Hello mistress,

i want to send you my diploma from the university. and you wipe your ass with my diploma. I want you use my diploma like toilet paper. can you do that?

Goodness, someone doesn’t think highly of their old alma mater, do they?

Would I do it? Well, I’m mildly concerned that the gold foil seal that one often sees on college diplomas might be scratchy, but that seems like a manageable risk.

I myself do not have a college degree. My relationship with academia has always been uneven, to put it mildly. I went to a private (Catholic) high school, and the good things about that was that students got a lot of attention, but the downside is that the classes were rigorous. (Plus there was that stupid religion thing they were always nattering on about.) I always did well enough in English and humanities-type classes, but math and science? Forget it. I barely scraped through. I was a pretty well-behaved teenager, but school simply bored me, and I didn’t take it seriously.

I wasn’t much good at being a kid, if that makes any sense. I always had a feeling, when I was small, that I was someone who would prefer life as a grown-up, and that I was just marking time until I got taller. I meet kids now who give me that impression, like they’re twenty-seven-year olds trapped in a fifth-grader’s body. I always try to talk to them very seriously about adult-seeming topics, and not do stupid things like rumple their hair and ask them what they want to be for Halloween.

I was right. I had a pretty Leave-It-To-Beaver childhood, and I’m grateful for that, but I never, ever wish I was a kid again. And I don’t ever want to go back to college, either, although I suppose I may have to, someday. I’ve been to - oh, let me think – four different colleges. Yeah, four. And no, I don’t have a degree.

The first one I went to right out of high school, like one is supposed to. It was an expensive women's college, and I spent much more time partying with the boys from the neighboring co-ed school than I did studying. You can skate by with a really low GPA when your Daddy is paying big bucks for tuition, but there is a limit, and after 3 years the college and I agreed that I should leave. I felt sort of bad for wasting my father’s money like that, and once I dropped out, I never took any money from my parents ever again, for school or any other purpose. I was twenty.

Over the next couple of years, I enrolled in two different state colleges, paid the tuition with money I made as a sex worker, took classes for a quarter or three, and then dropped out again. I just – didn’t want to be there. I would look at the people around me and think, “I don’t want what they want. And I don’t want to keep pretending that what I’m doing here is meaningful to me, because it’s not, and it’s actually pissing me off.”

Then a few years ago, I enrolled at Antioch here in Seattle, in the BA completion program. That was certainly different from a state college, and it was…interesting. I think the people at Antioch are very committed to what they’re doing. But wow, the hippie/New-Age/let-me-give-you-a-hug thing really got on my nerves. Sometimes I couldn’t tell if I was in a class or a group therapy meeting. As you may well imagine, instructors who invited me to share personal information in a college classroom got either a pack of lies or some responses they really had not bargained for. In such circumstances, I usually give vague answers to too-personal questions. But some instructors and classmates persisted in asking, so I told them who I was and what I did, and I think a lot of them wished I hadn’t. I had one teacher who was so disturbed by my various outlaw identities that she could hardly even talk to me for last few weeks of the quarter. And once again, I thought, “Why am I here dealing with this? What am I going to do with this really expensive piece of paper?” And I didn’t have an answer. So I left.

I like to learn things. But sitting in college classes has, for me, been much like a visit to the dentist: expensive, time-consuming, and extremely uncomfortable. I would do it, if there was a job I wanted that required one, but so far, there isn't. So I am a self-educated person, and I like it that way. I am pleased to see the growing respectability of online-learning. I’m guessing that by the time I’m ready to try that college thing again, I will at least be able to do it alone.

Wow, this is unusual: I have nothing booked for Wednesday. I suspect some of ya’ll are a bit depressed about the latest financial news. Hey, I’m not even going to open my brokerage statement this month. However, if you come see me, I’ll pretend you’re a subprime mortgage lender and do bad, bad things to you….

***

I am publishing this either in spite of, or because, it’s slightly embarrassing. It’s part of my struggle to accept my identity as a musically un-hip person.

