I have not felt like much like writing this week. So I’m glad many of ya’ll liked the column, and were kind enough to send me notes saying so. Those are always nice emails to get.

***

A friend of mine who is in grad school is doing a paper about issues for older female-to-male transexual/transgender people. She is “…looking for input from 57+ yr old FTMs on the issues they face specific to the tranny experience as relates to aging, especially psychosocially.”

If you’re an older FTM who’d be willing to answer some questions for her, drop me a note and I’ll forward it to her. This is a queer woman who has had long-term FTM partners, so she’s hip to all the basic issues. You won’t have to answer any uninformed questions or teach her FTM 101. It would be a big help to her.

***

I feel I should warn you all… I am going to a birthday party for a pal Saturday night. It’s a karaoke party. Yes, really – they rented a private room. And I might, just might, actually contemplate singing. If I have enough champagne. (Yes, it’s being a fairly champagne-heavy week around here. I feel I deserve it.)

But you see, I absolutely do not sing unless I have champagne. And ideally, everyone who hears me should have a lot of champagne too, because I sing really badly. I know everyone says that, but I’m serious – when I sing, dogs howl.

Still, if my listeners are rendered sufficiently uncritical by alcohol, I can sort of fake my way through novelty-type songs. As long they don’t require any sustained notes. Meanwhile, Monk is trying to convince me I should sing something by Journey. Oh yeah, because tone-deaf moi could so hit those notes. Right. I’m thinking Lou Reed’s “Take A Walk On The Wild Side” because Lou is basically talking to music in that number.

But if your dog starts howling for no apparent reason Saturday night – whoops, sorry about that. Just wait about three minutes, it’ll stop. And maybe you should have some champagne.

Perhaps They Have The Right Idea

I've come to the conclusion that some people really know what would be best for them, and for society as a whole. Like this gentleman, who writes:

I read your peace on castration.. how does one get it done with you??/ thanks for you information.. clancy

I think I could be completely at peace with Clancy here being castrated. That way he wouldn't breed.

But it sounds messy. Perhaps Clancy should speak to someone who raises livestock...

Wow, this was a busy weekend.

Not half as busy for me as for some people, but busy enough! Miss K and I did attend the women's party Friday night, and lord, was that place packed. A very successful event, I'm pleased it did so well.

Saturday was the SEAF gala and while I opted out, I'm told that was also fabulous.

The other super-cool people in town for the festivities were New York photographer Michele Serchuk and her partner Delano. How to describe Delano in a sentence? Let's see, he's a man who both ties and is tied, he shoots photographs and he is photographed, and he's hot. He also has a sense of humor and a style of patter that is not unlike Monk's. So when Monk told me they they were going to utilize the playroom at The Big House to shoot some rope-video on Sunday afternoon, I make plans to stay home and watch. Especially when Monk said he would volunteer his wrists as a rope-model. Hot boy-on-boy action! Okay, not really, but still.

So check Monk's blog for the official video, although I suspect the out-takes will be the best part, they had me and the crew cracking up laughing half the time. Here's one still I snapped.

Now, there's another, but in this one, even though Delano is a expert rigger, he seems to have gotten a little confused about the proper pathway for the rope. Huh, how'd that happen? Surely an innocent slip of the hemp. Surely. (Yeah, right. Watch for the video.)

You say deviant like it's a bad thing. Study shows that spanking kids makes them more likely to grow up to be kinky.

You've probably seen a link to this story already, it's being widely made fun of by perves. I would just like to note: I was not spanked as a child. My mother was (and still is) a progressive, New-Age, hippie-type. She was in total charge of our childhood discipline, and she certainly didn't believe in anything as retro as spanking. Neither did she allow us to eat processed sugar - which may have cut down on her need to discipline us - or watch TV, or have war toys, like toy guns, et cetera. Because they encouraged aggression.

