Old And New

Over the last week I have thrown away, given away, and sold a whole bunch of stuff that I had left in the old house, because it was time for the Mistress to do a purge. Most of it wasn’t really kinky – random bits of clothing, housewares, unneeded furniture. Some of it was a trifle odd, I suppose, like the animal skulls give me by a flirtatious taxidermist, the statue of a nude woman in chains brought to me by a client, and the antique barber’s chair that looked really cool but weighed a freakin’ ton. Lots of people wanted the barber chair, but I had begun to think I’d never find anyone who’d actually be willing to come and take it away. (I did, finally.) I’ve still got the antique block and tackle (Max’s impulse purchase from a garage sale) that needs to go away, but I’ve thought of someone who would like it, so I’m planning to present it to him as a gift.

So the old house is almost finally empty. But there are two slightly kinky items left sitting on the porch, waiting to be adopted by someone. This, which has been sat on exactly twice, by me, and not a whole lot exciting happened. And this, which would surely fit in with someone's roleplaying fantasy. Want them? Drop me a note in the next 24 hours and I’ll give you the address. After that, I call the junk-man.

What I really need now is: A kink-friendly upholsterer. You see, I have this special fabulous bondage table, with two removable inserts, and the vinyl is cracking. That’s not okay. It needs to be recovered. And because of the insert pieces, it’s not a matter of just putting a sheet of vinyl over it and tacking down the edges. I need someone with the skills and the equipment to make a pattern and sew heavy-duty, marine-grade vinyl. (The original upholsterer is unavailable.)

The kink-friendly part is non-negotiable. I will not going to deal with a vanilla person around this, because there is no conceivable way it could be passed off as anything except exactly what it is, a table designed to facilitate bondage and torment. No way at all.

So I'm using my "second" bondage table for now, which is interesting because it has wheels, being a surgical table, but it's not as cool. I want my good table back.

Anyone have a suggestion?

Okay, the all-new dungeon is officially up and running. Still some decorating and arranging to do – and some more serious shopping, too. But it’s taking shape and looking pretty damn good, if I do say so. I should take some photos once it’s all done and show ya’ll.

And it's just in time for me to switch my focus and accompany Max to the Traveling Erotic Art Show Thursday and then help with the Partial Suspension Bondage class Sunday. Should be a fun weekend.

All Dominatrixes, All The Time

I'm not sure how I feel about this court decision and this ad for the MiniCooper. (Be sure and follow the links to see all the images.)

On the one hand, I don't think the Mistress murdered the guy, and if they can't prove she cut up his body and tried to hide it, well, then - she deserves to get off. But Jesus, I hope she doesn't get back in the business. It's the kinda thing that makes clients nervous.

I actually have had one client, an older guy who's not in the best of health, tell me that if he keels over, I shouldn't call 911 because his wife would find out where he was. He wants me to call a pal of his (whose phone number is in his shirt pocket) who will apparently come and discreetly take him (in whatever state he's in) away.

I've told him forget it, if he strokes out, I'm calling the paramedics and he can just deal with whatever fallout there is. I'm not setting myself up to get sued by his irate family for negligence!

The Mini ad - well, it's sort of cute, I guess. I like the catsuit. And in some ways, any mainstreaming of kink is a good thing. Although that model has no earthly idea how to throw a long whip. It's a miracle she didn't lash herself in the face.

But it goes past cute into cutesy. And superficial. It's the kind of thing that makes women without the slightest notion of what BDSM really is decide, "Oooh, that's a sexy outfit she has on. I should become a professional dominatrix so I can look cool like that and guys will give me money." I know, I know - it's advertising, so of course it's going to be cutesy and superficial. But it doesn't make me want to buy a Mini - so there, Madison Avenue.

I love my new house. I love it so much. I love it because it’s warm. I love my garage. I love my pretty new carpet. I love my decks. (Even when it’s raining.) I love my three bathrooms. I love love love my house. Thanks to Roman for providing me with (im)moral support for the big day on Friday, and thanks to Steven and Jerry and Roman and Max for the dungeon-furniture-assembly project Sunday.

But there are other things to talk of besides my beautiful house. I don’t wish to become too tedious, although like anyone with a new love object, I am obsessed. But I still have my other obsessions, too. There are new books on the bedside table, for example. I've just begun the Gabaldon one, and the others have yet to be opened, but I'm looking forward to them all.

A Breath of Snow and Ashes: A Novel by Diana Gabaldon

The Girl in the Glass: A Novel by Jeffrey Ford

Self-Made Man : One Woman's Journey into Manhood and Back by Norah Vincent

The Big Book of Noir by Lee Server; Martin H. Greenberg; Ed Gorman

Dark Crimes 2: Modern Masters of Noir by Ed Gorman (Editor)

Grifter's Game by Lawrence Block

The Big Con : The Story of the Confidence Man by David Maurer

Something from the Nightside, by Simon R. Green

Moving Day!

But you don't have to do any heavy lifting. Read this instead....

New House
The thick, soft new carpet is (finally) all in place, and it looks and feels great. The walls are freshly painted. Two more days of packing, and then Friday- the big day.
I'm very excited! (And very tired, too. But mainly excited.)

Fair warning: blogging will be light this week. The movers come Friday morning and I'm in the final push to get everything packed and ready. But I can't wait to be in my new place!

So talk amongst yourselves. Here's a topic: this month's Rolling Stone features an article about famed film-maker Larry (or perhaps I should say Laurenca*) Wachowski and his/her relationship with former pro domme Ilsa Strix. Roman called it to my attention, and his opinion is that it's unflattering to the BDSM community, pro dommes, and transexuals. Me? Well, I can't speak for the trans-folks, but frankly, in the current social climate, I think any mainstream media coverage that doesn't directly connect the BDSM community with dead bodies in oil drums is a win. Yes, it's gossipy and rather leering, but, hey, it's Rolling Stone. You want serious, weighty articles, read The Economist.
Discuss.


*For the record, I'd be happy to refer to L. Wachowski by whatever name and pronoun he/she wishes. Until a preference is publicly stated, however, I am left to flounder with clumsy parenthesis and cumbersome slashes. Not that I think any of the principles in this story are losing sleep over my writerly distress.

A sample of my complex and amusing social calendar... Recently my friend Rossi, who enjoys watching beautiful naked women, decided to organize a “girl’s night out at the strip club” for all the usual suspects. She got a dozen eager takers right away, which, in my crowd of friends, surprises me not at all. They were all set to go for last Friday.

Now, many strip clubs won’t allow women to come in unless they're with a man. I used to think this was a anti-lesbian bias, but then I realized: they’re trying to keep out prostitutes. Think about it - if you were a prostitute on the prowl, what better place to pass out cards than a strip club full of horny guys? Talk about fish in a barrel.

So Rossi needed a male escort for her party. Who did she turn to? Max, of course. “So, Max, there’s a dozen girls who want to go to Rick’s, will you go with us?”

Can’t you just see his face? “Oh, gee, that’s a tough one. Escort a bunch of cute girl pals of mine to a strip club full of pretty, barely-dressed women and watch them all writhe around on each other? Well, shucks, I guess I could suffer through an evening of that.”

They invited me, but frankly, I spent enough time working at Rick’s that going back there recreationally would not be a pleasure for me. I really don’t like Seattle strip clubs. Clubs in other cities are much more fun, but it’s way too tense here for my liking. Thus, I declined.

Mrs. Roman, on the other hand, was one of the ladies who accepted. So Roman said, “Well, since Max is taking my wife to the strip club, how about you and I have a date? I have a great idea, we could…” He leaned forward and whispered in my ear.

“Ohhh, wow, could we? I'd love that.” I said. “Let me just check with Max.”

I went to Max and asked him. “Sure,” he said, “that’s fine. What were you two thinking about doing? Dinner? A movie?”

