Bad Marketing (Of) Campaign

So, I'm not really officially blogging again. (Unless I decide that I am.) But something came to my inbox today that left me half-laughing and half-offended. It’s so outrageous that I had to share it, and 140 characters simply won’t do. 

(Complete and unedited text of an advertising email I got from one of the sugardaddy/sugarbaby sites.) 

Hello Beautiful,

As an attractive, independent woman, you get all the breaks: skipping lines at clubs, free drinks, higher employment rate, and now you are avoiding the "Fiscal Cliff".  Luckily for you, you're not ugly; because unfortunately, by order of natural selection, ugly women lose... and only the beautiful survive.

Your government wants to push you off a "cliff", so don't get caught without your "parachute". Starting January 3, 2013, women like you will lose at least two thousand dollars to higher taxes. And unless they find a Sugar Daddy who can be their "parachute", they will fall off the "cliff" with the rest of the women. 

So, do you know a beautiful woman, like yourself, that you want to save from the Fiscal Cliff? Share this email with her to guarantee that both of you have your "parachutes".

Let’s examine this bit by bit, shall we? In the first line, we get some passive-aggressive whining about the benefits of being considered an attractive person. Which do exist, although I must point out that attractive men also tend to have higher employment rates. (I would imagine that they could get free drinks with no lines, too – if they went to gay bars. You have to consider your audience.) Plus, I thought everyone was currently avoiding the fiscal cliff, not just attractive independent women.

Second line: people who have not really read Darwin should not try to reference his theories. 

Third line: now we’re getting down to it. The writer is correct to put quotation marks around “cliff”, because it’s actually not a cliff. I suppose he’s right to put them around “parachute” as well, since in the event that one did, literally, fall off a cliff, your standard-issue parachute would not help the situation. 

Fourth line: Since all attractive women apparently fall into the same tax bracket. And retroactive middle-class tax breaks that are overwhelmingly likely to be passed don’t apply to us, it seems.

Fifth line: And the GOP wonders why women thought a war had been declared on them? Who wrote this, Todd Akin and Richard Murdock?

Sixth line: You know, if I did think I was about to “fall” off a “cliff” and I needed a “parachute” to save me from the fate of “the rest of the women”, I’m not sure I’d be inviting other beautiful women hang onto my legs. Kind of goes against that natural selection thing, you see. I really hate it when terrible ad copy is so philosophically inconsistent.

So this is terrible writing, and a completely lame and somewhat offensive premise, but I must reluctantly give it points for sheer marketing nerve.  You have to appreciate it when a website takes a markedly republican-ish point of view about the current financial situation and spins that into what is, basically, the suggestion that women should be sex workers and encourage their friends to be, too. 

I’m somewhat disappointed to see that they didn’t try to work any of the social-conservatism angles into this pitch, though. They could have done something about how undocumented foreign women are going to take all the American men? Or how now that gays can marry, all the men (or should I call them “parachutes”?) are going to marry EACH OTHER! And leave us women to go over the cliff. An opportunity missed, there.

Ironically, I got this more or less right after reading an unbelievably condescending bit of tripe by Glenn Reynolds saying, essentially, that the unmarried women who didn’t vote for Romney were “low information voters”, and that the GOP should court us by buying some women’s magazines and putting Republican-friendly “feel-good stories” among the “the usual stuff on sex, diet and shopping”.

I’m unmarried, Glenn. I read fashion magazines – and that is what you are talking about: fashion magazines. Not all women read them, and not only women read them, either. Let me tell you what else I read, every day: The New York Times, The Washington Post, and the CNN site.* It will shock you to know that I’m not a big HuffPo fan.  In addition, at least once a week, I go look at The Weekly Standard and The Wall Street Journal. I sometimes even check out (god help me) The National Review, because I’m one of those crazy people who thinks one shouldn’t live in an echo chamber.  I find that works out well for me.

In short, I am anything but low-information. And I still did not vote for Romney. So take your patronizing drivel about my woefully-uninformed female brain and go fall off a cliff with it. Your ideas about how the GOP should to appeal to women are less intelligent and much more offensive than this email.

*Also frequent reads: The LA Times, The Stranger/Slog, The Seattle Times (although not that much) Talking Points Memo, and The Economist. 

Hi. So, yeah - I'm not blogging so much these days. Who knows, this blog may live again some time, but not right now.

If you're new here, check out the archives for seven years of articles about sex, BDSM, sex work, polyamory, and various other topics both sacred and profane. The last few years have tags, or employ an advanced Google search to find keywords. If it has to do with sex, I've probably written about it.

I twitter here.

My articles appear in the Seattle weekly newspaper The Stranger, and the complete archives of those articles are available here.

There are links to the right for my professional website, the Flickr feed, and various other bits of goodness about me. You can email me: MistressMatisse at gmail.com

If you've been a regular reader of mine - thank you! Your support has always meant a lot to me, and it continues to do so.

The latest column in The Stranger, about the way one should measure one's success as a top.

And an answer to a question about collars and the subtleties of BDSM relationships.

***

Under My Protection and Collars of Consideration

I saw some questions about this on a kink community board I’m on, so I’m using them as a blog-prompt for myself.

Q: When someone says, “So-and-so is under my protection”, what does that mean?

That phrase may or may not mean that two people involved are playing together. The general translation of that sentiment, in my mind, is: “I’m fond of this person, and either because of his/her newness to kink, or just general emotional issues, I perceive her/him as being vulnerable to predatory personalities. So go ahead and chat them up, it’s all good, but just be aware: you fuck with them, you’re fucking with me. And you don’t want to fuck with me.”

Your mileage may vary, of course. But that’s more or less what it means when I say it.


Q: What is a Collar of Consideration?

A tiresome bit of pretentiousness? Collars of Consideration, indeed. What am I, a kinky seminary or something?