This, even though my father was actually an officer in the military until I was six. And he collected guns - real ones. He taught my brother and I how to shoot when I was a kid. And didn't my hippie mom have a fit when she came home from her pottery class and found all three of us in the back yard, blasting away at a target on a tree? I was eleven. I'm thinking if she could spanked my dad for that incident, she would have. (I am often amazed they stayed married as long as they did, really - until I was 17.)

So yes, on the one hand, I have New-Age mom, who gave me time-outs when I was bad, or - when I was older - talked to me about disappointed she was in me. On the other, my ex-military dad, for whom guns are a way of showing affection. Right before I moved from Georgia to Seattle, I went to visit my dad out at his place on the beach. We sat on his porch with the ocean breeze on our faces, and got rather drunk together, and then he squinted at me thoughtfully and said, "So you're really driving all the way across country? You should take this." And after some rummaging through cupboards, he gave me a handgun. It was clearly not new, but he showed me that it was in excellent working order.

"This one, you see - this one is not registered to me. Or anyone, really. So, you know, you could just throw it in a lake or something if you had to."

I had to laugh. I love my dad. He certainly seemed rather conservative when I was a kid. (He worked for IBM, for god's sake.) But he has let some stories slip out over the last few years that show me where my outlaw streak comes from. I suspect it's only the tip of the iceberg, and that my dad is actually far more of a outlaw than I will ever know about. I wonder if thinks the same thing about me?

"So, you're telling me I could shoot someone with this and ditch it and it can't be traced to you? That could be handy. Where'd you get it?"

"Took it off some fella we threw out of the bar one night. Back in Florida." (My dad owned a nightclub when I was a little girl, and I'm told the patrons often got rather boisterous.) "It's been sitting in a drawer all this time, you may as well have it."

"I'm really hoping to avoid having to shoot anyone along the way, Daddy, but thank you."

"Well, yeah. I mean, no. I mean, I'm just telling you. Here's, here's a box of ammunition."

So you can say I have a very equally balanced set of parents, neither of whom spanked me. And yet, here I am, a flaming pervert. And quite happy about it, as a matter of fact. So raise your kids how you think is right. Some of them are going to be kinky anyway.

Remarks On Different Topics

READ: I meant to post a link to this writer, Savannah Lee, earlier in the week, and I forgot, because I am thinking about too many things at once. She wrote some good stuff about the “Marry Him” article, and she’s a good writer on any subject, so check her out.

***

KINK: A pal – who is not nearly as sweet and innocent as she looks – wrote me and asked me for help assembling her own Pink Box For Pink Bits. (And no, this has nothing to do with breast cancer.) I told her that in addition to the items mentioned previously, there was a new one: electric toothbrushes. A wonderfully evil man brought some over for Jae and I to play with recently, and when I pressed it on Jae's clit, she just about came off the table. Delightful. I liked alternating the bristle side with the smooth side, and the tip, and so forth. Great fun. 4 out of 5 dominatrixes say you should brush after every orgasm!

***

SHOPPING: If you’re one of my good boys, and you’re going to be in one of the following cities soon, you should talk to me: Ala Moana, HI. Bal Harbour, FL. Beverly Hills, CA. Chicago, IL. Costa Mesa, CA. Las Vegas, NV. New York, NY. Palm Beach, FL. Waikiki, HI.

Why those cities? Because those are the cities that have Chanel Boutiques, and I have decided that I really need one of the Chanel Ultra rings. (Yes, I could call them and order it by phone, but it’s hard to pay cash over the phone. I like cash.)

Speaking of shopping, I really want these shoes. In gold, not pink. Are they not gorgeous? I think gold is my new black.

***

EVENTS: Note to sexy women in the greater Seattle area: The Bang For The Buck party is this Friday night. Miss K wants to go, so we're going to go together. (Although I am not looking, I am just socializing. But if you’re a butch looking for a femme top, I’ll introduce you to Miss K.) It should be a rockin’ party, so I’ll see you there…

Question From A Reader

This may seem like an off question, but would ever consider waterboarding a client? With consent, of course!

