Originally Published 2007

Ok, so I have to tell you an amusing story about an elevator encounter I had this past weekend... Or more accurately, one Candy and Jae and I had.

Candy and Jae have played with Traveler and me before, and they all like each other, so when I suggested they come visit us late one evening, he said, “Why don’t we all go to dinner first?” So we all went out to a lovely dinner, and there was some wine, and perhaps we were all feeling just a touch merry and uninhibited. Although really, we can all get that way without wine.

Now, you probably don’t know this, but there was a big convention in Seattle these last few days – of orthodontists. When I say big, I mean we heard there were something like thirty thousand orthodontists in Seattle. Not just American orthodontists, either - there were Spanish orthodontists, there were French orthodontists, there were Indian orthodontists. Heck, there were orthodontists here from countries I couldn’t find on a map. I saw a lot of said orthodontists in lobby and elevator of the Fairmont, and plus, we got the skinny from the valets, because those guys always know what’s going on. And they like to chat with cute girls.

We were looking more than just cute, actually, all dressed up for an evening of fun and games. I was wearing a slinky, skintight black Wolford top and skirt and spike heels, Candy was wearing very high heels and a flippy little black and white dress which made one think that her legs might really and truly be a mile long, and Jae was wearing an outfit that we decided could best be described as “a kinky SS cheerleader”. We were quite a sight, in the lobby of the serene and conservative Fairmont Hotel. We seemed to cause something of a stir on our way out to dinner, so on our way back in, I told Traveler to drop the three of us off at a side entrance, so he didn't have to escort us back past the interested gaze of the various hotel staff. I mean, the man stays at the Fairmont with his business companions as well, let’s not complicate his life by raising too many eyebrows.

So we three ladies are in the elevator, riding back up to the suite, and an older couple – perhaps late-sixties – get on with us. They were both all dressed up, obviously coming from some social event, and something about the lady’s expression reminded me of one of my great-aunts – the one who was essentially a kind person, but sometimes a trifle querulous.

Perhaps it was the reminder of dealing with older relatives that made me say to them, “Careful, this elevator’s been bouncing a little when it’s stopped, don’t trip.”

Just being a good citizen, you know? But Candy and Jae took my remark as a cue to begin bantering with the man in a manner that one might call flirtatious.

He looked mildly startled but pleased. His wife’s face suggested that she didn’t know quite what to think about these oddly dressed and chatty strangers, but that given some time, she might work up to being displeased by them.

This was not exactly my idea of being low-profile, but, luckily even a quaint old elevator like the Fairmont’s doesn’t take long to get up seven floors. The couple were going on up, and I breathed a small sigh of relief as Candy and I got off the elevator, with Jae a few steps behind us, saying a polite goodnight to them like the former debutante that she is.

And the woman calls out, in a half-sweet, half-suspicious voice, “Are you three orthodontist-girls?”

Now, the first thought that went through my mind was: what exactly would an orthodontist-girl be? A female orthodontist? Oh, wow, that’s real feminist of you, lady. Gloria Steinem thanks you.

Or maybe she means orthodontist’s assistants. I didn’t know what such a person’s correct title would be. Neither did she, apparently.

But, while I am sure there are some very tarty, kinky-looking people who work in orthodontist’s offices in all capacities, my strongest reaction was: lady, do we fucking look like orthodontists?

However, I would not dream of saying such a thing to a blue-haired, pearl-wearing, great-aunt-ish lady. My Southern upbringing would never permit it.

So I turned around to civilly decline any connection with the tooth-straightening industry. Candy, however, is a woman of fewer words. She gave short laugh and a broad, dismissive wave of one hand, and sang out clearly, “Oh, hell no!” Then she turned and stalked off down the pastel blue hallway in her black and white faux fur coat, like Cruella DeVille gone vegetarian.

I was at the wrong angle, but I caught just enough of a glimpse of the woman’s face to decide that I would follow Candy, abandoning Jae, who stammered something about Tourette’s Syndrone as the elevator doors closed on the outraged lady.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you said that!” I was laughing so hard Candy had to grab my arm to keep me from stumbling.

Jae caught up with us. She was laughing too, in that horrified way one does when one sees a sacred cow – Always be respectful of your elders – tipped over into the mud. “Jesus, you should have seen her, her eyes got big and her lips got all mad and tight, and her chin started quivering like a bobble-head doll.”

We reached the suite. Jae and I collapsed onto the couch, giggling madly. Candy looked slightly abashed.

“I didn’t really think about it,” she said, biting her lip. “I didn’t mean to be rude, it just - came out.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s probably good that you didn’t say something like: “Hell no, we’re not orthodontist-girls, we’re a bunch of perverted harlots, and we’re going to go stick needles through this guy’s nipples, you wanna watch?”

That made Candy laugh, too. “Yeah, well, that’s sort of what I was thinking. Only not the wanna-watch part.”

So if you’re a lady of mature years who had an encounter with three wild women at the Fairmont this weekend: Sorry, we didn’t mean to be rude. Want us to stick needles in your nipples to make up for it?

Unsolicited, Indeed: A Letter From Professor Patti Adler

Wow, did I get a weird email today. 

First, quick backstory: Professor Patti Adler is a professor of sociology at University of Colorado Boulder. Last year, a class she teaches about prostitution came under fire. There were conflicting reports about her being fired or leaving voluntarily, but it seemed she had left. Then, she came back. (Or maybe she never really left, it’s unclear to me.)