Oh, all right, I don’t really mean that. I mean: I don’t do that sort of thing myself. I don’t generally use collars very much at all. (Although they are pretty to look at, and sometimes useful, too.) Some other people place a lot of meaning in them, and that’s fine. And whatever you want to call them is also fine with me - as long as you don’t pretend that there is some sort of universally agreed-upon BDSM system of ranking the person wearing them according to the title of the collar, or its color, or its material, or anything like that, because there is not.

I suppose you could say a “Collar of Consideration” might be the kink version of a Promise Ring – the people involved are engaged to be engaged, if you will, in a committed D/s relationship. That would be my take on that.

As always in BDSM, when in doubt, politely say to the person you're talking to, "I don't want to be rude, but I'm not sure I understand the etiquette here - can you tell me what that means, exactly?" That'll pretty much cover you no matter what.

(Originally published April 2010)

I have neglected the blog lately, so here's a bit of catch-up. A Stranger column about Why Nerds Rule The BDSM Community . And the one before that, about How Not To Have An Open Relationship.

Now, the podcasts. I know you like the podcasts, I read all the emails you send me about them, and that is great, because TwistedMonk and I like doing them. There have been technical problems, but Monk has wrestling manfully with the issues for months. It has been crazy-difficult to get iTunes to update the data, but we think - emphasis on the think - we have it all fixed. (With the fabulous assistance of another sexy podcaster.) So I'm publishing a fresh one to my hosting site to test it out. Please cross your fingers that iTunes recognizes it and updates the listing on their site. If not - well, back to the drawing board.

Been missing my podcasts? They are soon to return, but meanwhile, enjoy me on Dan Savage's podcast, Savage Love!

Another of the Blog Greatest Hits: Occasionally the tables are unexpectedly turned on the the Mistress...

***

So I got handled by a lot of strange women yesterday. And I spent a lot of money for the privilege, too.

Let me back up a bit. I have had hardly anyone booked to see me this week. Usually when it’s slow I try to shake the tree a little, entice some more people into my clutches. But this week I just decided to say the heck with it and let it be slow. I have been taking care of a lot of little personal chores, and I decided to book a bunch of time-consuming girlie-maintenance stuff. I have a facial today at the Calidora Spa in U Village, for example. I like the facials I get at my dermatologist's office, but you have to book so far in advance there, and of course they have no evenings or weekends, so I thought I’d go see if Calidora was any good. Wish me luck that they don't do something terrible to my face.

But yesterday I got a manicure and pedicure at this little salon near The Big House, called Hoa. I’ve been getting my nails done there for a few months now, and they’re very nice.

They were particularly nice yesterday. I am a heavy tipper, especially with spa-type service stuff. If you’ve ever hustled for tips as a major chunk of your income, then you know how really happy it makes you when someone is generous, so I am. I think word has gotten around about that at Hoa. They always massage your legs up to the knee when they give you the pedicure, and they usually massage your arms up the elbow. But I got what seemed like an extra-long foot and leg massage, and the girl doing my hands was rubbing up my arms, to my shoulders, and then my neck. It was extremely blissful.

I said as much to the girl massaging my shoulders. Many of the ladies there do not seem to speak a whole lot of English, although it’s sometimes a little hard to tell. But she understood my smile and my sigh, and she smiled back at me and rubbed more firmly. Seeing us, the girl doing my feet smiled too. I mentally added another five dollars to both their tips.

So I’m sitting there is this big black massage-chair with the rollers going up and down my back, with one girl massaging my feet and legs and another lady massaging my arms and shoulders, thinking, “This is like sex.” And then I thought, “Actually, this is like being the client of a sex worker. And I am totally fine with that.”

An hour later I emerged from Hoa, fingers and toes gleaming, and went to Nordstrom to just quickly return a bra I’d bought online that didn’t fit. Or so I thought.

I gave the bra and receipt to the salesgirl. She said, “Did you want to get something else?”

I replied, “Well, I’m looking for a bra with a really smooth line for under tight knits. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Have you been fitted here before?”

I admitted I had not.

Well, that would never do. Ignoring my unfinished protests, the salesgirl conducted me to the dressing rooms, led me into a little cubicle and closed the door, brandishing her tape measure. “Let’s just have you take off your shirt.”

Meekly I obeyed. She turned me around and lassoed me with the tape. “First we’ll just get your rib cage measurement.” I could feel her breath on my hair.

“Okay,” she said briskly. “I’ll be right back with the Measuring Bra.” I wondered if the Measuring Bra was like The Sorting Hat. Was it going to sing a song about my boobs?

She returned with a beige lacy bra that looked like something my grandmother would have worn, with big high cups. I must have looked dubious, because she said, “Oh, it’s just the Measuring Bra. We’ll find you some different ones. But let’s just take you out of that bra and put you in this one.”

I thought, I just laid eyes on this girl ten minutes ago and she’s telling me to take off my clothes. And I’m doing it. Is this how people feel when they come see me?

I took off my bra. The salesgirl - or Mistress Underwire, as I was beginning to think of her - eyed my breasts and held out the Measuring Bra to me. I have never had anyone hold out a bra for me to slide my arms into, it was sort of strange. I had to step up fairly close to her to get all the way in. Hi there. Nice perfume. Then she turned me around and hooked me up in back.

“Now I want you to just bend over at the waist.”

Okay…. I’d heard about this, actually, bra fitters telling you to bend over. So I did. It was a small room, not much bigger than a closet, and my ass bumped into her hips slightly. In the mirror, I had a glimpse of her standing up close behind me, adjusting the straps, as I leaned forward. I have a mirror hung next to my spanking bench in my dungeon, and I see myself in that position with people a lot – only I’m the one standing up straight. But not, until now, had I ever seen anyone posed like that in a Nordie’s dressing room.

She had me stand up and turn around. The Goddess Of Uplift studied my breasts thoughtfully, tugged at the sides of the bra slightly, and then said, “Let me just…” And stuck her hand into the cup and repositioned my boob. Then she put her fingers under the cups of the bra and shook my breast gently. And then she did the same with the other one.