You have been very clear on your stance on breath play for obvious reasons; It isn't predictable enough to be safe. In the news we read that waterboarding gives the sensation of drowning with non of the side effects (like visible scars). Politics and the constitution aside - is President Bush the break-through Dom of breath play?

My first instinctive response was: No. And I’m mildly disturbed that someone would even ask.

But perhaps this deserves a longer, more thoughtful answer…. So let me tell you a story. I remember, many years ago, getting into an argument with a co-worker at a strip club. She was a tall girl, and noted for her bad temper and willingness to get physical.

Now, I do not fight. My brother and I scuffled now and then as kids, but other than that, I have no experience of non-consensual hand-to-hand combat. And I myself do not have a hair-trigger temper, of the type that results in unplanned confrontations. Historically, I will walk away from stuff like that. So when Roxy balled up her fists and started cursing at me about stealing her customer, normally I would have just left the dressing room.

However, this was during a period of time when I was bottoming a lot, and doing some pretty physically heavy scenes. And I can recall clearly staring at Roxy, with her eyes all narrowed and her jaw thrust out, looking as mean as she could, and thinking, You skinny bitch, you don’t scare me. What are you gonna do, hit me? Hah. I have been hit by much bigger and stronger women than you lately. Fuck you.

I relayed that last sentiment out loud to Roxy, several times. She raised her fists higher and took a step towards me. Some other person in my head took control of my mouth and said, “Oh, come on, bitch, start something. I’ll punch you right in those silicone tits, pop them like water balloons.”

Part of me thought Jesus, I can’t believe I said that. But I didn’t feel afraid, even though I could feel my heart hammering.

We stood there, fists cocked, and stared at each other for a long moment. Naturally all the other women in the room had fallen silent and were watching us intently.

I have no idea what Roxy saw on my face, but whatever it was, she didn’t like it. She spit out another string of profanity, turned on her platform heel and left the room. And I locked myself in a bathroom stall and put my head between my knees for a little while. I really don’t like angry people.

So the moral of the story is yeah, I do think BDSM can be a way to explore things that would otherwise be hurtful or frightening and thus make them less scary. And the experience of coming through those situations okay can give you a different perspective on real-life scenarios. I can see how someone might find something worthwhile in that.

However, there’s a difference between fistfights and government-sponsored torture. To me, even if waterboarding were safe - which I doubt that it is, who knows how many people have died while undergoing this? - it would be like doing Nazi play. It would be bringing something negative and all-too-real into my dungeon. I don’t want to do that. I don’t even want that hint of negative energy there. That sounds like I’m all spiritual, and I’m actually not, very. But I believe our emotions have power, and I find the idea of doing waterboarding as part of a BDSM scene deeply distasteful. The only break-throughs President Bush has made is in bad leadership of the country. The whole subject is something to be both sad and angry about, not eroticized.

Okay, enough with love and marriage for a few days. Let’s talk about something kinky.

For example, I had another girl join me for a date with Musical Man today, and can I just tell you how truly charming it was to see how excited she got putting sounds into his cock? She’s been happily anticipating this date for days, and she was wiggling and clapping her hands with glee as the moment drew near. Then when she was doing it, this look of profound fascination spread over her face. It was lovely. Musical Man liked it just as much. I was the one who finally had to say, “Okay, kids, I think we should stop now. Yes, I know, you want to keep going, but you’re both totally endorphin-high, so I think my judgment should prevail. You’ve already used a sound big enough to club baby seals with, let’s save something for next time.”

This girl and I have a date with a different man for an entirely different scene later this week. I think my scenes are the most psychologically intense when I’m alone with someone. But for variety, it’s always fun to have friends come over and play. And four hands can certainly do more than two. Co-topping can be challenging, however, so I do not invite just anyone to join me in my play. My boys are very important to me, and I want to create a good experience for them. I have to feel like my girlfriend and my client are going to be in tune, and that their various desires and limits are in accord.

