christ. Frankly, if I didn’t talk while I was driving I doubt I’d talk on the phone much at all. But I do not text while driving, so there.)

Me: hello?

Caller: Yeah, hi.

(Silence…)

Me: Can I help you?

Caller: Yeah, you sure can. You can definitely help me, heh.

(Silence…)

Why do people do this? What do they think am I, Mistress Marvolo the Mind Reader? You called me, Mr. Fake-Sexy-Voice, you know who I am. Talk! Say something! We’re burning my minutes here.

Me: Excuse me, are you there?

Caller: Yeah, yeah, I’m just, you know, saying hey.

Obviously I’m going to have to ask the questions that he needs to ask, and then answer them, and then get him off the phone, because all this guy can do is throw out what he thinks are sexy lines. So nice to have to supply both halves of the conversation. Gee, if he came to see me, would he want me to be both the top and the bottom for the scene while he just sat there?

I’m not feeling particularly sweet today. Let’s get blunt.

Me: Why did you call me?

Caller: I want to see you.

Me: What are you looking for in a professional dominance session?

Not that I would see this guy even if he said his fetish was stuffing hundred-dollar bills between my toes with his tongue. Well - all right, I suppose that might get me. But he sounds like a teenage boy, frankly, and what I bet he’s going to say is something like…

Caller: I dunno, just curious.

Thank you for saying the perfectly wrong thing. I take his trick and say nothing.

Caller: So, you gonna see me or what?

A line from a very old movie pops into my head.

Me: I think you fall into the "or what" category*. Goodbye.

Click. I hang up.

*Name the movie/actor! No fair Googling it.

Give Me Money

Well, not me exactly. Every year for the last however many years, I’ve been donating my time to The Stranger’s annual charity auction. It’s a really cool fund raiser - they get donations of interesting and unusual gifts, services, and opportunities, bundle them together, auction them off on eBay, and donate all the proceeds to charity.

All the packages have themes: Here is this year’s Strangercrombie kinky gift package. The online description of it is oddly vague, although the print version gives more detail. However, it includes an hour-long session with me, a whole bunch of rope and a gift certificate from Monk. Plus various other little kinky do-dads. The retail value of all this would be quite high, and it’s all going to charity, so bid us up, people.

Last year some of my pals wound up bidding against each other right up until the end, and Jet won. It was really very sweet and I was pleased that he did that. And hey, if you ever wanted to pay for time with me with a credit card, now is your chance. It’s charity, right? It might even be tax-deductible, I’m not sure. But it’s a good thing to do, regardless. And if you don't want the kinky package, there are a lot of other super-cool things to bid on, so go!

If you want to donate to another local charity, and get a completely ridiculous picture of yourself to use on your holiday card, Monk and I are appearing together at a fund raiser Friday night – “Pictures With Santa!” It’s a long-running annual event put on by the Seattle Men In Leather, with all proceeds benefiting Lambert House. It's at the Cuff, from 8pm to midnight. (Google map link.)



From the SML site: “Seattle Men in Leather brings in hunky Santas (and sometimes Ms. Santas), scantily-clad elves, holiday decor, and a photographer, charging $5 per photo (delivered at the event.)” So Monk will be Friday’s hunky Santa and I will be Mistress Santa. Just because you’re a kinky grown-up doesn’t mean you can’t still come see Santa. Come sit on our laps and get your picture taken. We’ll decide if you’re naughty or nice, and just what exactly we think we should do about that….

Monk is also performing at a fund raiser for the Wet Spot tonight. There is no rest for the wicked, you know. I have heard about what he’s going to do, and wow, it sounds awesome. So definitely go by and see his show.

We are all so the community-supporting kids lately...

So, the amazingly cool event of last week? I got an email from someone saying she liked my columns. I do get some of those kinds of emails from people I’ve never met, and it’s always extremely nice to hear. But this was a bit different.

It was from Susie Bright.

Yeah, Susie fucking Bright! I’m not kidding.