“Well, we were talking about something different…” Then I told him what Roman and I had discussed. “I just want to make sure you feel okay about us doing that.”

Max looked at me. “Let me get this straight. I’m going out with the girls to Rick’s, and you and Roman are going...to Ikea?”

“Yes, if that’s okay with you. I know you and I had talked about going sometime, so if you’d rather I didn’t…”

“Oh, no – that’s fine, really. Really. I can honestly say I have no issues whatsoever about Roman taking you to Ikea.” He kissed me affectionately and then as he turned slightly away, made a tiny fist-pull gesture in the air and whispered, “Yes!” under his breath.

“Honey! Did you not want to go furniture-shopping with me?” I said, half-laughing and half-exasperated.

He kissed me again. “Sweetie, I’d be happy to go anywhere with you. But if you’re asking me if I really enjoy traipsing through Ikea, well…”

So there you have it. Max and Roman’s wife and a dozen other girls went to Rick’s and had strippers climb all over them. Roman and I went to Ikea and climbed on all the couches and beds. (We liked the round one especially.) I decided I will probably buy this couch, and Roman admitted a fondness for those little net canopies that you put over beds. I got totally lost in all the twists and turns, and had to let Roman lead me around - he claims playing video games have given him super navigational powers in maze-like environments. We talked about all manner of interior decorating and had a lovely time. Then we went to Stellars and had yummy pizza.

Just after we got back to my place, Max and six women arrived. (The other ladies had gone home.) Max had offered to make late-night breakfast for them all, something he’s good at. They were full of stripper stories – apparently a good time was had by all. Then Roman went home to hear his wife’s stories first hand and get some sleep. A very satisfying night for everyone, I think…

Happy Friday, everyone.... For your reading pleasure, the new column and calendar.
And, a Stranger staffer's view on using spanking as a cure for Seasonal Affect Disorder. (It's the last segment.) I had a lot of fun warming up Mr. Kiley's cute little butt, especially after he told me he was the office prude. Not any more, Brendan!

I love my life.

Furniture Lust, Continued…

I haven’t got time to do any real-time shopping for a new furniture yet, so I’m still poking around online to satisfy my desires. Couches are the big thing right now, as my current one is old and it’s really starting to sink.

I think black leather is the way to go. Yes, I know it seems sort of obvious – dominatrix, black leather, yeah yeah yeah… But really, leather is easy to keep clean, and if you get decent quality it stays looking nice a long while. And black goes with everything.

So this one looks nice. It’s basic, but it’s got nice clean lines.

(These little side tables are cute, too. The tops lift off for storage inside.)

Then I saw this one. I liked this shape more, but in chartreuse? Oh, I so don’t think so.

On a whole other site: I like this shape, too. A lot of the stuff on this site seems cool. But it’s suspiciously cheap, and I’m reluctant to buy something this big from a mail-order company, especially since I don’t know anyone who’s dealt with them, and I’ve never seen any of their products in real life.

Now, I was resisting looking for a couch at Ikea because – well, because it’s Ikea. Don’t get me wrong, I think Ikea is great - for some things. God knows my office walls are lined with those inexpensive particle-board bookcases. And they have cute funky accessories. But I wouldn’t tend to shop there for stuff like couches and beds and so forth.

However, I have to admit, this is a cool looking couch. Perhaps I'll have to make a run past the Swedish Disneyland to take a little look-see at it...

A client asked me the other day, “How often do people come to see you?” I think he was feeling a little self-conscious about the fact that he came in twice in a month. But that’s not really unusual, especially at the beginning. If you’ve been fantasizing about something for years and you finally get an outlet, you’re probably going to binge a little, it’s natural.

So it’s common for me to see someone once, and then have them call a week later and schedule again for few days out. Unless they’re in from out of town and only have a small window, booking more than once in a two-week period is a bit unusual. It does happen sometimes, though, and I certainly don’t mind.

After the initial rush, if there is one, has died down, it seems to break down into a couple of different groupings. First, there are the once-a-month guys. Obviously, I get to know these boys very well, since many of them have been seeing me for years.

Then there’s a group that seems to call about every three months. Again, I’ve been seeing lots of these guys for years, and I know a lot of them well, too. A number of them came to see me oftener when they could, but job or lifestyle changes have reduced their opportunities. They’re still very good regular visitors.

After that, I have a bunch of guys I know who call me about twice a year. It’s sort of interesting playing with these guys, because I get some of the effect of a known quantity, which I like, but since I don’t see them very often, there’s still a lot of unexplored territory, too. With six months in between visits, they often need to jog my memory a little about just which “Sam” or “Mike” I’m talking to when they call. Sometimes it’s harder than others, but usually, they’ll come up with some bit of trivia – “I’m the guy who works for the IRS,” or “Last time I saw you I brought you a catnip toy for your cat” – that makes me say, “Oh, right - THAT Mike! Hey, how you doing, honey? Long time no see.” But even with long gaps, after a certain number of visits, I’ll recognize their voices when they call.

Every now and then I’ll see someone once and then they vanish. Which is fine – but it’s unusual. And you can’t ever assume you'll never see a client again. Just today someone called and said. “So I saw you once three years ago...Can I make another appointment?” Three years? He must be on the extra-long kink cycle…

Well, I had a good time at Wicked Women, although I was really only around for one day. But my workshop seemed to go well. I was amused to see any number of women attending who I know perfectly well have no intention of ever becoming pro dommes. Apparently they just wanted to hear me rant. Hey, that’s fine, I’m always happy to entertain my friends.

And I had a good time schmoozing and socializing with a lot of women I haven’t seen in a while. I didn’t go to any of the other workshops, though. I’m bad about that, especially at local events. There were a couple of classes on techniques I do want a refresher on – branding and saline inflation – but I know all I have to do is call up one of my advanced pervert pals, and I can go over to their house for a private demo. It spoils me.

I had a perfectly delightful time at the dungeon party with Jae. I suspended her, beat her, attached vicious spring clamps to her nipples and labia, and electrified her girly parts at such length and intensity that it’s a good thing she doesn’t plan on having children. Then after the scene was (sort of) over, I left the long metal electrode buried in her pink parts and made her walk around the party with me as I socialized. I took great delight in pushing the remote control button and zapping her every little while. Jae has a marvelously expressive face, and her reaction to the electricity charmed me. I think at one point she claimed I was cauterizing her cervix. I told her that was nonsense, I didn’t smell any burning flesh. And then the next day, what does she do but volunteer to help with the Branding class? See how she is?

But seriously, she’s great fun, and just to prove what a sport she is, this week she’s going to help me do a decorative faux finish to the reception room of my new dungeon. (It’ll hopefully look something like this, although a slightly different color. More like this, although this is a Venetian Plaster finish, whatever the heck that is. We're just doing a glaze.)

Normally, you understand, I do not paint and such myself. It’s not something I’m naturally good at. As far as I’m concerned, home improvement is something one does with a checkbook. However, Jae is quite talented at such things and she's done a lot of decorating. She swears glazing is easy, so I’m going to give it a try. But just in case this project turned out to be a case of Jae's Revenge On The Mistress, I went by the Bellevue Home Show yesterday (Thanks for the tickets, Liss!) and picked up a card for a professional faux finisher. Always good to have expert backup when you have no idea what the hell you're doing.

The newest column and Kink Calendar. Enjoy, and I'll see you Monday, perhaps with a tale about my weekend adventures at the Wicked Womyn conference...

Weird sex work jobs I have known: I once worked for a stripper telegram service. You know, the more-or-less legit ones, where you show up at someone’s office and pretend to be a delivery person or a job applicant or something, and then you surprise the person by taking your clothes off.