Now, I wasn’t upset by this, you understand. I was quite clear it was all in the line of duty. But – you have to admit it’s a bit funny. Maybe it’s just me, but I couldn’t help thinking, Um, yeah, you’re playing with my breasts, there. Just sayin’.

I think it would have been different if I’d come in expecting that. But since I didn’t, I was a bit bemused by having a strange woman dressing me up in lingerie and arranging my boobs - which she referred to as "breast tissue" - to her satisfaction.

Of course, I'd been wearing the wrong size bra. I think you always are when you go to a bra fitter. I thought of myself as hovering between a big B cup and a small C. But according this lady - no, that was wrong, I should wear a D. Which is hard for me to fathom, but okay, bring them on, I'll try them.

So the Demi-Cup Domina went away and came back with an armful of bras, and matching panties for everything, plus some yummy blue lace lingerie, since I’d mentioned that to her. And she tugged and shook and got me properly strapped into everything. She was a positive whirl of Nordstrom-ly helpfulness, in a sort of just-do-as-I-say-and-no-one-gets-hurt sort of way.

I’m kidding, really. She was fine and she found me a lot of stuff I needed. Obviously one doesn’t tip salespeople, but I hope she gets a nice commission off me.

She’d probably make a really good dominatrix, though, if she ever wanted to go that way.

Originally published May 2008.

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I continue to mine my own archives to bring ya'll some long-form amusement... This is a story about what happens when women cruise each other. Originally posted Saturday, February 05, 2005.

***

Maybe I Should Get A Septum Piercing Or Something…

Because I must look too normal. I realized this last Wednesday evening when I was changing clothes in the locker room at Gold's on Broadway after my workout. A woman I'd not seen around before walked in, set down her bag on the next bench over from mine and started getting her gear out.

She was a very butch woman – I mean, so butch you might have mistaken her for a guy. Unless, of course you'd spent a lot of time around butch women, the way I have. Most of my female lovers have been pretty butchy. I've always enjoyed that feminine-blending-into-masculine energy. And then I married a transman, so I'm well-acquainted with all the shades of gender expression a female-bodied person can achieve.

I was struck by this particular woman because she very closely resembled an ex-lover of mine, whom I just saw last week for the first time in – god, it must be well over a year. Frankly, although I wish her well, it's always a little unsettling for me to see her. (Especially when she flirts with me, as she did last week.) This woman and I went through a couple of rather tumultuous cycles of breaking-up/getting-back-together, and while I wouldn't exactly say she broke my heart, she chipped it a bit. It was a highly emotional connection for me, and while it's been about eight years since we broke up the last time, seeing her still arouses in me an uncomfortable mix of affection and pain.

So I suppose this woman in the Gold's locker room must have seen me glance at her a couple of times, and maybe she caught an odd expression on my face, because she turned to me, and said in this half-defensive, half-condescending tone of voice, "Yes, I am a woman."

Christ, I thought, do you have me pegged wrong. Aloud I said, "Yes, I was just thinking you look kinda like my ex-girlfriend."

She had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed, muttered something vaguely apologetic and retreated to the bathroom stalls.

But I thought, God, do I look that straight? That's scary. Okay, I don't have a labrys tattooed on my ass, but still… And I know butch women get a lot of shit for walking around in the world looking and acting like they do. But for god's sake, we're on Broadway, in the queer Mecca – lighten up, sister. I hate to think how you'd have reacted if I'd been cruising you.

I related this story to a friend over dinner, and then we recalled another women's locker room story of mine that's rather at the other end of the scale. We used to work out at Olympic Athletic Club in Ballard, and they have a big, sort of open shower/hot tub area in the women's locker room. Now, Ballard's not a big gay area, but one day when I was working out, I spotted two cute women who were clearly queer, and lovers. One of them I'd describe as a tomboy-femme, and the other – well, let's call her butch-of-center. Nice, I thought, and then went on through my workout.

Later, I got undressed in the locker room and went down the tiled passage to the showers. As I walked, I saw the two cute lesbians sitting in the hot tub, facing me. Now, contrary to porn-video fantasy, women rarely cruise other women, and almost never jump each other in places like, say, gym showers. But still, these two women were most certainly…watching me walk towards them. I could almost hear the strains of "Standing on the corner, watching all the girls go by…"

I took in the fact that they were looking at me, and I happened to be in the mood to play along. So as I walked towards them, I let the towel I was sort of casually holding up to myself slip down a bit to see if I got any reaction.

Definitely watching me. That's nice. Now, the showers are arranged in a semi-circle around the hot tub, so when I got there, I stopped about three feet away from the tub and let the towel fall away from my nude body completely, as I paused to wrestle with the complex issue of just which shower stall I should go into.

Hmm, let's see – that one? (Perform180 degree swivel, toss the hair, arch the back a little bit.) Or, no, maybe that one over there? (Turn back the other way, shoulders back, deep breath.)

I watched from the corner of my eye - they both had smiles well-laced with sensual appreciation, and the butchy one giggled slightly, which caused her girlfriend to jab her in the ribs with her elbow.

Without quite making eye contact, I let a slight smile hover around my lips. Then I hung up my towel on a hook and stepped into one of the stalls.

But - what's this? It looks like someone left a bottle of shampoo in here. Huh, imagine that. Gee, I wonder if it belongs to anyone…

I stepped back out of the stall and took a few steps towards the women in the hot tub, holding out the shampoo bottle. I made eye contact with them, smiled slowly, and then said, in my best magnolia-blossom drawl, I asked, "Is this ya'lls shampoo?"

The butch woman stared at me wordlessly for a moment, like she'd been struck by lightning. It was charming. Then, as if reflexively, she shook her head and said, "No."

But the minute after she said it, she sort of squeezed her eyes closed and put her hand up over her face. You could see her mentally kicking herself and thinking, "Fuck! Why did I say that?"

The femme gave her an affectionate, pitying smile and said to me in velvety tones, "Oh – I'm not sure… Can I see it?" and held out her hand to me.