Now, some of ya’ll may actually not know who Susie Bright is, and I feel sorry for you. You should immediately go subscribe to her blog and buy all her books, and then you’ll understand. Only you won’t really understand, unless like me, you were once a lonely, isolated teenager in a small, sex-negative Southern town, before the internet existed, and writers like Ms. Bright were the only, only hope you had in the world that somewhere, there were other people like you. Let me snip from Wiki here:

Susie Bright co-founded and edited the first women's sex magazine, On Our Backs, "entertainment for the adventurous lesbian," from 1984 to 1991. She founded the first women's erotica book series, Herotica and edited the first three volumes. She started The Best American Erotica series in 1993, which is still being published. She was the choreographer/consultant for the Wachowski Brothers film, Bound (in which she also had a cameo appearance). Bright also appeared as herself in an episode of the HBO series Six Feet Under.
Bright taught the first university class on the subject of the aesthetics and politics of pornography at the California Institute of the Arts in Valencia, California in 1986, and became well-known for her scholarship in sexual representation through her courses on the subject at the University of California, Santa Cruz.
Bright was the first female critic of the X-Rated Critics Organization in 1986, and wrote feminist reviews of erotic films for Penthouse Forum from 1986-1989. Her film reviews of mainstream movies are widely published, and her comments on gay film history are featured in the documentary film The Celluloid Closet.

Yeah. So, as you may infer, me getting a note from Susie Bright is like a parish priest getting a note from the Pope saying, “Hey kid, nice Mass.” I know I'm gushing like a schoolgirl here, but truly, this was A Big Deal to me. I would not be the writer that I am without people like Susie Bright, and she was a huge influence on me as a budding young kinky and not-heterosexual woman. I just hope I can do as much for other people as she did for me.

Snippets from a social occasion...

***

Monk and I were talking together, with some passion and intensity, about business strategies. After watching us for a little while, a man sitting nearby said, “You guys sound like you’re mad.”

Monk and I looked at each other, surprised at his interpretation. I shrugged. “It’s not that. But business is war, baby,” I said.

“Your business sounds like war,” he replied.

Monk shook his head. “All business is war.”

“What do you do?” I asked him curiously.

“I work at Microsoft.”

***

Scott Paul gave me the upgraded version of the prototype toy. He’s calling it the Cruel Condom. I also got two other prototype toys to test out, from the guy who makes Monk's metal gear, so that should be big fun. Photos when they happen. I’m so digging this kinky product-tester thing.

***

S showed us her ruffled panties. Then L showed us her panties, which have her boyfriend’s sports team logo on them. (As in, not the one he roots for, but the one he plays for.) I remarked that I thought I was the only one who had her partner’s logo on her underwear. Looks like a trend to me. Mistress Matisse panties, anyone?

***

I was asked, “Why do you hate snow so much?” Because I was ranting like a madwoman on Saturday about the !@#$%^&*!!!! snow. I said, “I hate snow because I can’t drive in it, and both my home and my workspace are surrounded by hills, so when it snows, either I can’t get to my dungeon or my clients can’t get to me, so I lose all that income.”

“Yeah,” Monk remarked. “For the self-employed, snow can be a disaster.” He knows.

Not to mention that although I live just three miles from downtown Seattle, the power goes out here whenever there’s a stiff breeze. There’s just something wonky about our neighborhood. We lost power for about five hours Saturday, and I was absolutely convinced it was going be out for a week, just like last year. So I could not drive anywhere, and I had no electricity. I was extremely not happy. Extremely.

Thus, I would rather listen to fingernails on a blackboard than listen to people chirp about how pretty the snow is. You like snow? Move to the North Pole. Snow does not belong here. Snow does not belong anywhere I am. Maybe I’ll go buy a Hummer just to hurry this global warming thing along. In the meantime, I want a permanent backup generator.

The Doughnut Files

Notes from the weekend: Monk and I did indeed go record some more podcasts Friday night. We were at a professional sound studio – because that’s just how we roll, you know. Anything worth doing is worth overdoing. Afterwards we went into the booth, and the tech guy flipped a switch and it was like: oh, there’s my voice, talking. But, wait, I’m not talking. Oh, no - it’s the recording. I was really almost startled. It’s kind of wild to hear your own voice played back to you, crystal clear and super-high quality. One gets used to hearing it distorted by voicemails, speakerphones, etc. But I thought yes, that’s what my voice really sounds like. I’m guessing ya’ll won’t hear it like that. It’ll be compressed and sent through this crazy series of tubes that is tha intraweb. I do wish I sounded a little more like Kathleen Turner. But hey, I’m not too Jennifer Tilly.