I wasn’t crazy about it. I didn’t mind if someone knew it was coming, but the sneak-attack ones didn’t sit well with me. It’s that consent thing. Often the surprised recipient – or should I say victim? - seemed uncomfortable with the whole thing. I’m fine with doing some sexy entertainment for someone, but I didn’t like feeling like a tool for his friends to embarrass him with, for their entertainment.

I refused to do the ones in restaurants and bars and such. No way. Even if it was only a down-to-my-lingerie gig, I wasn’t up for that. Offices were about as public as I’d get, and even that was iffy.

The bachelor parties presented a different set of challenges. The service I worked for was one of the mainstream, franchised outfits, that also had clowns and magicians and other non-sexy performers featured prominently in the Yellow Pages ad, and they did make the point to the customers that nothing illegal was allowed to happen at these shindigs. But still, anytime you’ve got a bunch of guys, drinking, and two or maybe three girls, you need to manage the situation carefully.

Balanced against that was one’s willingness to perhaps let a guy’s hands wander a bit, if the right financial incentive were offered. But you also had to weigh the possibility that if you did that, one of the other girls might rat you out to management and get you into trouble. Unless, of course, she did it too. (Although I have known of instances where both girls broke the rules and then one tattled on the other anyway. So much for honor among thieves.)

I wasn’t making a big living off it, but it was some extra cash. (I honestly cannot recall what my main income stream was at the time.) But the job took a strange turn one night when I was told I'd been booked for a boy’s high school graduation party. By his mother.

O-kay, I thought. She’s the cool-mom type, very relaxed about her son’s sexuality. Or, she’s got no personal boundaries whatsoever.

And when I got there, it wasn’t the boy and a bunch of his adolescent friends, as I’d thought. No, it was a family party. So there’s his parents, and his aunts and uncles, and his four-year-old little sister, and his grandmother. Yeah, I said his grandma. I’m supposed to do a striptease for this kid in front of his whole damn family. Jesus Christ.

His mom took me aside to pay me and I said, “Are you sure you want me to do this? In front of everyone?”

She kinda looked at me like she couldn’t understand why I’d ask. “Yes, I’ve been telling everyone you were coming.” And then she starts introducing me to everyone, like I’m some long-lost cousin or something. “This is Marcella, she’s going to do a little show for us.” Now I know: this woman has no personal boundaries.

Then I met the graduate. It was immediately clear to me that he didn’t have a sex life for his mom to be relaxed about. There was no girlfriend present at the party, and he was not – to be blunt – terribly attractive. I imagined he would be nice-looking when he grew up a bit, but I pegged him as still a virgin.

Now imagine this nervous, obviously uncomfortable teenage boy sitting on a chair in his living room, with all his relatives ranged in a semi-circle around him, waiting to watch him try not to pop a woody when some sexy girl puts her cleavage in his face. The poor kid. I felt so sorry for him.

I was pretty uncomfortable with it myself. But dedicated professional that I was, I put my music on and took a position in front of him. Under the cover of the Prince tune, I leaned forward and whispered to him, “Kinda bizarre doing this with all these people here, huh?”

He rolled his eyes slightly. “Yeah - way.”

“Yeah, I feel a little strange too. But don’t worry, we’ll be cool.”

It was one of the longer five minutes of my life, and I’m guessing he felt the same way. I was definitely doing the PG version of my show, but even without putting my ass right in his lap, I could see that he wasn’t completely in control his teenage-boy hormones. The look on his face, however, would have been more appropriate to someone suffering from a deep gastro-intestinal disorder.

I did try to minimize the erotic effect by not making much eye contact with him, which was tricky, because I was also trying to not look at anyone else in the room. Not everyone was so inhibited. In my peripheral vision, I could see Uncle Al, over to my left, turning pink and sweating slightly as he bobbed his head to the music, an odd little smile on his lips. The kid’s father was also watching me very closely, apparently unaware that his wife was watching him watch me and looking none too pleased about it. (Hello, lady, did you not think of that when you booked me?)

Grandma was saying in a quavering voice, “Goodness, I think the ladies should have left the room for this. This is for gentlemen only.”

And the four-year-old girl had to be restrained from coming right up to me to dance along with me. I’m sure that would caused her brother’s head to implode.

So we got through it. When the song ended, I scooped up my clothes and retreated into the bathroom to get dressed and try to compose myself. When I came out, the boy had vanished into his room, for which I did not blame him one bit. The mother suddenly seemed quite ready for me to leave, but as I walked towards the door, the little girl attached herself to my leg and announced that she wanted to dance just like me when she grew up.

Boom, that’s it, my weirdness meter just went into the red. I am so quitting this job.

A few links for your enjoyment...

A cool new-ish blog by a local poly and kinky guy…

Is this for real? I wish some Aussie person would tell me if this is a gag site or not. If it’s real, well, all I can say is: Context is everything, apparently. (Caution: Annoying sound file when you open the link.)

Interesting article about the sex industry – and the debate about decriminalization – in Europe.

Upcoming event: On Thursday, February 2nd, Max will be doing bondage performance art at the Traveling Erotic Art Show in Seattle's Pioneer Square. Come watch him tie up cute girls and check out the cool art.

Well, we had a busy weekend – so busy I didn’t even get to post yesterday. Max’s pal Tom (and his girlfriend) came up from California to co-present the Exotic Bondage Gear class. When Tom arrived on Saturday afternoon, he opened up his bags and started stacking all the gear up on the kitchen table. I seriously wondered if it might buckle under the weight by time he was finished unloading.

And the TSA had a field day with Tom’s suitcases - note the forms saying, "We opened your bag."

Yeah, I bet they opened them up. This isn't even all the stuff. Not shown in this shot, for example, are the two Secretary-style neck-and-wrist stocks. Those had to have looked pretty wild on the X-ray. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall when they unpacked Tom’s stuff and looked at it. He's convinced they just did it out of curiosity, as opposed to really thinking he might be dangerous. (Although, now that I say it that way: Tom, you are dangerous. Cute, but dangerous.)

This week in the New House department: the painters come! (Hopefully they’ll clean up after themselves, though.)
And next week: new carpet. Yes, did get the 8-pound pad and all nylon fibers. Thanks for the tips, kids.

I’m taking time off from house stuff to teach my class at Wicked Women, and then to thrash the living daylights out of Jae on Saturday night. That should be delightful. I have some general ideas for the scene – especially after talking to a pal of mine who’s an electrical engineer - but I’m still soliciting really, really vile and terrible suggestions, if anyone’s got any. She’s tough, that girl, and I’ve been playing with her for a number of years, so it’s a challenging to keep topping myself, so to speak. But I have some schemes.

Note: yes, I got bumped out of the paper edition of The Stranger this past week. That happens to most of us at one time or another, if the paper is running thin. But no fear, I’ll be back as usual this coming week.

The weekly column and calendar... Enjoy! See you all at the Bondage Class Sunday...

So, I’m preparing for the class I’m teaching at the Wicked Women conference in ten days: “Pro Domme 101”. Which might also be entitled, “Everything You Always Thought You Knew About Becoming A Professional Dominatrix, Debunked.”

Seriously, I am going to try to touch at least briefly on every aspect that I can think of regarding starting up a business as a pro domme. It’s only 90 minutes, so this will be the Cliff notes version, but hopefully I can make it a learning experience. (If you have questions or suggestions about things you think should be covered in such a class, BTW, you’re welcome to send them in. I don’t promise to answer you all personally, but I’ll consider your input for the class.)

Someone asked me, “I’d love to attend that class, but I’m not going to WW. How come you don’t teach a class like this at Babeland or somewhere?” My response: A.) Why the hell not? And B.) Because I don't want to.