So I walked closer to her, letting my hips sway a trifle more than is my custom, bent over the tub slightly – barely audible intake of breath from the butch – and handed the femme the white plastic bottle. As I hung over the water, the steam rose gently from the tub, misting my face with warm, dewy beads. She turned the bottle over in her hands a few times, and then looked up at me.

"No, I don't think it's ours," she said. But she didn't hand it back to me. She just looked at me.

It's hard to say what would have happened if we’d been alone. Based on my experience of how non-casual-sex-oriented most women are, I can't really make myself believe these women would have seriously made a pass at me – but I suppose anything's possible.

However, we were not alone in the locker room, and at that moment, another woman walked into the shower area. I cocked an eyebrow and smiled at the femme, who gave the tiniest shrug and smile and handed me back the bottle. The butch woman sank a little lower in the water and grinned sheepishly at me from under her wet bangs. I went and took my shower, and when I came out, they were gone. A droll and gently erotic little exchange that left me smiling.

Just to show ya'll that I have not abandoned you: a repost of a scene Jae and I reminisced about the other day - spanking the Bicycle Man. The photos are not for the faint of heart.

***

Smack

Now, not everybody I see is into heavy intense sensation. But I do have a handful of boys who like it as heavy as I can dish it out.

I’ve written about this kind of scene before, and that may have been what prompted a gentlemen I’ll call the Bicycle Man to come see me. Like the guy in the column, Bicycle Man also likes impact on the ass, just as hard as I can do it. (I can actually get him to the "enough" point, though.)

There are so many different pleasures in BDSM - I could never settle for just one. But there is something viscerally satisfying about hitting something as hard as you can, and since I’m a sadist, I particularly like it when that something is a nicely responsive human body.

And since I’m a generous person, I decided that Jae should meet Bicycle Man, too. I'm strictly a gym queen when it comes to athletics, but Jae played softball in high school and college. Golf, too. She’s got a serious swing.

The three of us had a great time. Wanna see? (The usual disclaimers apply…)

Me lining up the stroke.

She swings and…

The bounce-back.

I do sort of bat like a girl, though, don't I? Jae has great follow-through.

We did catch one stroke just at the moment of impact.

But Jae and I are sure we could capture still more spanking art, so the Bicycle Man will just have to come see us again sometime…

(Original Post: Tuesday, April 17, 2007)

I've been really bad about not updating recently. And this URL is due for a big overhaul soon, so if you see it changing, don't panic. The content will not be going away, it'll just look different, that's all.

Meanwhile, the two most recent Stranger columns, for those of ya'll who missed them. Why Don't Men Wear Strap-Ons? and What's In/What's Out 2011.

Happy New Year!

Two important points before you read this. One: in this blog post, I make some sweeping, gender-based generalizations, and I make them in a somewhat tongue-in-cheek manner. I am aware that not every man or woman feels, thinks and acts in the ways I mention. This is a light-hearted blog post, not a feminist manifesto, so don’t get your gender-neutral panties in a twist, please.

And two: naturally every man of my acquaintance is an exception to all these statements. Naturally I’m not talking about any man I have ever known personally here. My goodness no.

Dear Mistress Matisse

I'm a 27y/o submissive bisexual woman in a D/s relationship with a dominant man named Tom. We were both fairly inexperienced when we met, and sort of stumbled into finding out we were both kinky. It's been really great. We're well matched and are enjoying trying out every little thing our perverted minds can come up with.

However, part of my sexual history has been pretty unpleasant. I was in an abusive relationship for nearly two years, and I had crappy experiences when I was growing up due to a combination of naivete and skeevy bastards. I've dealt with it in therapy and I certainly don't consider it as defining my sexuality. But it is there, and anyone I get into bed with gets a disclaimer: I have triggery points, and although I want to enjoy myself with you something we do may hit them. This history doesn't really have anything to do with kinky sex, and working through it has been more about learning to trust partners in general than anything else.

In getting closer to Tom I've shared more of that history with him. However, he hasn't ever really dealt with this sort of thing before- he grew up a bit sheltered, and has never been close to someone who's been working through, say, depression or trauma. Dealing with this freaks him out a little, and he doesn't really know what to do. It's not that he doesn't want to be there in the event that I need him, and I've said that I would tell him what I need in the event that something does come up. Honestly, it's happened just once in the time we've known each other (nearly a year now) and most of the time all I need is a cup of tea and some time alone/a hug. But it's the idea of psychological instability, no matter how minor, that unsettles him.

But since I talked about that part of my history (and really not anything near what I would consider the worst of it) he's been treating me differently in session. It feels like he's holding back and not doing everything that he wants to. I think that he's worried about bringing up bad history, but it's pretty frustrating. I don't want him to treat me with kid gloves- that's hardly the point of this endeavor. But it also makes me feel like he doesn't trust me enough to tell him if something's getting too intense, or as though he feels like he needs to take responsibility for my feelings. While I love that he doesn't want to hurt me (in the bad way) I really don't like that. He's said that he doesn't want me to ever get to the point where I need to use my safeword- that part of being a good dom is being able to know if something's getting too intense, that him crossing that line would be a personal failing on his part (and yes, he used the words 'personal failing'). I disagree - sometimes shit happens in session. It's not pleasant, but you move along and get back on the horse, assuming that things haven't been royally fucked up. And I wouldn't be playing with him in the first place if I thought he was the kind of person with whom things could get really bad.

I really like this guy, but I'm not sure what to do about this. Is it an intimacy thing that needs to happen over time? Am I missing something really obvious? Any advice would be greatly appreciated.

This is not a wildly unusual situation. You’re both new at this. He’s still building his confidence as a top. Most people have to do that when they first start out, that’s normal. There’s not a magic-bullet answer for this, it’s simply a matter of time and experience.