Then we went to The Frontier Room and ate a lot of protein. Yum. We virtuously declined dessert. But then, as we drove back down 1^st Ave, we passed the yawning maw of Atkins hell: Krispy Kreme.

Now, I have a history with Krispy Kreme doughnuts. A certain boy loves to tease me by bringing Krispy Kremes to my parties. I have threatened him about this, but apparently it’s going to take some serious personal violence to persuade him to refrain. Not that Krispy Kreme doughnuts don’t go great with Veuve Clicquot champagne, because I happen to know that they do. But I’d like to try and make healthier choices. You know, like maybe heroin?

So I’ve gotten better at pretending they aren’t there. At our last party, I was able to stay away from that green and white box long enough for all the other guests to scarf them up. It only took about twenty minutes. Seems I’m not the only one with a wee Krispy Kreme addiction.

But Friday night, they had that Hot Doughnuts Now sign lit up, and what could I do? I was powerless. And I led Monk astray. Remember my remarks about how anything worth doing is worth overdoing? Yeah. That’s how we wound up naked in bed, with a dozen little frosted rings of heaven. We both knew we’d have to pay dearly at the gym, but to hell with it. I have sworn never to publish The Doughnut Pictures, but I must say, I’ll never look at those crème-filled ones quite the same way again.

However, that night of sugar debauchery is over, and I'm back on the wagon. So if you turn up at my door with doughnuts, I will consider that your way of saying, “Use your stun gun on my balls, please, Ma’am.”

Fans of the whackasaurus phone callers – which is pretty much all of you, judging by the emails I get – enjoy the new column…

***

A question for my Seattle readers: are any of you professional interior decorators? Because I’m thinking of doing some remodeling in the new year, and wow, I really don’t have much of a knack for that kinda thing. Wall treatments, lighting, and especially combinations of colors. I don’t think I have bad taste, but I just don’t have much imagination. Apparently it all went to my sex life.

I’m planning a bathroom remodel too, and I may even need an architect, if I decide to bump out any walls.

I’ve read dozens of books on decorating, to little avail. Both Jae and Miss K are quite good at this – Jae actually has a degree in it – and they have said they’ll help me. But you know, more input is good, and frankly, someone who I am paying to prioritize me is also good. Jae and Miss K have lives of their own.

However, I imagine a lot of decorators would be somewhat taken aback by my dungeon, so I need someone who - while they need not be kinky themselves – is at least able to work with that. Drop me a note if you have a suggestion...

People who do BDSM talk a lot about safewords, and what they are talking about is ways to communicate ease up or stop. But while red and yellow get the most press, there’s another color on that wheel, and it’s green. Understanding how to communicate harder, more, is sometimes a challenge. But some folks have a knack for it.

Take the gentleman I played with yesterday. He’s new to me, it was only the second time I saw him. And the first time I met him, I knew I was going to have to be very firm with him, because he’s rather a strong personality, sort of a classic East Coast type. Not a bad guy, but not a guy who was inclined to follow the rules unless someone was strictly enforcing them.

As it turns out, there may be a method to his madness. He likes impact on his ass, and when I met him, he claimed to have both a high tolerance for pain and a tendency not to bruise easily. Now, I do heavy impact scenes, and I enjoy them. But while I do listen when people tell me they can take a lot, I also reserve judgment until I’ve actually tried them out. As I said to this man, it’s okay if you come back and tell me, “You can go harder this time”. What I don’t ever want to hear is, “Last time we played, you went too far.”

So for our initial session, I gave his behind a very respectable beating, and when he came back to see me this time, he told me straight out I could go harder. Which is one of the right ways to communicate that.

There’s another way to signal green, though, and that is: the provocative smart-ass remark. And this guy, rather in keeping with his general personality, was pretty non-stop with the heavy jabs and wisecracks for the first half hour or so.

(He’s not the only person I know who uses wisecracks to indicate green – in fact, now that I think about it, Armani occasionally does it, and so do some of my other play-partners. And for that matter, Monk and I do it with each other when we play. Our classic come-on: “Oh, is that the best you got?” The answer is always, “Why no, sweetheart, it’s not!” Followed by a serious ratcheting-up of whatever is happening.)