It's an issue of who I want to spend my time teaching. Understand, I definitely don't make big money teaching classes - often, as with WW, I get nothing at all but a comp to the event. So if I teach a class, it's just for the pleasure of passing on my knowledge. And I do feel a certain moral obligation to teach the next generation of perverts, seeing as how lots of patient people shared their information with me when I was just a pup.

But I reserve the right to be picky about who I give my time to. There are a lot of not-particularly-kinky women around who are taken with the idea of being a pro domme because they think it would be easy money. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what I think about that. If I taught a class where anyone on the street with twenty bucks could walk in, I’d get a lot of “show me the money” girls, and they would annoy the fool out of me.

But it’s different at a leather conference. You see, when you teach at a leather conference, you know something about the attendees before you ever stand up and start talking. And what you know is: they’ve made a certain level of commitment to the theory and practice of being a kinky person. They shelled out a not-insubstantial number of dollars to attend the conference, and a lot of them spent time and money traveling to get to it, too. To me that means that they’re willing to self-identify as a kinkster, and they’re willing to mix and mingle with a whole bunch of other people who also identify as such.

Not everyone will do that, and it signifies something to me. It’s not that I have an issue with bedroom-only perves. Hey, however you want to get your freak on is okay with me. Mazel tov.

But if you want to take it into the business realm – well, now I have some ideas about where the bar should be placed for you. You could call it professional rigor, although there’s almost something religious about it for me. Anyone can worship in the church, but if you want to get into the pulpit and start passing the collection plate? Oh, my dear, you got to have the true religion to do that.

So before I start teaching you how to be a pro domme, I need to know that you’ve got faith. One of the ways you can demonstrate an adherence to what I consider to be the basic principles of good kinksmanship (kinkswomanship?) is by going to a BDSM conference. It’s not the only way - far from it. And god knows there are few dangerous assholes (that I know of) who go to conventions. But since I can’t personally interview everyone who attends my class, it’s a good shorthand method of determining whether I am sowing my seeds of my knowledge and experience on fertile ground.

A clarification, because someone asked: I am not "closed for business" right now. I'll be seeing people as usual in my current space until my new space is ready, and then, towards the end of this month I'll move, most likely over a weekend when I normally wouldn't be seeing people anyway. I may take a Friday or Monday off, I suppose, but no more than that. Otherwise, for you, my dear clients, the transition should be fairly seamless.

Consumer porn of the day: Really beautiful couch. Gorgeous.

You should all brace yourself for a wave of non-kinky consumer porn around here, because there's going to be a lot of shopping-for-the-house in the next few weeks. Roman is trying to warn me against going to the Seattle Home Show next month, as he swears that the predatory vendors there can smell new homeowners - and their money - a mile away. But what can I say, it's a fetish. I'm obsessed with my new toy.

Like my gas stove. Now, I have a wood-burning fireplace in the living room, and that's nice, but in the playroom-to-be, there's a freestanding gas stove, which looks more or less like this:



I hate it. I mean, it does kick out the heat, and that's great, but christ, it's so old-fashioned looking. It is un-sexy, to the nth degree. I am thinking about just tearing it out completely, but it seems like a shame somehow, as it's fairly new.

And I did some looking around, but all gas stoves seemed to be similarly ugly... Until I found this one. This is pretty. Of course, it's also hideously expensive. The top one on this page is cute, too, and I'm guessing it's also pricey. My bad luck, to have champange tastes.

Okay, enough house stuff. On a much sexier note: Check out Miss Candy's kinky personal training. It's a niche service, but she's a great trainer, and I'm betting there are some pervy, paunchy boys who'd love her to beat them into shape. Yowza!

Happy New Year, everyone. I had a good 2005, but I’m looking forward to 2006, too. And I had fun bringing in the new year with an intimate little gathering of friends. Big parties are fun, but I just wasn’t up for a seventy-plus-people event after the madness of the last six weeks, so we just had a few close pals. Thus, there are no cage-stuffing pictures this year. (More blasts from the past here.)

We did get a few shots of other fun activities, however. (Note: Pics are not work-safe.)

Here’s a cute boy with a big smile.

And while I can’t see her face, Rossi was probably smiling, since she usually is when you play with her. It's a wicked smile, too.

I myself did not play, preferring to follow my once-a-year tradition of drinking champagne until I am...slightly uninhibited. It’s rare for me to drink alcohol at all, but I allow myself this indulgence on NYE. Still, I was very good this year. I did not forcibly disrobe and spank my attorney, nor did I piss on anyone nonconsensually. Roman and I did sing some show tunes, but you know, I can sort of stay on key if someone sings in my ear. Sort of.

Someone who drank less than I did has decided that my memorable line for the evening was, “Mommy needs some more champagne!” You may have to know me to realize just how lit I must have been if I actually referred to myself as Mommy. And while I don't usually have much of an accent, apparently I dropped back into my Georgia drawl last night, too. Lordy.

So, now that the debauched festivities are over, I’m preparing to plunge into The New House, Phase Two. I’ve got appointments with people to give me bids on new interior paint and new carpet. (The paint guy is someone Max has used before and liked, but if anyone local has a recommendation on a good carpet supplier/installer, I’d be interested.)

Less Fun: I also need to start packing and/or getting rid of everything at the current dungeon. I’ll be moving a lot of stuff, naturally, but there’s a ton of stuff I just need to get rid of. I have a feeling Craig’s List: Free Stuff will be seeing something of me in the next few weeks.

And I’m thinking about having a kinky rummage sale. Seriously. I have all kinds of various weird stuff that I don’t use – in some cases, have never used – and I should just get rid of it. I don’t want to bother with Ebay. I’d probably just make big piles and say, “Everything in this pile is a dollar, everything in that pile is five dollars”… ect. I just want to get it gone.

My next big social events: the bondage party this Sunday. Max’s good friend Tom is coming up to co-present the Exotic Bondage Equipment class, and then there’s party afterwards. The weekend after that: The Wicked Womyn conference, where I’ll be teaching "Pro Domme 101". And I have date to thrash Jae at that event, too - always a pleasure. My life doesn’t slow down much, does it?

While I amuse my family, please amuse yourself with the new column and calendar.

The webpage tackles the question of the ages: How many condoms can you wear at once?
I believe them that you shouldn't try this with a real penis, although I can think of some guys who find tremendous pressure on their cocks to be fun. But I doubt they'd care for the removal process pictured here.

Having my family here visiting really, really distracts me. It's not a bad thing, per se, but you know you're really scattered when you pick up a can of deodorant and spray it on your hair. Thank god I haven't tried to brush my teeth with with my eye cream.

So if you're one of the people from whom I'm being distracted: sorry. I'll be normal again on Saturday.

So, Mom is here, my older brother and his girlfriend are arriving later today, it'll be the whole family fiesta. And they're all very impressed with my new house. Of course, they have no idea what debauched and evil deeds I'm going to be committing in it, heh. They think I'm going to rent it out.

My brother, alone of all my family members, has some slight notion of my alternate persona, because he lived here in Seattle for awhile. Basically, he knows about the column in The Stranger. He carefully cultivated ignorance about the rest of the sticky details.

But then, my whole family does that, which is quite fine with me. I've had people close to me be outed to their families about being kinky or poly or whatever, but if you tried to tell my family any juicy details about my sex life, they'd probably stick their fingers in their ears and go, "La-La-La-La-La-La-Laaaaaa, I can't hear you..." It's a convenient attitude. In fact, years ago, in the midst of our spectacularly unpleasant break up, my ex-husband actually did out me to my mom about being poly. She asked me about it, and we discussed it calmly for about five minutes. And then she sort of sighed, and we started talking about something else. The topic did not arise again until I brought it up three years later.