You may, in all innocence, have overshared a bit and spooked him. It makes a top - especially male tops - nervous when you spend a lot of time telling them about how you might freak out if this or that happens. Believe me, everyone has their triggery points. We know this is emotionally intense stuff - that is why it’s hot. If it's true that all you’d need is tea, space, or a hug, then in the future, go light on the foreshadowing and just ask for that if it comes up.

I do think there’s a broader context to this, although you may not care for my ideas on the subject. But here goes: consider the possibility that you’re overthinking this - and that you’re being a bit controlling, too. You talk about wanting him to trust you – what would it look like if you decided to trust him, and his process? What if you said to yourself, “Okay, I want Tom to feel and behave this certain way, both because it would align with my wishes and because I think he’d like it too. But he isn’t choosing to do that. However, he communicates to me, both verbally and by continuing to do scenes with me, that he is enjoying what we do. I’ve told him what is true for me. Now I am going to stop second-guessing him and trust that he is the best and highest authority on what’s best for him right now.”

Luckily, whether it’s his nerves or you being too controlling, or a combination of both, the solution is the same: stop trying to do anything. Whatever is in Tom’s head is not yours to deal with. The thing you have complete control over is your own behavior. So you can choose to play with him, or not. You can ask for certain activities, or not. And then you can accept that Tom is the sort of top, and the sort of man, that he is. Or – not.

***

Here is where I go off on a tangent that’s not directed at the writer herself, but more at the culture in general. The idea that a woman can and should try to change how her male partner feels about things annoys me. Of course, I don't think anyone should try to control any other person's feelings, regardless of gender. But I get a lot of letters that sound much like this - and they are nearly always from women. Men have their own brand of bad habits (Lord knows I have discussed them extensively here), but I almost never get this sort of letter from men.

I place the blame on women’s magazines, publishing all those stupid articles about Ten Tips For Fixing Whatever The Hell Is Wrong With Your Man! It’s sort of borderline when said fixes are purely external. I have known and loved men who I thought really needed a different haircut, or some clothes from, say, the current decade. That’s minor stuff, and some men are happy to have a woman tactfully offer help with such things. Some aren’t, and then you have to either deal with it or not. But he couldn’t be that awful, or you wouldn’t be with him in the first place, right?

However, I strongly disagree with the idea that a woman should try to redesign the inside of a man’s head. If you want a romance with someone who thinks just like you, date other women. Men are different from us. Really. Their view of the world is neither better or worse than ours, it just – is. I myself think men are sort of like the Federal government. They do certain important jobs really well, but it’s best to keep their official duties simply defined. As far as I am concerned, the duties of the men in my life are: lift heavy things, defend me from hostile insects and rodents, tell me that I’m beautiful, and make with the sexy.

Perhaps there are some refinements to those tasks - cooking dinner, helping me with my taxes, clearing paths through crowds, et cetera. But I think with men, it’s best to stick to job requirements that are observable to the naked eye. If you tell a man what you wish to have done, he’ll either do it, or else he won’t. But if it's something both of you can see, then it's easier to discuss. Telling a man you want him to feel differently is hard to measure, and doing so rarely yields a satisfactory result for anyone, in my experience.

Again, I’m being somewhat flippant in how I’m expressing this. However, I am serious when I say: it is a mistake to try to get your partner to change how he thinks and feels. If you don’t already like how he thinks and feels, then why are you with him?

So you want a tip, ladies? Here’s a tip: take the man, or leave him, just like he is. You want to fix something around your house? Re-cover your couch. Or clean out the gutters, or organize your spice cabinet, or whatever. But fixing up a man? Bad idea.

The latest Stranger column, about unproductive behaviors that certain types of male/female couples fall into, when seeking a woman to join them. How Not To Be A Dunning-Kruger Couple.

I have a new Stranger column up, and I’m expecting some blowback from it, either on the Stranger page or elsewhere on the web, because I am pushing a hot button: I am suggesting that the BDSM instructors should not teach – or even demonstrate – high risk practices in short, beginner-accessible classes. So you should read that column first, because the rest of this post discusses it.

This column sprung from attending a breathplay class taught by Lee Harrington here in Seattle recently, part of which made me uneasy. Let me emphasize here that Lee showed us a lot of fun, no/low risk ways to limit or change the way someone breathes. Lee is a very engaging speaker/performer, and has a lot of good things to say about the psychology and theatre of breathplay. It was only part of the class troubled me, and that was the part with demonstrations of strangling, and the part where Lee put a plastic bag over his head and taped it around his neck.

The good part of this was how well Lee Harrington – with whom I’ve been acquainted for some years – took my criticism. He listened to my opinion thoughtfully and without defensiveness, and we had a really good dialogue about it privately. For now, he’s not teaching the class as a stand-alone offering. Handling criticism well takes grace and maturity, and Lee displayed an impressive level of both. I respect that a lot.

Breathplay is a touchy issue for BDSM people. Even the mere word breathplay is tricky. It’s a bit like the word “bondage” – it covers a very broad range of activity. Let me reiterate that I have no problem with the milder end of breathplay, either doing it or teaching it.

However, as with every kind of BDSM, there is a scale of intensity and risk in breathplay. And there are specific practices at the high end of the overall activity where the risk of harm is so high and so uncontrollable that I don’t think they should be taught to a general audience. Strangling people unconscious, or suffocating them unconscious with a plastic bag or some similar thing like plastic wrap, is very high risk. I think BDSM educators should be actively discouraging those behaviors.

And I don’t think it’s repressive, or a waste of time to do that. This is not about shaming people for their turn-ons, or preaching a just-say-no sermon. It’s no different than bondage instructors teaching people not to suspend people by just their wrists. Yes, it looks cool, you see it in the movies, and there are porn pictures of it online, but in real life, that’s likely to damage someone’s hands in a severe and/or permanent way, so he instructs people not to do that. There are other ways to tie people up that are hot and sexy and far less likely to result in physical damage.

In the same way, there are ways to play with breathing that are far less likely to result in someone being harmed. That’s what we should be teaching people to do. I have no illusions that everyone will stop doing intense strangling and suffocation. But I believe that the BDSM community can and should influence some people towards safer types of play.