So I read all the smart-assery as, “Hit me with your best shot.” And obliging girl that I am, I did. It was great fun. I don’t generally approve of manipulative behaviors, but hell, I am a sadist, and it was in character for the role-play were doing, so I got right into the spirit of the game and just went to town on his ass.

It wasn’t the single hardest impact scene I’ve ever done, but it was on the high end of the scale. And what made it really interesting was that he barely had a mark on him afterwards. He was red, but I could tell it was the kind of red that’s going to fade in a few hours or so.

And this was not a hand-spanking, either. I used heavy wood paddles and a nasty little two-tailed strap called a Dragon’s Tongue, and those are evil enough. But then I caned him pretty good, too.

Now I think canes are great fun to use, but I don’t cane anyone unless they tell me it’s okay if they have some marks afterwards. Because a cane is going to mark you up. Bamboo, rattan, fiberglass rods, whatever – you do more than a baby tap with any kind of long, flexible rod-type-toy and you will generally get a long red welt, that you can see and feel, within a few minutes. The stripe often turns dark over the next few hours and it usually stays noticeable for a week or two. I have had people tell them it took months for their cane stripes to go completely away.

I could not raise a welt on this man. It was the damnest thing. You can swing a toy from your wrist, your elbow, or your shoulder, and obviously the amount of force you can get behind it increases with each joint you recruit. I wasn’t swinging from the shoulder – well, not much, at least – but I was giving him quite a lot from the elbow, and with a cane, that’s plenty. I have made people cry with less. He just closed his eyes and smiled and shuddered pleasantly. Occasionally I got some wiggling and some noises, but not much. Amazing. The smart-ass remarks, however, did cease.

Afterwards I remarked that the pairing of a high pain tolerance with a resistance to marks was not such a common thing, and that it was a very felicitous combination.

“So maybe you’ll write about me in your blog,” he said, grinning.

“Oh, do I have your permission for that?”

“Absolutely!” he said.

So I did.

I Love A Man Who Can Make Me Laugh

You know who I love? I love William Shatner. I think he is the coolest, because for one thing, he’s made a whole career out of playing the hand he was dealt. He’s the perfect example of the saying “If you can’t fix it, feature it.” He’s not Robert De Niro. He’s not Dustin Hoffman. He’s Captain James T. Kirk, and he’s always going to be Captain Kirk for many of us. A lesser actor would have railed against the injustice of being so firmly hitched to such a campy role – George Reeves, the original Superman, comes to mind – but Shatner ran with it.

I also love that he makes fun of himself and the cult around his character so deftly. In the BDSM community – and especially among professional dominatrixes - there's a certain tendency towards pomposity and self-importance. In my opinion, you should take what you do seriously, but you should never take yourself too seriously.

So I found this Shatner ad for WoW very amusing. Not as good as my favorite Priceline ad, but the robes and the “I’m a shaman” part looks and sounds just like a lot of guys I’ve met at various kink events over the years. Only they weren’t kidding.

Pictures, And Some Words

I'm working on some other writing today, so meanwhile, be entertained by the newest column, and some photos...

Craig Morey has put up a gallery of me on his membership site, from the shoot we did several months ago.


I'm both extremely flattered and sort of horrified at the same time, because of course I look at photos of myself and think, Oh, I should have pulled my shoulder back instead of forward there, and tilted my head differently, et cetera. But I know I'm not objective and everyone else seems to like them, so there you go.

Also, because you asked: A couple of snapshots of me in my pretty dresses... Herve Leger, in the suite at the Phonecian. And a shot of me at a party, in the bronze-gold sequin dress. I'm not sure how Max managed it, but amazingly, I have neither a glass of champagne in my hand, nor a stun gun, nor a surgical stapler. Those were all features of that evening, which explains why I look so happy.

And I modeled for my sweetheart Monk, for his new Twisted Monk apparel.

He's got new steel toys and a DVD of easy-to-follow instructional videos, too. Please, bondage-lovers, for my sake, start your Xmas shopping early. Santa's workshop has nothing on the Abbey when it comes to holiday madness!

A new podcast, in which Monk and I talk about how to initiate a "Let's try something new in bed!" conversation with your lover. It's from the first recording session, so it's a bit raw, but we had fun doing it...

And no matter what Monks says, neither frogs nor lawn gnomes were harmed in the making of the podcast. Really.