But all that aside, I thought I was doing a pretty good job of, shall we say, maintaining the boundaries between my lives. But my confidence about that has wavered slightly, because Christmas day, my mother told me that my brother's girlfriend was somewhat intimidated about meeting me.
"About meeting me? Why on earth would she be?"
My mother shrugged. "I don't know, he's told her some stories about you, or something."

Now my brother likes to make a good story out of things - he's an actor and a writer, it's an occupational hazard. But still, that surprised me. I mean: me? I'm a pussycat. I'm sugar and spice and everything nice. Aren't I? Damn, I thought I was. Unless, of course, we agree that it's going to be otherwise, but you know, with my brother's sweetie, that's just not a situation that's going to arise. (Yes, I do know that for sure. Some lines you do not cross.)

So I do wonder exactly what kinds of stories my dearest brother has told his sweet little girlfriend that she's scared of me. It's not the kind of thing you can ask outright, either. "So, did my brother tell you I'm a professional dominatrix?" At least, you don't say that kind of thing in my family. "Don't Ask/Don't Tell" cuts both ways.

While I'm off signing my life away: the new column and calendar...

Okay, I finally feel sure enough about this to reveal what all the mystery and busyness has been about lately: I’m closing on a house on Friday morning.

The act of actually buying a house for the first time feels strange. It’s such a grown-up, mainstream thing to do. And frankly, it's made me uneasy. I have strutted naked on stages in front of a crowd, I have made personal revelations to hostile audiences, I have done deeply intimate things with people whose names I didn’t know, I have looked into a stranger’s eyes and made a split second decision about whether or not I could trust them with my safety. None of those things make me particularly nervous.

Sitting across a desk from a mortgage broker made me nervous. That's why I've been unwilling to blog about the whole house-buying adventure step-by-step, because of my feeling that the mortgage process might very well go sideways at any moment. Max reassured me, and so did Roman. "These people want to give you a mortgage, really they do," they both told me. "When you get a mortgage, they make money." Well, that's a motivation I can certainly understand.

But still...I am not the kind of person banks like to lend money to. Don’t get me wrong, I pay my taxes and my bills. But my life simply does not fit into those little boxes on their forms. Dealing with banks makes me feel like Supergirl confronted with Kryptonite. The powers that serve me very well in most of my life do not work in the offices of financial institutions.

Except one – my ability to generate and save (reasonably) large chunks of money. Banks like that. Hence the recent hectic schedule.

I was on track to buy a house anyway – but I was thinking, oh, March of next year. Then in late October my landlord called and said “We want to sell the house – how soon do you think you could move out?” So my plans had to be fast-forwarded. I can do fast-forward, though, if I have to. So I did.

Of course, I had help. A lot of my guys were extra-generous during this period. But one particular guy - even more so than all my other really fabulous boys - was my angel in this matter, and for that, he merits special mention. He knows who he is so, thank you to him!

The other thank you goes to my terrific real estate agent, Ted Allison. I am not your average home-buyer, to put it mildly, but when I told Ted what I wanted, he listened without raising an eyebrow and got right into the spirit of it. He never tried to push me when I said, “It’s nice…but it’s not quite right”. And he worked really hard to get the deal I wanted on the house I wanted. He’s just been great, and I’d recommend him to anyone.

A point of clarification for my friends: I’m not moving out of Max’s house. The house that I’m buying will serve as the headquarters and private dungeon of Mistress Matisse, Inc. Note my use of the first person singular pronoun - I have always felt that in the same sense that good fences make good neighbors, having some separate financial investments makes for good relationships.

Now I have a new place for my dungeon, which I am looking forward to. And now I have to pack up the dungeon and move it, which I am not looking forward to. My new place isn’t far at all from where I am now, so those of you who know the way won’t have to learn a whole new route. Just go about half a mile further south, is all.

So now you know. I’ve always been something of a capitalist. But Friday, Mistress Matisse becomes part of the land-owning bourgeois.

Resistance Was Futile

Okay, okay, I give up. Everyone else has already read them, I’m way behind the cutting edge on this. (In fact, I think they've now become un-cool.) But lately I did at last succumb to the genre-novel pleasures of the early Laurel K. Hamilton “Anita Blake” books.

Notice I said the early ones. Because I’ve now read all of them, and my verdict is that the later ones? Are not so good. I think after book seven, Laurel’s agent came to her and said “Laurel, honey? Put in a lot more sex. Actually – put in a lot more kinky sex. We’ll make more money.” And Laurel did, and I’m sure they have made more money, but the books are not nearly as entertaining anymore.

You’d think I’d like kinky sex in novels, wouldn’t you? But you know, when you are kinky, it’s hard not to be really picky about the details. For me, it’s kinda like watching porn – since I’m a part of the sex industry, I cannot suspend my disbelief enough to not notice the shadow of the boom mike in the money shot. I don’t know if Ms Hamilton is a member of the BDSM community or not, but the way she writes about it – well, it just doesn’t feel like something she knows intimately. Maybe she does, and she’s just distancing herself from it a bit to keep from alienating the more squeamish readers. But it sure doesn’t get me wet. I usually find myself skimming quickly through the long (way too long) sex scenes, because they don’t ring any bells in my head.

Then there's the character herself. In the beginning, Anita Blake, as a zombie-raiser and vampire hunter, was a charming twist on the Dashiel Hammett hard-boiled detective type. She was tough, she got pissed easily and mouthed off to people a lot, and if they fucked with her, she killed them. Whoo-hoo, big fun.

Then she started fucking the vampires, and werewolves, too. Which is fine with me, but she’s so damn angsty about it that she comes across as whiny. I mean, a little angst about sleeping with monsters for one book, maybe two – okay, fine, it’s a growth opportunity. But my personal stance is: you can complain about something once or twice, and I’ll give you sympathy. After that, I’m going to ask you what you’re doing to change the situation, and if your answer is “nothing”, then I’m pretty much out of sympathy for you. This applies to fictional characters as well as real life. So Anita, face it: you’re kinky. And since you have practically a whole stable of male lovers, you’re poly, too. And you really need to get over all the whinging about it, because I’m tired of listening to it. It’s a good thing you’re not bi, because I’m sure we’d never hear the end of that.

All that aside: yes, they’re fun to read, and I’ve turned Roman onto them too. I’ve been so busy lately that light stuff I can pick up and put down has been just the thing. Ms. Blake has got two more Anita books coming out in 2006, and I’m still game to give her a chance on them. Better late than never.

I'm busy today, so just a PSA for now about the women's BDSM conference coming up here in Seattle next month... I'm a presenter, by the way, as are a number of my pervy friends. The conference is January 13-16, 2006.

From the press release:

The Wicked Womyn 2006 Conference is just around the corner and is expected to be a fantastic event. The mail-in registration deadline has ended but you can still register online between December 16, 2005 and January 7, 2006 and pay via PayPal. Go tohttp://wickedwomyn.com to register on-line.

After January 7th you can register at the door for $130.00.

Out of towners, take note: The host hotel, LaQuinta Inn, is almost sold out. So make your reservations soon, before the rooms are all gone.

Well, I had a busy but fun weekend. Saturday night I went to the last hurrah at The Catwalk, a bar that’s been open and hosting sexy events since I was just a pup in this town. It’s kinda sad to know that it's closing down. But the final event was good - Max and I got to see Miss Candy shaking her tail-feathers in some of Imp Of Satan’s newest creations, Nerdygirl do her best carnival barker impersonation, and Silver demonstrating her equestrian training skills. Charming. And we didn’t reek of cigarette smoke afterwards, what a nice change. Want to see a few pictures from Malixe? Go here.

I wore my black latex pants to this event, and when I got them out earlier that evening, I paused and realized that while they aren’t quite as old as The Catwalk, I have indeed had them a number of years. They’ve held up very well. There’s no label in them, but I’m pretty sure I got them from latex designer Naughty Nancy, back when she was here in Seattle. It’s a shame she went back to Canada, I always liked her stuff.