For some people, the idea that they are deliberately and purposefully risking death is part of the thrill of strangling and suffocation. They feel it’s the ultimate expression of trust, although I don’t quite understand how it expresses trust when a lot of risk is beyond the conscious control of the top. Doing a scene like that - one where, if things go wrong, someone dies on the spot - is called edgeplay, and I admit openly it’s not my kink. But obviously if you like playing with the possibility of death, then safer breathplay will not appeal to you.

Fans of strangling like to invoke martial-arts masters as examples of how choke-holds can be done safely. To them I say: if you and your partner are, in fact, both martial-arts masters who have been trained in this, then yes, you can assess your risk differently. (I say both because being schooled in how to respond to a choke-hold in a way that minimizes damage is part of why that works as well as it does.) And doing even a properly-executed chokehold while alone with a sexual partner is still a different situation than doing it in a ring surround by judges and officials, and with emergency medical help standing by. But I acknowledge that some people have superior training.

However, the vast majority of people in the world - including me - are actually not trained martial-arts masters. For us, using martial-arts masters as an example for what’s safe in breathplay is a bit like using professional racecar drivers as an example of what’s safe to do while driving I-5.

So to my mind, if you want to be educated in how to apply chokeholds, then go to martial-arts school. It will take longer than two hours, for sure, and it will involve more effort than you just showing up and sitting on a folding chair. (And way more than - sweet Jesus - reading about it and watching porn of it online.)

But guess what? Gaining true mastery of any BDSM technique takes work. If you want to do high-risk play, but you care so little for your partner’s safety that you’re not willing to spend time, effort and money to learn as much as you possibly can about how to do it, then I don’t have much respect for you as a player.

I have some other thoughts about the culture of breathplay as a part of the BDSM community – there are a few curious anomalies about it that I want to discuss with some people I know and respect who do breathplay. And I’m actually pondering a follow-up column to this one, if I can get a Seattle-area martial-arts instructor to answer some interview questions for me about learning and using chokeholds. So look for more questions and analysis about this in days to come…

EDITED: I think free-diving school would be the best way to learn about suffocation. Obviously it's slightly different being in the water versus having a bag over your head, but it's my opinion that the science of it would be similar enough to make that practice slightly less high-risk.

A random silly story…

Regular readers know I like champagne, and lately one of my favorite brands has become hard to find. Billecart-Salmon Brut Rose is it's name, and there’s apparently some issues with suppliers/distributors here in Washington. Very annoying. Thus, anytime I’m someplace that sells wine, I’ve taken to checking to see if they have any inventory sitting on the shelf.

Yesterday I was in the QFC on Broadway, buying some mundane items for the house, and I walked by the little glassed-in room where they keep the pricier wine. By chance, it was unlocked, so I stepped inside to just see if there was any of my pretty pink bubbly. I figured it was a long shot, but hey, worth checking.

I was studying the shelves of champagne when the wine steward - a dark-haired guy, rather nice-looking - walked up and politely inquired if he could help me.

“I’m looking for Billecart-Salmon rose. I don’t see any here, but if you have any bottles that aren’t out, I’ll take them.”

Now, sometimes when I’m in a non-kinky setting, I’ll say something, and without my meaning for it to, it’ll come out sounding rather… Mistress-Matisse-y. I don’t know why. An occupational hazard, I suppose. It wasn’t like I snapped my fingers at the guy or anything. I just accidentally dropped into a bit of the command-voice, you might say.

And he heard it. He paused in what he was about to say and regarded me quizzically, but with good humor. Then his eyes dropped to the item I was carrying tucked under my arm like a swagger stick. He made a small gesture towards it. “Got a big evening planned?”

I was carrying a toilet plunger. One of those really big ones.

Naturally I cracked up laughing. “Oh yeah, I have a hot date,” I replied, taking the plunger out from under my arm and brandishing it slightly. “And nothing goes with a plunger like Billecart-Salmon. I mean, obviously.”

He grinned. “Who could argue with that?” He then admitted he didn’t have any, and we spent a few minutes discussing the merits of other rose champagnes in a slightly frisky manner. I held the business end of the plunger and used the handle as a pointer as we looked through the shelves.

Him: “Have you tried the Henriot rose? I think it would go well with plungers.”
Me: “Hey, I only have this one. I’m not that kinky.” (Yes, I said that. Sue me.)
Him: “Well, there’s the Laurent-Perrier. I think that’s so good you should have proof of birth control when you buy it.”
Me: (laughing)
Him: “No, seriously. Even if you’re alone.”

So there you go. Carry an odd accessory, cop a Mistressy attitude, and you’ll get lots of personal attention from wine guys. Just don’t buy any Billecart-Salmon, because I want it.

A link to my latest Stranger column: an interview with Sex At Dawn author Christopher Ryan, about life after one's book is published.


And, a little word-rant of mine, first written in 2004, polished up a bit and presented for your amusement.

***

BDSM Word-of-the-Day: Domme. Noun. Pronunciation: 'däm
Domme is a made-up word, the faux-Frenchified and feminized offspring of the abbreviation, "dom", which of course means "dominant". Both dom and domme are used as nouns: "he's a dom," or "she's a domme". But be aware that both words are pronounced exactly the same way: they rhyme with the name "Tom". "Domme" is absolutely not pronounced "dom-may" or "dom-mey".

Even aside from some people's cringe-inducing tendency to mispronounce this word, it isn't one of my favorite terms - it just seems clunky and affected. When I came out into the scene, people used the words "top" and "bottom" as flexible generic terms to indicate someone's dominant or submissive role or behavior, and I still use those terms a lot, even though they've fallen out of vogue. I was taught to use "Master" and "Mistress" mostly as terms of specific address, and only occasionally as descriptive terms.