But I am flattered to say that none of the ladies that I have invited have ever declined. One of them paid me a sweet compliment once, saying, “Oh, I totally trust you, Matisse. If you say it’s going to be cool, then I know it’s going to be cool. You wouldn’t let anything happen that wasn’t okay.”

Well. That’s exactly how I want people to feel in my dungeon. Like it's going to be intense, but everything will be all right in the end. I’m glad it’s what I’m creating.

The follow-up to the "Marry Him" post...

So I spent some time trying to edit down all the letters I got into something approaching a reasonable-length blog post...and then, I gave up. Ya'll had a lot to say and I simply could not do it justice. The letters, all eleven thousand and some-odd words of them, can be read here. (Note: I edited out names and anything that might be an identifying detail.)

Many of you agreed with me, although some of you raised some “Yes, but…” points. There were a couple of main themes to these. One was: marriage is about more than sexual passion. Dear readers, I may not be legally married to my partner, but we’ve been partners for almost eight years now, so I’m definitely hip to the fact that long-term domestic partnership is not one unending orgy. Sorry if that dulls your image of me as a sexual outlaw. We have the same trivial mundane shit to deal with, and the same sorts of difficulties and challenges. But my point is that you should start out being in love. You have to have that foundation, because that deep and intense connection is like the lube that gets the two of you through the tight spots in life together.

Another theme: love doesn’t always come in the packages one expects. Oh, lord, am I in agreement with that. Read here, and here, for my previous articles about how Max was not at all what I was expecting, and how I didn't really even believe in being "in love". For starters, he was the wrong gender. (Monk had it easier when I fell for him, since I was much more open to the idea of being all starry-eyed about a guy.) I guess I was taking it for granted that smart people did not sort for life partners based on anything like height or hair color, or even really superficial traits like being allergic to dogs. But if that wasn’t clear, then let me say so: love is what’s important, not the package is comes wrapped in.

Also cited was the desire the author had for children, which I lack. Well, yes, that changes things. But the author already has a child, so it’s not like that’s the cause of her desire for marriage. What she seems to want is more income and assistance with caring for her child.

The fact that since sex is apparently not important, the author could live with another woman was discussed, although I don't think that would satisfy her.

It was mentioned that arranged marriages are still done in other cultures. Yes, they are. I don’t think that recommends them, but that’s neither here nor there, since that’s not what Ms. Gottlieb is talking about. She’s talking about acting as if she’s marrying for love, but without really being in love.

Life doesn’t always turn out like you thought. I find that trying to force it to match your expectations usually doesn’t work so well. I think one of the keys to happiness in life is learning to see the path the universe is laying out for you. And I think part of everyone's path is learning to love deeply and fully. I know that's a scary idea, since love makes us vulnerable. But I don't think that lesson is optional.

Wow. I'm not the only girl with an opinion about the "Marry Him" article. I have gotten over fifty emails, amounting to about ten thousand words, on the subject of marriage and "settling". I'm going to have to boil this down a bit, but look for a follow-up post either over the weekend or on Monday.

I wonder if Ms. Gottlieb would debate me? Probably not, huh? Too bad. There are actually several people who write about sex, relationships, and sex work with whom I'd like to have - shall we say - a spirited discussion. I doubt that I ever will. But it's occasionally amusing to think about what I'd say.

So, here’s the new column. This post won’t make much sense until you read both the article that inspired the column and then the column itself, so go do that and then come back.

Done? Yeah. Is that unbelievable or what? I read it ten days ago and I was so incensed by it that I spent several days ranting about it to anyone who would listen. It's been killing me not to say anything about it sooner.