Hey ya’ll... You’ve read about my excellent friend Miss K? Well, she’s in the hospital again. Without going into detail, she’s had a recurring medical issue for the last few months and it’s flared up again, requiring major surgery. Not a fun time for her.

She’s not reading the blog right now. But eventually she’ll catch up with it, and when she does, I think she’d like it if she saw a bunch of people saying, “Get Well Soon”. (Even though she’ll already be well-er, if not 100% perfect.)

So please wish Miss K a speedy recovery. She’s a tough cookie, but she’s been through a lot lately.

Ring Ring!

Me: Hello?

Caller: Hey, where are you located?

Gotta love a guy who calls up strange women and demands to know where they are before he even says hello.

Me: Who is this?

Caller: Bob.

Me: Do I know you, Bob?

Caller: I think so. Where are you located?

Me: No, clarify for me. Do-I-know-you?

Caller: I think so.

There's a silence while I pause to see if Bob is going to explain why he’s twice stated that he thinks I know him. He doesn’t. This doesn't seem like a question that's open to vague interpretation, but apparently Bob sees it differently. Let's try to sharpen his understanding.

Me: Bob, yes or no – have I met you before or not?

Caller: I’m not sure, but tell me your address I’ll know.

Oh, wow, that’s special. Bob is asking me to believe that he doesn’t remember people he’s played with, but he remembers their addresses. Mmm, no, I don’t think so. I was less choosy when I first began my career as the Mistress, but even way back in the beginning I don’t believe I would have dealt with someone so abrupt and pushy. I would bet any amount of money I have never met this guy. And I sure as hell don’t want to now.

Me: No, I’m not telling you my address. Why don’t you think it over and see if you can come up with some other way of remembering if you know me.

Click. He hangs up. The song If You Don’t Know Me By Now runs through my head. This guy will definitely not be knowing me…

Ring Ring!

Caller: I know we talked about it before and you said you didn’t want to do this…But I’d like to fly you down to Orlando from December 23^rd to 28^th.

Me: Mmmm, no, I don’t want to do that.

Caller: I’ll buy your ticket. I really really want you to come.

Me: No, it’s not about the money. I am just not willing to go to Orlando for Christmas.

Caller: Oh, I’m so disappointed!

Me: I know that, Mom, and I’m sorry, but I’m not going to.

Some days I am not sure if a lifetime of dealing with my mother is what shaped me into a dominatrix, or if being a dominatrix is what enables me to deal with my mother. Either way, I am now going to vent about her a bit. No sexy today, just family dynamics. Leave now if you’re not interested.

The usual disclaimers: my mom is a wonderful person. I love her. By all rights she should have sold me to the gypies as a child, but she refrained from doing so in spite of what I’m sure was strong provocation. She loves me very much. I appreciate all that. You can employ the Search box in the upper left corner to read all the nice things I have said about my dear mamma over the years I’ve been blogging.

However…she is a steamroller. A five-foot, 110-pound steamroller, but a steamroller just the same. And if you don’t push back, she will roll all over you, baby. She’ll do it in the most loving and enlightened way possible, you understand, because my mom is – you have to love this – a therapist. I’m not kidding. And she’s not the kind of therapist who just nods and says things like, “How does that make you feel?” No, she’s of the Dr. Phil school, wherein she will tell you what you’re doing that’s not working and what you need to do to fix it. She expects you to do it, too. My mother is rather like Napoleon in a Chico’s tunic – if Napoleon had had a Master’s degree in emotional manipulation.

Whoops, did I say emotional manipulation? I meant to say: she expresses her feelings very clearly. And she can think of lots of very good reasons why you should do what she thinks is best. I am sure her clients make rapid progress, because she has an intense energy and she’s rather compelling when you’re in the room with her. Once she decides that she wants something, part of her brain will work ceaselessly on the problem, creating and examining possible solutions to the obstacle, until she gets what she wants. Those are traits I’ve been accused of inheriting, and I can think of worse characteristics. But it means that I have to be very straightforward with my mother about my wishes. Polite evasions will not suffice, because she’ll come back with an answer for whatever smoke screens I throw out.