Adler, who called the class "the highlight of the semester in my signature course," described what goes on during the prostitution lecture: Professor Adler has some of her teaching assistants (who are undergraduates) dress up as various kinds of prostitutes -- she named as categories "slave whores, crack whores, bar whores, streetwalkers, brothel workers and escort services." They work with Adler on scripts in which they describe their lives as these types of prostitutes.

During the lecture, Adler talks with them (meaning: the teaching assistants, in character) about such issues as their backgrounds, "how they got into the business," how much they charge, the services they perform, and the risks they face of violence, arrest and AIDS. The class is a mix of lecture and discussion, just like most classes, she said.

So basically she has student dress up in sexy outfits and stand up in front of the class and recite stories she teaches them about sex work. Presumably the students can also ask questions, which the students-pretending-to-be-sexworkers will answer, based on the information Professor Adler has taught them.

My impression, based on reading the stories about it, was that this was really not cool. Professor Adler’s list of sex worker social groups sounds extremely dated at best, and hardly academic at all. Her repetition of the word whore is offensive. And having student dress up in costumes and talk about what types of sex their character has is clearly a titillating feature that has no place in a classroom. 

But the real point is: there are real sex workers who could speak about their lives, but are not permitted to. I myself have visited college classes and talked about being a sex worker. Having a guest come and speak to a class on this subject is very much a thing that can be done – if the professor wishes it. Professor Adler apparently does not want actual sex workers to speak in her class, she only wishes to have her students say what she tells them to say. 

I guarantee you that a lot of sex workers have had to sit in that class and watch all that. I myself have sat in college classroom and seethed as professors lectured the most arrant nonsense about my life. I cannot imagine how I’d feel if I had to watch a bunch of not-sex-workers dress up and play-act little skits about being me, and see that be represented as a college-level of education about sex work. I was glad she wasn’t going to teach it any more.

So that’s backstory. Today, out of nowhere, I got this email. And wow, do I have a lot of thoughts about this. I’m framing them, but in the meantime, feel free to reply to me on Twitter. 

Mistress Matisse,

Leonard says you might be open to giving me some help with my skit this semester. I’ve only gotten a 1-semester reprieve, and then I have to go, but I’d like to be more sensitive than I might have been and make sure I don’t insult or misrepresent anybody. I can’t have people come to my class because the class is really not about prostitution, it’s about deviant subcultures, and I use the example of prostitution to illustrate a stratification hierarchy. Many college students have only one image when they think about prostitutes and that’s probably a streetwalker, but I used a dozen people to come down and be interviewed by me starting with the slave role, the crack-addicted role, the streetwalker (male/female/pimp), women who frequent bars to pick up customers, brothels, and escort services. With that many people I can only give about 3 minutes to each and I ask most people the same basic things:

What’s your family background, your educational background, how did you get into what you’re doing now, what do you do and how much do you charge, what’s your risk of violence/arrest/disease, and what are your future prospects.

Might you be willing to give me some feedback on a particular stratum or two? Can you tell me what your area of expertise is?

Respectfully yours,

Patti Adler

http://spot.colorado.edu/~adler/index.htm

From: Leonard Fahrni [mailto:ldfahrni@aol.com]
Sent: Friday, January 24, 2014 9:04 PM
To: adler@spot.colorado.edu
Subject: some unsolicited advice

Hello Dr. Adler

I am a CU alum and I teach Math and Science classes at Metro State in Denver. I followed with some interest your brief notoriety and I am glad to see that you have been reinstated. I wrote a letter of support to president Benson and I'm sure my effort did very little to tip the scales in your favor. I was just so outraged at what looked like an attempt to censor your academic freedom that I had to vent. In full disclosure, Bronson Hilliard and I played on the same team in the CU trivia bowl in the 90s and I got him to help me direct my letter.

My unsolicited advice comes from my reading of an unusual group of authors on Twitter. I'm sure @mistressmatisse and @Maggie_McNeill don't represent the opinions of the entire sex worker community, but they both criticized you based on the assumption that people who are actual sex-workers need to have a voice in any discussion of them. I think that point has some validity. I also think either of them would be glad to share their experiences and knowledge with you. I am almost certain that a letter from you would totally floor them, so it might be worth a look just for that. Maggie mentions you in her blog here http://maggiemcneill.wordpress.com/2014/01/23/ and can be contacted at maggiemcneill@earthlink.net; You can take a look at my contentious discussion with Mistress Matisse on Twitter on last December 16

here's an excerpt, where I claimed you were fired for the content of your class (Bronson and Phil DiStephano both said you weren't "fired" and I guess you weren't after all) I suggested that it would have been cool if she had been a guest in your class and she agreed with me there.

mistressmatisse ‏@mistressmatisse Dec 16 @LeonardFahrni I've been to lot of college classes where I talked about being a sex worker, and no one got fired. Because everyone involved was respectful.

Leonard Fahrni ‏@LeonardFahrni Dec 16 @mistressmatisse This one did, no matter what the administration claims. Too bad, she should invite you to speak.

mistressmatisse ‏@mistressmatisse Dec 16 @LeonardFahrni I would have. But there are lots of cool, smart sex workers in Denver. Some of them may have been students in those classes.

She can apparently be contacted at Mistressmatisse@gmail.com

Thanks for taking the time to look at this mess. I admire the fact that you are able to generate such long term interest for your class. I mostly teach service classes like Business Calculus or classes for Education majors. In the latter, I am always doing anything to get them to show a little independent thought. I tell them to question authority and it is always a disappointment that more of them don't see the irony in that statement coming from a person in my position.

Have a great semester

Leonard Fahrni

CU class of 77, 79, 88, 97, 05 and 10 (so far)

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.