But still, perhaps it’s time for a new pair. Oh, look, Syren seems to be having a sale – how convenient. I think a bit of shopping is in order.

The other latex thing I want is one of these: a vacuum bed. Yes, I think I’m going to have to see about one of these quite soon. I have tried them, and they’re quite intense. I'd have to have one custom made, though, as I would want certain special features.

And now it’s Monday, the closing week of pre-Christmas insanity. My mother and brother get here Christmas day, so in addition to everything else that’s happening – and that’s a lot – I have that to prepare for.

But I’m looking forward to the next two weeks. Lots of big changes and events. My life is many things, but dull is simply not one of them.

Silly story I stole from the AP.

It's Not the Pipes, It's a Naked Man in Your Basement
SPOKANE, Wash. (AP) - A plumbing problem at a Spokane home turned out to be a naked man. Police say a woman who thought she was having a problem with water pipes beneath the floor called the Water Department. Employees found the basement barricaded, and when they determined there was someone behind the door, they called police.

Police broke through the door, found the naked man and took him into custody. They searched the basement but found no clothing for the man. They also found that a pipe had been broken and repaired.

The 36-year-old was booked into jail for investigation of burglary.

Hey, at least it wasn't a dead rat.

Late night: In bed with Roman, on his laptop... Clothespins and rope scattered around us.
Go read the new column.
Bye!

I have been very, very busy with clients lately. And that’s been a good thing. But wow - busy.

Fortunately for me, about 98% of my clients are really cool guys, and I like them. (There are about 2% who make me think, “I so do not understand this person,” but that’s another story. Most of them don't come see me very often, anyway.)

The thing is, I cannot talk specifically about any of my cool clients, because it would take more time than I’ve got to talk about all of them, and I don’t want to make any of them feel left out by not being mentioned on the blog. So I usually try to express my pleasure in their company in person, rather than putting it here.

But I have to say something, because I have some amazingly fabulous boys and they are so great, they just knock me out.

Yeah, you know you who are. You so rock, and I’m really glad you come to see me.

***

The other people I have to blow kisses to are Max, Roman and Miss K, all of whom have gotten much less of my time and attention than usual for the last few weeks, because I've been preparing for The Big Event*. I love you all. Thanks for your understanding...

(*What Big Event, you ask? I'll talk about it next week. Possess your souls in patience.)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

So I promised to talk about the party, didn’t I? Well, it all started out innocently enough with a platter of kinky gingerbread-people from Tambo and NerdyGirl. The image is a bit on the large side, because I’ve included a guide in this image, so you can tell what the various decorations are supposed to represent. This is actually only some of the cookies, because we were eating them pretty rapidly – they were yummy.

In many ways it was a typical private party for the crowd I hang around with. Max had a date to single-tail a pretty girl, which he did very nicely and at some length. Monk did terrible things to his wife, which made her giggle and try to bite him. I exposed Jae’s breasts to a roomful of people – which really didn’t raise any eyebrows - and complimented R on the colorful bruises I found there. I chatted, I gossiped, I ogled, I smooched.

And then my host, J, repeated an offer he’d made to me a week earlier – his body as a pincushion. I like piercing people, and he’d also invited R to join in, and so that just made us a happy little threesome.

This is why I love being at private parties as opposed to someplace like the Wet Spot. The Spot is great in lots of ways, but they have rules about things like where you can do bloodsports, and you have to obey them. (Yes, even me. Mostly.)

But since we were at J’s house, we just sat down on the couch and started sticking him, and if anyone didn’t want to watch, they were free to walk out of the room. We did lose two very nice - but not especially kinky - girls that were friends of one of the other guests. They’d gotten a bit quiet watching Max wield the single-tail, but I think the needles pushed them over the edge. Oh well.

People were sort of drifting in and out behind us, and apparently R and I missed some hot scenes in the other room, but we had a hell of a good time. We made J roar really nicely, and in between roars he looked very, very endorphin-stoned. I like that.

Then R got out her knife and started poking at the needles with it. She’s so mean! People think I am the evilest girl in town, but let me tell you, I have never taken hold of the hub of a needle and rotated the whole damn thing one hundred and eighty degrees clockwise in someone’s skin. (Of course, now that I’ve seen it done I will. Woot!) She got lots of roaring on that one. I thought J might levitate off the couch for a minute there.

Pinching needles is more my specialty, and we did lots of that too. Then J impressed us by putting two needles in his own chest. He was quite, quite stoned when we finished, and R and I had a nice little sadistic contact-high, too.*

It was a really good time. I should play at parties more, and I’m usually too busy talking and hanging out with pals. But it was a nice reminder of what I like about spontaneous scenes.

*Note: Piercing is not a 100% safe activity. You should never do anything like this without the supervision of people who have already done it and know what they are doing. Be sure to use only fresh, sterile needles, and use rubbing alcohol to clean the area before and after you do the piercings. Wear latex (or nitrile) gloves, and change them if you play for a long period or touch unclean stuff during the scene. Use needles once, on one person, then dispose of them in a bio-hazardous waste receptacle (sharps container). Even if it’s done correctly, you may bleed, bruise or possibly even scar from this activity.

Cleaning Diet Coke Off My Keyboard

Complete text of an extremely (unintentionally?) hilarious email sent to me, in the wake of Friday's post:

"A friend of mine runs a clothing store for men. He chooses not to sell jeans. He is a snappy dresser and disapproves of jeans. He doesn't like them so he doesn't sell them. In a way, he is imposing his opinion upon others. Even though he has no right to interfere with a sartorial decision made by a man, perhaps even with the advice of a fashion consultant. Are you truly saying that a person who owns a business can't decide what they want to sell and what they don't want to sell?

The nice thing about controlling birth control pills is that it keeps women in check. So long a women get pregnant they will need men to take care of them and their relative submission to proper male authority is assured. This is good because women are somewhere on the developmental scale between children and adults. They are not fully capable of making good decisions for themselves. They are not truly adult and, like children, the mentally retarded, animals, and members of some lesser races, are best herded along by the white male shepards who have made America the number one country in the history of mankind.

Now that you have a better understanding of the issues involved, perhaps you should retract your opinion and/or remove it from your website.

No need to thank me. Consider it noblesse oblige."

I'm really not sure what part of this is the most snicker-inspiring: is it the fact that he (and it was signed with a male name) thinks men's fashion and women's medical care are of equal importance? The fact that he's equating a doctor with a "fashion consultant"? ("Take two pairs of Miss Sixty jeans and call me in the morning.")

Or is it that he's pretending to think I'm now going to agree with him that women should be submissive to men? (White men, that is - you don't want those "lesser-race" men getting any ideas.) Oh yeah, sure, hold on a minute while I abandon my career and totally reverse my entire worldview based on your email. Uh-huh. Because I've certainly never had anyone tell me that white men are supposed to be in control of everything, all the time. That's a really fresh idea.

However, I don't believe this is sincere. I think it's just a troll. The spelling is far too correct, for one thing. A real sexist, racist butthead would write something like:

U KNOW U WEEMUN GOTS TO KNUW YER PLACE ALUNG WIT THEM COLOREED PEEPLE SO YU BETTR GET PREGNINT REEL SUUN MISSY.

So let that be a lesson to you, flame-baiters. Real fascists don't use commas correctly!

***

Tomorrow: pictures and commentary about a fun party I was at Saturday night. Sneak previews of some of the madness here, here and here. (Not-work-safe picture here.)

Today, not only is there a new column and kink calendar, but you also get to bid on something fun for Christmas: me! And not just me - me and some of Monk's finest hemp rope. It's Strangercrombie 2005, The Stranger's fourth annual holiday auction to benefit Northwest Harvest. They've got a lot of cool and unusual gift packages, and some time with me is one of them.