And I definitely do not wish to spend Christmas in Orlando, which is the ugliest and most sterile bit of Florida. (I’m sorry, Orlando people, but you know it’s true. I grew up in Tampa, I know Florida. And Orlando is terrible. Even Jacksonville, a strong contender for horribleness, at least has the ocean nearby.) But my brother works for Disney, and my mother has lately decided that she would go visit him for Christmas this year, and that I should come down there. This in spite of the fact that I traveled last year, and it’s someone else’s turn this year. The idea of leaving my home, and my sweethearts, to go sleep on my brother’s lumpy fold-out couch is only minimally appealing at any time. But Christmas week in Mousetown? It’s absolutely insane – tourists overrun the place, it’s like a zombie attack. Zombie families, I should say. You can’t go anywhere or do anything in any sort of peace. I’d rather have my brain eaten than wait in line for a wobbly table in Appleby’s while sleep-deprived and over-stimulated toddlers scream and strew cracker crumbs six inches from elbow.

Never mind the fact that my mother loves nothing as much as a bargain on airfares. I shudder to think of the tickets she’d buy me. My mother would purchase airline tickets flying from Atlanta to Seattle via New Zealand if she could save fifty bucks. To be fair, she does this when buying tickets for herself, too. Talk about zombies - I have seen her stumble off planes looking like one after some hellish series of connections and delays and stopovers. This woman is not poor. Quite the contrary. And if there is one thing that money can make infinitely more pleasant, it’s air travel. Yet when I suggest to her for the forty-seventh time that she should get a non-stop ticket, she tells me all about the great deal she got on FlyingSardineCan.com or wherever. This baffles me.

Okay, after having written this little rant, I can feel my indignation jag subsiding. I love my mom, and it’s okay for her to want what she wants. But she’s the one who taught me that it’s also okay for me not to be willing to give it to her. This is why I laugh whenever people try to coax and wheedle me into doing something I don’t want to do. They have no idea I was trained by a professional.

The new column – some examples of rules for couples who are shifting into polyamory…

(I don't know why there isn't a Kink Calendar attached to it, I did submit one. Mine is not to reason why, though.)

***

It’s been a funny week. Last week it was sort of quiet for me, work-wise. Because I have huge control issues about my career, I often will get into a swivet about that, but last week, I just shrugged and said, “Oh well…”

However, this week I was rather aware of the fact that I wanted to be busy. It’s interesting how every week, there is one day that everyone wants to come in. It’s like all my guys are keyed to the tides or the full moon or something, and they all want to come in (for example) Tuesday. No, not Monday, not Wednesday –it has to be Tuesday.

Thus, the much-desired day quickly gets booked up, and I’m still turning people down for that day, and feeling frustrated because I can’t see people I’d like to see. Meanwhile I have the rest of a week to fill up, but for some inexplicable reason, nobody wants any other day. Arg.

This week the much-desired day was today, Thursday. I had some real-life things to attend to, which made scheduling even more complex, and I had to regretfully turn down at least three different people for today. And it was even more frustrating because I had no one at all on the calendar for Tuesday or Wednesday. I walked around in the world Tuesday feeling conscious of some pent-up sadistic energy.

But my frustration was mitigated yesterday, when one of my favorite victims called me at noon and said, “I know you said you can’t see me tomorrow, but what are you doing in an hour and a half?”

Now, I never do this. I simply do not book same-day. It’s a matter of principle. I mean, hey baby, do you know who I am? Chicks on Craiglist book dates for ninety minutes from now. Mistress Matisse does not do such things.

I’m kidding – sort of. Some reputable ladies prefer to be spontaneous with their appointments. That’s fine for them. Not me. I like to know what my week (my month, my year) is going to look like, and plan out my life accordingly.

But...it was a gentleman I rather like. I will refer to him as Agent Provocateur. Because he is. Agent P. loves to tease me and try to provoke me. He’s very naughty. In anyone else his behavior would win him a quick trip to the sidewalk. But he makes me laugh, and that does make up for a multitude of sins in my book.

I dithered, audibly. I had some errands to run, some plans I’d made… And the silent subtext: I do not do same-day appointments.

“Oh, come on, please? I really want you to make me scream.”

Schwing! Oh, wow. Way to melt a mistress’s resistance. “Okay, yeah, you just talked me into it, baby. Meet you there in an hour and a half.”

I had to rearrange my whole afternoon. But I definitely enjoyed making him scream.

What’s Going On?