Another thing: a "sub" is either an underwater boat or a sandwich. I realized this word has drifted into mainstream culture, and I'll cut non-BDSM folks some slack about using it, though I may wince slightly. But for someone involved in the scene, using the word "sub" to refer to a person is extremely gauche. I really feel that there is no punishment too strong for people who say or write "subbie" as a pseudo-cutesy way of saying "submissive".

Also undesirable is saying "subbing" to refer to either a status or an activity. "Chris is subbing to Pat." Don't say that. You could say, "Chris is Pat's submissive." Or, "Chris is submissive to Pat." Or if you are speaking of a scene rather than a ongoing relationship, you could say something like, "Chris is submitting to Pat tonight at the party."

One last word rant: Dom-i-nant, when used in this context, is a noun. If you are a person who likes to be in control, you're a d-o-m-i-n-a-n-t. When you are playing with your partner, you dom-i-nate them. That's a verb. As you can see, they're spelled differently, and that's because they're two different words. If I see one more personal ad or profile saying, "I'm a dominate Master," I'm going to give someone an enema with a pureed Webster's dictionary.

Language is a beautiful thing. Words are very important. So don't fuck with them or the Mistress will kick your ass.

Original version published Tuesday, May 25, 2004

I realize I'm cannibalizing myself here a fair amount lately. What can I say? I have phases where I want to write a lot, and then phases where I don't as much. My real life is so extremely delightful lately that I'm just busy living it.

Be assured I'm not going away. I have collected a number of stories that will see the light of digital day sometime in the future. I have a pair of Stranger columns in the chute that I'm quite pleased with, so those are forthcoming. And there's always my Twitter for 140-character bursts of whimsy, fashion-porn, and occasional bits of (I hope) brilliance.

And, now a story I've told before. It came to my mind over the weekend, as some female pals and I were talking about sexual approaches that were doomed to fail.

***

What Not To Say

In spite of sometimes-considerable provocation, I try not to talk too much here about the recent, real-life bad behaviors of people I encounter. At least not so that they could identify themselves - it just seems too unkind. I have a lot of power in this forum, and I try to use it only for good.

However, there are exceptions to that rule. So while this is not my story, it's from a reliable source, and it's so breathtakingly bad that I had to say something.

Not long ago, a woman I know moved to a new town - not Seattle - and she went to a munch where she knew no one. A man there introduced himself and was very friendly to her, as men will be. In fact, one might reasonably say he was hitting on her.

Nothing wrong with that, exactly. He just didn’t do it very well, you understand. Apparently he was a bit too forward with the social touching, for example. I have met this man myself, and I have my own observations of his social skills, and what she said lined up with my impression of him. But my friend is a laid-back girl, and so she just shrugged it off.

Okay, fast-forward: the munch is over, she’s leaving, and he’s walking her to her car. And with no obvious pretext whatsoever, he turns to her and says, “So where are you on your cycle?”

She looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Are you close to your period? You just look kinda puffy, like you’re retaining water.”

My pal told me this, and my jaw dropped open in disbelief. “No, he did not say that to you. He did not.”

She closed her eyes and laughed a little, ruefully. “Yes, yes he did.”

Sweet Jesus Christ. I was dumbstruck with astonishment by this tale. I cannot believe that any man past the age of toilet-training would be so stupid as to actually say this a woman. I mean any man, to any woman, at any time, ever. Neither Max nor Monk would dream of ever saying something like this to me, even though there have been times when I was retaining so much water that I should have had a freaking salmon ladder built over my abdomen. If you have a female partner, yeah, sometimes you can tell when her body looks a little different. But only a flipping idiot would remark on the matter to his or her beloved. The correct response, if your girlfriend says, “Do I look puffy?” is “No, sweetheart, not at all.” If really pressed, you might squint thoughtfully at her and say, “Well, maybe your boobs look a little bigger. Otherwise, nah, you look great.”

That’s how you handle it with a woman you’re intimate with, and it doesn’t seem like you’d have to be real clever to figure that out. So I am astounded at the thickheadedness of a man who thinks it’s cool to tell a woman he just met, whom he is hitting on, that she looks puffy. I mean, what are you thinking? How could anyone imagine that such a remark would endear you to a girl? Saying that kind of thing to women is a really good way to grow cobwebs across your cock.

It's barely possible that this man thinks he's such a True Dominate Master that he can say things like this and women will find it acceptable. He'd be wrong, of course, but it's the only even-slightly-comprehensible explanation I can think of. (I suppose he could be a menstruation fetishist, but he didn't say so, and that still wouldn't make the remark any less horrifying. )

Ready for some extra-bonus-wrongness points? This man is himself a rather large fellow. Nothing wrong with that, but if you’re going to go around telling women you just met they look puffy, you invite their examination of your figure, and if it speaks of a lot of high-sodium snacks, it makes a girl think, Well at least my puffiness will go away in a couple of days, buddy.

Super-extra-bonus-wrongness points: when they got to her car, he tried to kiss her. I am so not making this up. I am not. I could not have made this up if I tried. It’s so wrong. (She dodged it, thankfully.)

No, she didn’t tell him he was a prat, she’s too polite, and plus the whole thing caught her off guard. But you can bet she’ll be avoiding him in the future.

Now, I don’t know that this fellow reads this blog. I hope he doesn't. But in case he does: yes, I’m talking about you. I am sure you’re mortified by this. However, note that I did not name or describe you, or mention the city, and I could have. Unless you tell them, no one but you, the woman involved, and me know that it’s you. Your best response would be to keep quiet and learn something from this. I don’t think you’re evil, but I think you’ve done some socially inappropriate things, and yes, sometimes you’re gonna get called on that. It’s a growing-up process. You seem active in your pursuit of the ladies, so here’s my advice: Your hands should be kept more to yourself until such time as a woman makes it clear she wants you to touch her. And your unflattering and too-intimate remarks on a woman’s appearance should remain unsaid forever.
(First published: Tuesday, April 01, 2008)

I found out today that Jezebel.com wants to link to my latest Stranger column: The Great Polyamory vs Polyfuckery Debate. I'm charmed and flattered, and quite curious to see how Jezebel readers respond to it...