I’m going to exercise a lot of self-discipline here and not talk about my impressions of the author as a person. I can’t say I think I’d like her, based on what she said in this piece. But I am aware that there’s no way you can really know what a person is like based on just an article. People who just read a few pieces I’ve written don’t really know me, they only know the carefully-crafted slice I present to them. Plus I’m guessing she wouldn’t instantly take to me, either. I doubt it’ll be an issue in either of our lives.

And I try not to be nasty about other writer’s talent, or their lack thereof, because I know how it feels to have people knock my writing. But – this particular piece is not well-written. It’s like a first draft, way too long and repetitive. Frankly, it reads like a blog post – something where she just sat down at the keyboard, rambled about some feelings she was having, and hit Send. That’s okay for blogging, but for a magazine like The Atlantic? Um, no. Did she not have an editor for this piece?

I'm not saying you can't find anyone who'd agree with her. But for someone who admits she's making a sure-to-be-unpopular statement, her points are not well-argued. There’s just so much wrong with the reasoning and rationales of this nationally-published article that I’m just… blown away. I could pull quote after quote from the piece that display the author’s poor judgment and lack of personal insight, but I think it unfortunately speaks for itself.

The worst idea was publishing this piece to begin with. I cannot state too strongly my opinion that Ms. Gottlieb will be lucky if any man is ever willing to even go to dinner with her ever again, so thoroughly has she sown the ground with salt here. Trust me on this – the male of the species does not respond well to seeing themselves roasted in print. The hurt feelings of my dear and favored boys is the reason I have mainly stopped doing the Silly Phone Calls posts. Even though they knew that they were not the actual people I was teasing, there was an ever-increasing chorus of “Hey, I though you liked me!”

I do, I said. It’s not you I’m making fun of. You don’t say those witless things to me. It’s that dumb guy over there.

Didn’t help. And that’s guys having a BDSM relationship. Ms. Gottlieb wants some guy to marry her and help support her child after she refers to them collectively as "damaged goods"? Never. Gonna. Happen.

But whatever. If the author wishes to handicap herself in a race she’s already declared almost impossible to win, well, that’s not my dog. What really pisses me off is the lack of responsibility here. There's a difference between saying, "Here's my personal experience," and "Young women, listen to me and heed my words! Here's what you should do!" If you’re going to publish a call to action like this, you better be pretty damn sure what you’re advising people to do is right for everyone, all the time. Somewhere, a woman is going to read this, and based at least in part on the advice of Ms. Gottlieb, she’s going to marry a guy she’s not in love with. And that’s going to be a bad choice on her part. Now the fault will mostly be hers, because that’s how grown-up life works, but Ms. Gottlieb will actually have some fraction of blame for that in my eyes.

It’s like breath-control play. It is my strong opinion that cutting off someone’s oxygen is a bad idea. Do I know people who have done breath-control play and not died? (Yet.) Yes, I do. Does that stop me from telling people they should refrain from this kink? Nope, because if I said “Oh, breath-control play can be okay sometimes,” and someone read that, and did it, and died – I’d feel I had some moral responsibility for their death. If I can keep anyone from having a tragic accident, I’d be really happy.

So I will say it again: don’t marry someone you’re not in love with. It will cut off the air to some vital part of your soul, and it will wither and die.

***

Note: I’ve had some interesting conversations about this piece with friends, so if you have opinions on this piece (or my thoughts on it) that you’d like me to publish, send them to me in an email in the next 48 hours or so. I’ll compile them in a follow-up blog piece.

Hey, look! I forgot I had one more podcast in the chute that I hadn't posted yet. So here we go - Monk and I talk about spanking...
I am enjoying doing the podcasts, and Monk and I are angling to get some more studio time to record some more, so if you have questions that require lengthy philosophical answers, fire them off. I get a lot of help-me emails for someone who is not, strictly speaking, an advice columnist. My policy is that I don't write private replies that take me more than two minutes total. But if it's something other people would find interesting, or something Monk and I feel we could make good jokes about, we'll read your email and discuss it on the podcast. Fire up the keyboards!