I’m going to put up one more raw podcast from my very first recording session. I have a date with my sound guy to record some bookend files, but this is another unsweetened one of me telling Monk a story about the first time I ever consciously and purposely took sexual control of a man while in bed with him.

If you're an iTunes user, you can download the podcast from iTunes via this link. (Note: clicking this will open your iTunes program). Or you can just search for "Mistress Matisse" in iTunes.

Speaking of podcasts, I just wanted to say thank you to pervy podcaster and blogger Graydancer for his mention of my podcast in his podcast. Gray is a very entertaining speaker himself - even when he doesn't take off all his clothes - so I recommend him.

Bid On Me: My stuff, anyway. The eBay auctions are going like crazy. Ya’ll love the latex clothes, don’t you? I’ve collected a fair amount of latex, but a lot of it doesn’t fit me anymore, so I’m pleased to pass it along. The current round of sales end today, so carpe diem.

And Happy Halloween!

Response To Another Comment-box Question

"Do you socialize much with non-kink people?"

No. All my friends are kinky to some degree. It’s not like I’ve ever told myself that I couldn’t be pals with someone non-kinky. It just doesn't work out that I do.

For one thing, I don’t meet a lot of non-kinky people. It’s a function of having a well-developed subculture. You see, when I moved here to Seattle in 1992, I was most definitely looking for other kinky people. And I found them. That’s the main social circle I have been in ever since. The BDSM scene here in Seattle is a culture that you can stay very busy with and meet a lot of people in, and I do.

I have participated in some secondary social groups, like other sex workers, and non-kinky polyamorous people. However, most of the sex workers I’m pals with have wound up being somewhat kinky anyway. The non-kinky poly people I have hung around with, while nice folks, have always been either really New Age/vegan/boho, or hardcore SF/gamer/geek. Both those cultures are interesting places to visit, but I’ve decided I don’t want to live there.

(Occasionally I do take hostages, though. Hi, Scarlett!)

I don’t think of this as a kinky country club. When I speak of the kinky country club mentality, I mean people who only want to be around other kinky people who have exactly the same kink they do. Exactly. For example, masculine-het-male-masters and their girly-female-slaves who want to socialize exclusively with other masculine-het-male-masters and their girly-female-slaves. That means they really don’t want to socialize with male switches or submissives, or female dominants, and certainly not butch-dykes or swishy gay men or cross-dressers or trans people.

The het-male-masters example is merely one example, I’ve seen all kinds of kinky people do this. But if you come to a party at my house, you are going to meet a variety of kinky people, and I like it that way.

What I like about the Seattle kink community is that it seems to pretty easily accept other sexual minorities. Many of my kinky pals are also poly, and those folks that aren’t are certainly poly-aware and poly-friendly. Gay men and lesbians have their own subcultures within the larger kinky community, but I’ve never been to a Seattle kink event that didn’t welcome them. Female bisexuality is such a non-issue as to never even be commented upon. And in my observation, kinky people also treat male bisexuality with respect – if not with appreciative enthusiasm. I have seen that be less true in other sexual subcultures.

Being a sex worker is still a little iffy, depending on exactly what kind of sex work you do. Being a pro domme is considered higher-status than some other forms of sex work, and that means I get very little shit – especially now that I’m rather a local diva. Not everyone was quite so supportive and accepting back when I was an escort. I occasionally roll my eyes at how a few people I met way back when changed their tune about me when I became fashionable. I do not forget stuff like that. But overall, kinky people respond much better to sex workers than the average person on the street.

As a kinky/poly/bi/sex-worker, I’m a very sexually other person. That informs a lot of what I do with my time and how I perceive the world. When I stop and think about difficult it would be to communicate with someone who didn’t share any of my understanding about love, sex, relationships, and didn’t know any of my cultural references or have any comparable experiences… Wow. I mean, what would we talk about? Books and movies?

Not every single one of my friends is as actively involved in the kink community as I am. Miss K, for example, is much less participatory in the kink social scene than she used to be. But she did spend a lot of time in the scene, so even though she doesn’t go out to events anymore, she gets the whole culture/social-dynamic thing, and she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

Jane Duvall used to refer to this as “living in the love bubble”. She meant moving exclusively in a world that honored who you were and respected your choices. It may be that someday I have to go outside my love bubble for my social life. But right now, I don't, and I’m happy about that.