But there's lots of cool stuff, so buy something! It's for a good cause.

Another good cause: helping women get the birth control pills they've been prescribed. As you have probably heard, some pharmacists around the US have taken it upon themselves to refuse to fill prescriptions for BC pills, because they think contraception is morally wrong. This is bullshit. It's a legal prescription, and a pharmacist has no right to interfere with a medical decision made by a woman and her doctor.

Some pharmacy chains are not supporting a woman's right to choose to take The Pill. Target is one of them. So this site has started a photo petition to show Target the faces of people who won't be shopping there because of their failure to protect pharmacy customers from the interference of unethical pharmacists. I'll be sending them a picture. I hope you do too.

An example of how Max is so much nicer than I am…

The other day, Max goes into a busy bank on Capitol Hill and gets in line for the teller. There’s a woman, a stranger, standing in front of him, and when he joins the queue, she turns around and looks him up and down. Not politely, either. Kinda like: what the hell are you doing there?

Well, Max thinks, I’m standing in line behind you, obviously.

Her gaze alights on the logo on his t-shirt.

And she says, “'Thunder In The Mountains' – what’s that?”

Now, as I said, Max is a much friendlier and kinder person than me. My response to being questioned like this - and yes, it’s happened - is generally to fix the person with a cold eye and say, “I think you’ve got all the information I’m interested in sharing.”

Or, if I’m really feeling pissy, “Why don’t you explain to me just exactly why you think I should answer your questions?” I almost never talk to strangers in public places, and I very much resent having my thoughts intruded upon by rude people like this woman.

But Max said, “It’s a conference in Denver.” A polite but brief answer that should have been her cue to be quiet.

She didn’t take it. “I know that,” she said in this very exasperated tone of voice, as if he were being just so tiresomely obtuse. “What kind of conference?”

Now, she’d be way into “it’s none of your business” territory with me. But both Max and Roman have a sometime charming, sometimes alarming, willingness to come out to random strangers, if said random stranger asks enough questions. I will not do this. I think it’s a gender thing.

So Max replied, “A rope bondage conference.” (Technical note: yes, TITM is actually a BDSM con, not just a rope-bondage con. Max knows that. He just didn’t feel it was a really crucial distinction to make at the moment.)

When Max was relating this story to me, I laughed out loud and said, “I can’t believe you said that to her! What did she say then?”

“Her eyes got big,” he replied. “And she just looked at me for a minute and then said, 'I gotta get out of this town. It is just way too weird here, I gotta get back to Portland'.”

Huh. I wonder if she knows about this….

More news on Heidi Fliess’s plan to build an all-male brothel in Nevada. Color me very skeptical about the whole venture, although it certainly would be amusing if she actually did it.

I’m struck by this quote from Fliess, though:

"I have heard from very wealthy, very beautiful women who say they'll be first in line...”

Very beautiful? Hmmm, why the insistence on the women’s looks? If they’re paying the boys, why does it matter? Just take some Viagra and get the job done, gentlemen.

No, I think Heidi is playing to the gigolo fantasy that a lot of boys have, sending them the message that they’d get paid to fuck women they found attractive anyway. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if she’d cooked up some scheme to make money off the would-be male prostitutes, perhaps charging them a very high “room and board” fee, or something like that. That’s not uncommon in the industry – Lord knows the strip clubs right here in Seattle make the vast majority of their money off the “house fees” that the dancers pay to work there. The cover-charge and the soft-drink revenue is chump change by comparison.

I’ll be watching to see if any ground ever gets broken on this, or if it just dwindles into smaller and smaller news items.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas..

And that’s always a weird time of year for me. I like Christmas, don’t get me wrong. But I think I’d like it a lot better if the whole “holiday season” was about a week long. Maybe two weeks. But six plus weeks of being beaten over the head with it? Bah humbug. By the time December 25^th actually rolls around, I’m over it.

Then there's the whole present thing. I like giving people I love presents. But in the past, I have sometimes had a hard time accepting them. I’ve gotten better at it, but still, I have to remind myself from time to time that people give gifts because it honestly gives them pleasure to do so, and I don’t have to put pressure on myself to instantly reciprocate in some way, just because I think I need to keep some invisible set of scales neatly balanced. I know if I give someone something, it’s just because I think they’d like it and I enjoy the act of giving it to them and seeing them be happy about it. But that’s been something I’ve had to learn to trust in others.

All that said, I do have some very sweet and generous boys who have asked me for a Christmas gift list. So, okay, here goes.

Books are always good. Here's some stuff off my Amazon list I'd like to read over the holidays:

Marriage, a History: From Obedience to Intimacy, or How Love Conquered Marriage by Stephanie Coontz

The Girl in the Glass : A Novel, by Jeffrey Ford

London 1849 : A Victorian Murder Story, by Michael Alpert

The Virgin's Lover, by Philippa Gregory

A Breath of Snow and Ashes, by Diana Gabaldon

The Kinky Girl's Guide to Dating, by Luna Grey

Polyamory: Roadmaps for the Clueless & Hopeful, by Anthony D. Ravenscroft

Something more personal? Well, I love this bracelet. (Of course this is nice, too, but it seems a bit excessive. I don't really move in a diamond-wearing crowd.)

I am also lusting after this jacket. This coat is pretty as well, although I've never worn such a long coat. But it looks warm, and I am a girl who's often wearing skimpy little outfits when it's cold outside. I'd have to have it in black, of course.

Boots. I love pretty boots. Love 'em. Size 8.5, if anyone's wondering.

Then there's kinky stuff. It's great when people bring me naughty things, because my rule is: you bring it to me, you're asking me to use it on you. Heh.
I do seriously want this sling. And while I have one fucking machine, this one looks uber-cool.
I could play some wickedly fun games with this little device, too.

Geek stuff? Gee, Santa, I want a laptop. Do the elves makes those? I also want one of these, although I'm still researching brands and models.

Of course, I'm not sure exactly how good of a girl I've been this year, but we'll see what the guy in the red suit does for me. Hey, even if he puts switches in my stocking, I'm sure I can think of something fun to do with them.

Yay, I've been saved from snow - real, sticky, snowed-in snow - once again. Whew. I'm sure that soon the Weather God is going to get tired of me telling him, "Snow tomorrow, and snow yesterday - but never snow today".
However, I feel like I dodged a frosty bullet, because baby, I've got things to do. Ain't got no time for no snow.
So while I go do them, read all about it.

Oh, and don't forget Cirque Du Noc on Saturday, and Max's bondage workshop on Sunday. Big fun.

Tonight, I’m going to an industry party. A sex industry party, that is. I don’t usually go to such things - they’re really geared more towards the escorts and sensual-touch ladies. I am considered a niche service, and a lot of the vanilla boys just don’t know what to make of me. (Some of them know what they’d like to make of me, though. I admit that it can be entertaining to tease them.)

No, I’m not telling you where it is, sorry. Those who know, know, and I haven't been empowered to give out information about it. Besides, it’s not that exciting to the naked eye (so to speak). It’s just a cocktail party-type thing where the professional ladies smile and flirt and pass business cards to interested parties. People make conversation about the weather and sports teams and the monorails crashing into each other, and oh by the way, sweetie, do you have a website? What are your hours? But if you were watching through a window, it wouldn’t look so different than lots of other social events.

The street workers usually don’t come to stuff like this. No, it’s mostly the middle-tier of sex workers - the largest group by far - that you’ll meet at these events. (What would upper-tier be? Porn star-escorts who get a thouand dollars or more for dates. That's a relatively small group.)

It’s a nice system in some ways. There’s no question that having met someone at a party like this makes booking an initial appointment with them much less fraught with tension. You’re less likely to get no-showed by a guy who’s met you already, and when he shows up, you already know something about who he is, in terms of personality and looks. It removes the whole blind-date anxiety - on both sides, I imagine.