I love your writing and I wanted to ask your opinion about a poly situation where my boyfriends know about each other but have never met. How okay is it to talk about the other guy? "The weirdest thing happened to my other boyfriend at his work..." "My other boyfriend cooks this awesome dish..." Is it like with regular friends, where it's no problem to share stories, or is it really gauche like talking too much about your ex?

I'm guessing that "my other boyfriend said this hilarious thing during sex" is right out. Sadly.

It’s a very good question. I’ve never had a situation where my lovers had not met. But there’s knowing something is happening, and then there’s the “no information is TMI” stance, and there’s a lot of range in between those two points.

Obviously the first thing to do is ask them. And don’t just ask, “What do you not want to hear about?” Frame the questions clearly. “Do you want to hear about what movie we saw? Do you want to hear about what’s happening at his work? Do you want to hear about where he think our relationship is going?” There’s apt to be a certain level there. “Yes, tell me about movies, restaurants and books he thinks are good, but I don’t want to hear what brand of underwear he thinks are best.”

But even once they’ve expressed an opinion, I think it’s always best to think about things before you say them. Context is important. You don’t want your lovers to feel compared, because there’s a possibility they’ll feel like they’re coming out on the short end. So if you’re eating a meal lover A has cooked and you’re going on and on about this great thing Lover B cooked…. That might not be the best thing.

Also consider frequency. A story about the other person sprinkled in with other conversation? Okay. Every single conversation comes back to this cute thing they did? Annoying.

Some of this is going to depend on how poly-sophisticated these guys are. A more experienced partner will probably be fine with it. Someone who’s newer to poly will have to grit their teeth a bit.

I think it’s important to not feel like you have to tiptoe around subjects, and pretend you’re not really having two partners, when in fact, you are! But some tact and some delicacy as you all three find your comfort zones is essential.

My Blue Heaven

My blue obsession continues, and of course certain very sweet men in my life are totally catering to my desires for sparkly blue things. Have I mentioned lately how lucky I am?

So consider this dress. Ignore the hair. The hair is truly scary. And what is that weird little feather-shrug thing she’s got on? It looks like something molted on her. I have worn some unfortunate outfits in my life, I admit. But celebrities are supposed to have handlers who don’t let them show up at photo opps looking like this. I suppose the shrug could have been a moment’s disastrous whim, but that hair did not just happen by accident, someone did that on purpose. This woman’s name is Natasha Bedingfield, and she is apparently a Christian pop singer. Ms. Bedingfield could certainly have used some divine intervention with her hair and accessories.

But let us put all that aside and look at that dress she’s wearing, because unless I am very much mistaken, that is an Herve Leger dress. Herve Leger being another fashion obsession of mine. (An obsession that has also been lavishly indulged. But you know with obsessions, you never get enough.)

So it's an Herve Leger, and it’s not exactly blue, but it’s blue-ish, and it’s completely fabulous. So I think Ms. Bedingfield, in acknowledgment of her fashion sins, should give it to me. You definitely would not catch me blaspheming it with bad hair and hideous feather things.

In most conventional ways, I’m not really the romantic type. For example, if I’m going to watch a movie, I’d usually rather watch people pretend to shoot at each other than watch them pretend to fall in love with each other.

I do not understand why an adult woman would want a stuffed animal. (It’s fine if you do. I’m just sort of baffled by them, that’s all.)

I do not save roses from meaningful floral offerings. Flowers are pretty and all, but when they’re dead, I throw them away.

Someone once gave me a sonnet he’d written about me, and I thought it was sweet, but I still didn’t sleep with him.

So call me a pragmatic sort of girl. It’s relationships that matter to me. How I feel when I’m around someone, and how they treat me. I have often said to guys, “If you show a woman that you think she’s beautiful and special, that is more intoxicating to her than any champagne ever poured into a glass.”