I forget sometimes that there's a whole little section of columns I've written for The Stranger that do not appear under my byline in their archives proper. They are over on the the personals site, Lustlab. Here's one from some years ago that I selected to place here today, but you can enjoy all of them here.

***

Anatomy of a BDSM Party

10:40 p.m.—Max and I arrive at our host’s home and stash our stuff with the 20-odd other bags of BDSM toys sitting near the front door. The assortment of luggage reflects the tastes of the owners: black plastic tackle boxes full of needles and sharp toys, architects’ document tubes containing long canes and crops, and black leather duffle bags loaded with floggers and paddles.

10:42 p.m.—I take a look around the room, waving to a few people. I’m guessing there are about 40 other BDSM people present, and if past experience is anything to go by, about half of them will be people I know well, a quarter of them people who I know slightly, and the rest of them people I don’t know at all.

10:44 p.m.—I put the beers we brought into the ice chest and we then fall into conversation with some friends standing by the host’s dining-room table, which is loaded with yummy food. I eat strawberries and remark to Rose that her breasts, which are attractively displayed in a transparent T-shirt, are so beautiful that it’s difficult to restrain myself from touching them. She smiles and invites me to go ahead. Max and I aren’t in full-on cruising mode tonight, but we’re open to doing some casual play if the right situation presents itself, so gently squeezing Rose’s tits is an auspicious beginning for the evening.

10:50 p.m.—Rose introduces me to a tall boy who has blue hair, blue eye shadow, and a blue-trimmed corset, all perfectly matched. The three of us chat about the pains and pleasures of wearing high-heeled shoes.

10:58 p.m.—Mingling in the living room, I sit down next to another female friend and ask her about the pretty brocade bustier she’s wearing. We then get into a discussion about the relative merits of dating people already in the BDSM community versus meeting someone presumably vanilla and then “turning” them. I profess myself to be firmly in the first camp, but she offers some spirited debate on the matter, based mainly on what she sees as the slim pickings available in terms of already-kinky single men.

11:07 p.m.—Brocade Bustier and I are joined by a third woman, wearing a long black gown, and the three of us get into a hilariously bitchy conversation about how one can identify undesirable dating possibilities.

11:10 p.m.—Three women laughing together attract male attention, and we are joined by a guy in a black leather vest. We warn him that he should not attempt to participate in this female-dominated conversation.

11:14 p.m.—The guy in the black leather vest leaves. Apparently our discussion of bad combovers, and the relationship between men’s cars and their penis size, displeased him in some way. We are not greatly troubled by his departure.

11:28 p.m.—I find Max and we walk downstairs to the basement, where the BDSM play is happening. There’s a light flogging going on in one corner, and across the room a local bondage artist is putting a rope body harness on a topless woman, who is giggling. The main attraction for the voyeurs among us, however, is tattoo/body modification artist Gypsy Jill*, who is suturing glittering crystal and rhinestone beads onto another woman’s back, breasts, and shoulders. There are matching beads already woven into her hair. It’s clearly going to be an elaborate piece of body art when it’s finished. The woman being sewn on quivers occasionally, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s from pain or pleasure. Otherwise she sits quietly, watching herself and Jill in a mirror that’s been placed in front of her chair. A handful of rapt observers stand at a polite distance, murmuring amongst themselves in low voices.

11:49 p.m.—Max and I are enjoying just seeing our friends, but we’re also still considering who, if anyone, we might pounce upon. So we go back upstairs and wander out onto the deck, where several nude people are sitting in a hot tub. A black-haired woman in a black leather corset, puffy tulle skirts, and high laced boots is sitting next to the tub in a plastic chair, holding a laughing conversation with a naked woman as she splashes in the water. Sounds float out to us from the living room, and everyone’s head turns for a moment as we all hear the familiar thwack sound of a flogger landing on someone’s flesh. A few people stub out their cigarettes and stroll inside to see who’s getting flogged, but most of us just smile and go back to our conversations.

12:11 a.m.—After an amusing group discussion about how to get one’s BDSM toys through an airline baggage check, I go back inside to get a drink, carefully avoiding the backswing of the corseted Mistress who’s flogging a shirtless man as he leans up against the wall. I bend over to get a can of pop out of the ice chest, and as I straighten up, a male friend standing a few feet behind me grins and asks if I’ll get him one too. I obligingly start to bend over again before I remember: I’m wearing my extremely short leopard skin skirt. I stick out my tongue at him, and then pull up the hem of my skirt for a second and flash him my ass cheeks.

12:26 a.m.—One of the guests has recently appeared in a spanking and corporal punishment DVD and has brought a copy to the host, who promptly pops it into the player. It’s actually a pretty good DVD, as such things go, but there is no tougher audience than a roomful of hardcore perverts like us, and our response is something that, if filmed, might be entitled Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Fetish Movies.

1:00 a.m.—Despite some kinky possibilities here, Max and I decide we’d prefer to go home and fuck each other like crazed weasels, so kiss a lot of people goodbye—some more enthusiastically than others—and leave.

***

*Who is much missed by people who knew and loved her. Requiescat in pace, Jill.

As the readers of my Twitter already know, I'm out of town for a few days. I'm enjoying a few days in Chicago with an intimate companion. I'm back Saturday evening, and I plan to spend Sunday recovering what I'm sure will be be a delightful trip.

But if you wish to see me, drop me a note and we'll plan a rendezvous for next week. I have missed seeing far too many people I'm fond of lately. You know who you are... So let's play.

Even more than I want to kiss Matthew Inman, I want to kiss this cartoonist for drawing this cartoon. Because I feel this way ALL the time, and I'm eternally grateful to Allie Brosh for reminding me that other people suck at being grown-ups, too.






















You have to go read the whole thing. This one panel does not do it justice. What, you have to go to the bank? Forget that. Internet!