I’ve been to a few of these things, and as I said, a lot of the boys don’t know quite what to say to me. Some of them email me after the fact and tell me they were afraid to come talk to me, as if I might pull out my riding crop and thrash them on the spot. But my entire purpose in going to firmly establish the fact that I actually don’t have snakes for hair, and I don’t turn men into stone with my glance, and some of the boys clearly enjoy getting to hang out with me a bit. Oddly, though, the guys who can chat with me in a perfectly relaxed and friendly manner usually aren’t the ones who wind up calling the next day to schedule with me. It’ll be the boy who stutters and shuffles and barely meets my eye that I’ll be hearing from. Which I suppose is sort of charming, when I think about it.

A brief note about scheduling with me this week: As of this moment, I have time available Wednesday starting at 4:30, Thursday starting at 3:00, and Friday starting at 4:30. Also, I will be seeing people this Saturday, which is rare, so if you’ve been waiting for a weekend availability, carpe diem.

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly...

This is cruel, and even rather kink-negative, but even I have to admit it’s sorta funny.

This, on the other hand, is rather sweet, even though I wouldn’t say it’s a stunning likeness. Gee, how'd the artist know I had that outfit?

This is so sublimely ridiculous that it’s classic. I hope this page stays up forever. Notice the copyright date – this gentleman copyrighted his web page before the web even existed! Amazing!

This is so not my kind of fetish, but hey, if you get off on the idea of being scanned like a toaster at Target, mazel tov.

My parting remark: I'm posting this before I go to bed, and let me tell you, there just better not be any white shit on the ground when I get up.
I will be seriously annoyed.
I'm just sayin'.

I hate snow.

Okay, I know I said I wasn’t going to do phone-call entries anymore, but once in a while, I just have to….

Ring Ring!

Me: hello?
Caller: (in a hostile voice) Wow, you’re really hard to get a hold of, you know that?

Well, I can’t accuse the guy of stringing me along and getting my hopes up, can I? I hate him already. I let ten seconds tick off on the clock and then say, very slowly:

Me: That’s not how you begin a conversation with me. Who is this?

Caller: Uh, we haven’t met, because every time I call you I get your voicemail.

What a shame I broke up my winning streak by answering this time. Again I pause, lengthily, to indicate I don’t like this remark, either. I consider pointing out that he’s talking to me now, but it’s not going to do him any good, because if you’re rude to me in the first 3 seconds of our acquaintance, you’re unlikely to recover.

Me: What do you want?

Caller: I know you said you don’t do same-day appointments, but you know, I’m sort of a creature of whim. Booking in advance really doesn’t work for me because I’ll be out of the mood. What do you have available in the next couple of hours?

Oh, right, because I am here on this earth to accommodate your moods and whims, aren’t I? Jesus. Any suggestion that I should instantly change my rules and limits to acommodate someone else's whims is pretty much guaranteed to have the opposite effect. It's amazing that he thinks this kind of attitude is going to fly with me - I'm a dominatrix, for god's sake.

The irony here is that, if you’re one of my good regular boys, and you catch me on a day when someone has canceled or something, I actually will do a same-day. It’s rare for me not to be booked up, but if I know you, I don't mind you asking.

However, if you’re a stranger, and more noticeably, a rude twit who thinks I should jump when he snaps his fingers, I’d be happy to make an appointment for you on the first frosty day in Hell. I'm tempted to tell him so, but brevity is the best way to deal with people like this. You simply cannot engage with them, it’s pointless.

Me: Nothing.

Caller: Nothing? Come on, you can’t be totally busy, you’re talking to me on the phone right now, aren’t you?

Some people write my exit lines for me.

Me: Goodbye.

Click.

I had a lovely afternoon yesterday, spending time with old friends and new. I ate yummy food, a talented musician played her cello for us, and we talked about different ways of branding people. Delightful.

And as we all emerge from our L-Tryptophan haze... here is the new column and calendar.

Happy Bird Day, everyone…

What am I thankful for? I’m thankful that this damn holiday only comes once a year, because sex workers, this is the week from hell. If one wants to actually see clients, that is. The phone is always very quiet Thanksgiving week - most of my good regular guys are understandably busy with family. But those of us who are buying houses soon are sitting around drumming our fingers and staring at the phone, because we would like to conduct business as usual Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday.

And when the phone does ring, I let guys who I know, absolutely know, are dodgy and unreliable sweet talk me into booking time with them. I know they’re unreliable because they’ve made and then cancelled appointments before, or I know because I can just hear it in their voices. But having nothing else to do, I give them a chance….And then they call back and cancel. Grr.

No, I haven’t actually been stood up, thank god, and yes, I understand, things do happen, at least they’re letting me know, yeah yeah yeah. But I’ve had four cancellations this week. Normally I get about one or two cancellations a month. It’s frustrating. I don’t know why Thanksgiving is so much worse than any other holiday, even Christmas, for this kind of thing, but it is.

Oh well - it’s over now, and I even got to rant about it a little, which helps. And I’m thankful for the cool guys who have made and kept appointments with me. Enjoy your bird.

I was in bed last night, reading this: Extreme Encounters: How It Feels to Be Drowned in Quicksand, Shredded by Piranhas, Swept Up in a Tornado, and Dozens of Other Unpleasant Experiences.

It's an interesting book. But then I'm the girl who really liked Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, and The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook.

However, I did have very odd dreams.

So, since some of you seem to know it anyway – yesterday was my birthday. (And no, I’m not telling you how old I am. Nope. No way.) I didn’t not-say anything on purpose, I’m just so focused on everything else in my world right now that frankly, I hardly noticed. Max had some plans for us to do something special over the weekend, but they were scuttled by the fact that I had caught a touch of that cold that's been going around town. I feel fine today, but I was sort of blah and uninterested in going out for a fancy dinner, etc.

Roman has some bizarre bit of birthday performance-art in store for me, which, knowing him, probably involves lawn gnomes, some duct tape, and a gallon of Marshmallow Fluff. (To read about last year's birthday surprise, go here.) But based on both our schedules, we decided we'd wait until Friday to have that little party.

And I'm not upset about any of this, because in general, I’m not interested in making a really big deal about my birthday. My theory is that I get to be a diva on a regular basis, so it’s not like I have to save it all up for once a year and then demand that everyone fuss over me. I get fussed over a lot year-round. Lucky me.

It's also that I prefer to take my moments of happiness and celebration of life more spontaneously, rather than scheduling them. I’m like that about all the publicly-observed holidays as well. I don’t have a strong objection to them, they just seem sort of contrived.

(I don’t mind presents, you understand. Presents are always a nice thing. And I got some very lovely ones, so thank you, thank you, to the sweet people who gifted me so generously.)

I’m currently rather preoccupied with my real estate situation, which is coming along nicely, thank you. I'm not going to talk it about much now, because I’m superstitious about talking about anything until it’s a done deal. Can’t jinx it, you know. However, I have chosen a house, and everything is progressing as it should at this stage. I will reveal more about that as it become appropriate.

Max is cooking a traditional dinner for us and a few friends on Thursday. Of all the holidays, T-day is the one I’m the most what-ever about. Left to my own devices, I’d order pizza and go to the movies. But Max likes to cook, and it’s always nice to have people for dinner, so, as long as there’s no televised football involved, I’m fine with it. (Actually there is never, ever, televised football in our house anyway. It’s one of the reasons why Max is so right for me – he hates sports.)

So, yes, birthday - thank you, Mom, for not drowning me at birth, or any other time, even though I’m sure I deserved it. And yes, Thanksgiving, after which I can return to my regularly-scheduled crazy life that I am so fond of.