I have some very sweet people who are close to me, guys who treat me like a beautiful princess, and I am very blessed by that. You know who you are. Thank you for all the lovely things you do for me. And Happy Valentines Day to you.

What I’m Doing In The Last Five Minutes Before You Arrive – Or, An Illustration Of Why You Should Not Be Early.*

• Put on chosen dress. Realize that the bra I’m wearing is not the right one for this neckline. Take off dress and dig through overflowing lingerie bureau for correct black bra – examining at least four other incorrect ones before doing so, and dumping approximately half of the Nordstrom intimates department onto floor in process.

• Turn heat up to eighty and note to myself that if the gas company gave out frequent-flyer miles, I’d have enough accumulated for a ticket to the moon. In first-class.

• Make last check of playroom. Leather cuffs? Check. Spandex hood? Check. Spencer paddle? Check. Big black rubber electrical butt plug? Dig through drawers in vain. Remember that it’s in the storage room, in the cabinet given over to the “you buy it, I’ll store it for you” toys. Go to storage room, which is twenty degrees colder than the rest of the house because heating vents are shut to save money. Shiver and look through bags of single-player-only equipment until I find the one marked with proper nickname. Place toy where it should be. Go stand over the heating vent in the playroom until goose bumps subside.

• Cue iPod playlist to “Spanking Music”.

• Examine my legs and wonder if thigh-high stockings - mined from the depths of aforementioned overflowing lingerie bureau - are actually the same shade of black. Wonder if he’ll even notice.

• Put on lipstick. Notice that it makes me appear as though I’ve been dead for three days. Realize it’s actually eye shadow and curse cosmetics manufacturers for being so clever in their packaging. Wipe off and replace with bona fide lipstick.

• Become aware that I have to pee. Pause and consider whether I should just wait and pee on him. Wrestle with my sense of proper dramatic timing versus urinary expediency.

Ding-dong!

• Answer door…

*With a tip of the hat to certain ladies, who inspire me with their private wit.

A pal of mine was talking recently about an upcoming women-only sex party. She’s excited about it, as are a number of my friends. It sounds like a great event, and I wish it much success. Am I going to go? Probably not.

You see, my extensive sexual travels have not left me soured on sex in private. If anything, the confidence I derive from my experiences enhances my private sex life.

But I have had plenty of “public” sex – by which I mean, sex in front of lots of other people, at private gatherings held specifically for that purpose - and frankly, I’m now really bored by it.

It’s probably mostly from my work as a stripper. If people are going to watch me be sexual, then I’m going to stop focusing on the sex I’m having and start performing. Which I’m perfectly comfortable doing, you understand. Hey, get me a sound system, a disco ball and a fog machine, and I’ll put on a hell of a show. But if no one is going to stuff money into my g-string, then why would I stop just enjoying the sex in order to perform for them?

I’m aware that some folks find it arousing to be watched, and that’s fine for them. I certainly have no objection to other people fucking in sex-appropriate spaces - it can be quite pretty to watch. And there was a time when I found the idea titillating enough to experiment with myself. I went to some swing clubs, when I was just barely old enough to legally get in them, and then I went to a lot of women-only sex parties (we called them “raves” back then) in the early nineties. I never had any bad experiences… But you know, I never had any amazingly good ones, either.

No, I take that back. I had some fun times – when I went off in a corner and had sex with people I was already having sex with anyway!

So these days I prefer my sex in private. There is, however, one reason I might go to this event, and that’s my friend Miss K. You remember Miss K, don’t you? No, I don't mean Miss K likes sex in public, either. She probably feels more or less the same way I do about it.

She is, however, recently single. And I am totally making it a goal to get her out of her all-grad-school-all-the-time rut and out to some social events – especially events where she could, possibly, maybe, just happen to meet a cute, sober, sane, single, kinky butch boi that she might like. I’m not trying to fix her up, or anything. I’m just saying, you know, make room for the universe to send you good things.

We’ll see if I can convince her to come to this party. Thus, if you see me there, I’m not shopping. But have you met my friend Miss K?

There are certain questions I get asked a lot, and while I’ve addressed many of them before, I keep getting asked, so I will make some remarks about them once again. Here's one from the FAQ...

Can big girls make money in the sex industry?

Well, define big.

This is a delicate issue. There’s a lot of controversy raging about body size these days – it seems like more than ever before. So let me say now that I’m not passing judgment on anyone’s genetic fate or chosen behavior around that. Let us simply speak of the market as I know it. And recognize that I have never been above a size ten, so I can’t speak from first-hand experience, only observation.

Stripping is probably the most unforgiving area of sex work when it comes to bigger girls. In most of the clubs where I danced, a lot of the girls were a size six or smaller, and anyone over a ten was really at a disadvantage. In smaller towns with fewer strippers, or at lower-end clubs, you can bump that up a little. But still, stripping is not the best gig for a curvy girl, because it’s a very visual job, and the current beauty ideal is thin. If you lived in Renaissance Italy, you’d be the pin-up girl, and those skinny chicks would be out of luck, but that’s not the way it is just now.

I think porn – by which I mean any visual depiction of you, be it web-cam stuff, photos, videos, whatever – is sort of middle ground. There are specific big-girl markets, but not as many as for skinnier girls. And porn thrives on extremes, so if you’re a slightly-curvy but not really-large woman, you might find that you’re too slim for the plus-size porn sites and too chunky for the other ones. I encountered this situation a lot when I was photographing girls for porn mags. I think you’d be wise to consider porn a potentially profitable hobby, but don’t quit your day job unless you really get a sweet ongoing gig.

However, bigger girls can do very well as escorts, sensual touch practitioners, and pro dommes. In that world, I would say that anyone smaller than a size eight is considered petite. Average/normal is anything from eight to about fourteen. Fourteen to eighteen or so is considered a bigger girl, but not in a bad way.

Above size eighteen, you’re really getting into a niche market of men who have a specific big-girl fetish, and I think your options will be limited. That’s not to say you have none, but it’s not a branch of the industry I have much information about.

Understand that this is just one person's opinion. Being skinny is not a sure-fire guarantee of success in the industry, and being bigger does not mean you’ll fail. At any size, a lot has to do with all the other aspects of your looks, and equally important, your personality, your attitude, and your business skills.

A note to Belle De Jour: Congrats on the fiction-writing deal. It's the type of thing I'd like to do myself someday. Also, I seem to have lost your address. Drop me a note? I have another matter I'd like your take on. MistressMatisse AT aol.com.

Oh my lord, has this been an insanely busy week. Wow. Good, but busy.

While I recover... Read the newest column about polyamorous people and Valentines Day.

So, I was the the Bondage Is The Point party Sunday night at the Wet Spot, and while in conversation with a groups of pals, I remarked, just in passing, that I owned a fuckzall.

"A what?"

"A fuckzall. A reciprocating, variable speed power saw - often referred to as a sawzall - but instead of a blade, there's a dildo on it. You see them a lot on the bondage-porn sites, they're fun."

Much was the amusement and incredulity. (What, doesn't everyone have one?) So I promised to upload a photo.

Lo and behold...


Bigger image, if you're a size queen.

It's fun, but boy, it's a teeth-rattler. For both people! And did I feel a bit like Bruce Campbell when I fired that bad boy up for the first time. "This is my boom-stick!" Yeah, that's about right.

There's only thing you have to know about the fuckzall: back spatter. Even at the slower speed, the action of this thing is such that the operator is going to get sprayed with - well, with whatever is wet. Lube, bodily fluids, whatever. So you need to be okay with that. Or you need to build a nicely kinky scene around a top in a haz-mat suit.