Thus, here are the Top Eleven Most Played Songs in my desk-top iTunes:

11. Sugarless, Caviar

10. Come Out And Play, The Offspring

9. Going Back To Cali, LL Cool J

8. Somebody Told Me, The Killers

7. Black Snake Voodoo Hiss, by Chemlab

6. Dream Police, Cheap Trick

5. Gold Digger, Kayne West

4. I Want You So Hard, Eagles Of Death Metal

3. Rock And Roll Nigger, Patti Smith

2. U + Ur Hand, Pink

1. Twilight Zone, Golden Earring

Interestingly, the Most Played list on the iPod proper is totally different. I guess I like different music for sitting at my desk than I do moving around in the world.

So speaking of iPod, I’m shopping for iPod related stuff…. Does anyone have this? (Bose Sound Dock.) Drop me a note if you do and you have an opinion about it.

I also need a cradle or a wire or something that will let me play my 3^rd Generation iPod Nano in the car. I have a wireless sled, but it’s for my older, narrower Nano. And frankly, it was always a little problematic. The connection would wiggle loose, and the sound would cut out. But the choices on the Apple website are limited and unencouraging. Is there really not a good wire-based system? I guess I’d take another wireless sled, if that’s a better bet. Email me suggestions...

A patient man am I, down to my fingertips,
the sort who never could, ever would,
let an insulting remark escape his lips,
A very gentle man...
~ I'm An Ordinary Man, My Fair Lady Soundtrack

That’s right, me and Rex Harrison, we are the gentlest and most patient of creatures. Mostly.

However, there are certain things about my own beloved kinky culture that annoy me. One of them is the phrase, “Total Power Exchange”, commonly shortened to “TPE”.

What does that mean? Well, “power exchange” is another of way of referring to a dominant/submissive interaction, either a scene or a whole relationship. It’s not a term I’ve ever taken to, although I have no problem with it.

But TPE? Well, I looked around for the origin of the exact phrase “Total Power Exchange” and here’s (an edited-down version of) what I found.

Total Power Exchange, or TPE for short, is a derivative of the concept of power exchange in a D/s relationship. The term refers to a relationship where the dominant has complete authority and influence over the submissive's life, making the majority of decisions….

The phrase Total Power Exchange was coined by Steven S. Davis in the newsgroup alt.sex.bondage during his debates with Jon Jacobs in the mid 1990's.

In 1997, Davis gave this definition:"A TPE (Total Power Exchange) relationship, sometimes described as an absolute lifestyle D/s relationship. That such relationships can actually be neither "total" or "absolute" is agreed; these are ideal states to be worked towards but which will not be achieved….TPE a relationship in which no impediment to the exercise of the owner's power is accepted…Such things as safewords, contracts, negotiated limits, and anything else which recognizes / acknowledges / formalizes limits on the owner's power are inimical to TPE."

Full thread here, if you want it.

My general understanding of a TPE relationship, gathered from people who say they practice this, is that it’s a relationship in which the submissive has no right of refusal to anything the dominant commands. Anything. At all. Anytime. Ever.

Now, let’s be clear. I am very much in favor of dominant/submissive relationships. But this TPE business? I don’t like it.

I think TPE is positioned on the idea that the submissive having any limits whatsoever is bad, and something to be overcome. I don’t agree with that idea. I have seen people who claim to practice it compare it to a parent/child relationship. They mean that in a positive way, but the logic is flawed. The role of a parent is to grow this little person into a big one and eventually send them out into the world. TPE seems like the precise opposite, in that the goal is to shrink a grown-up functional person down into someone who feels that they no power. TPE people usually insinuate - if they don't just say outright - that they feel TPE is superior to other expressions of d/s. I think putting forth the idea that the best and highest example of consensual, affection-based slavery is one that most closely mirrors real, non-consensual slavery is a mistake.

(Yes, I’m aware that TPE people always say that the slave should never be told to do anything really wrong, like killing their children or suchlike. I believe them. That still doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.)

Interestingly, I can’t ever recall talking to someone in real life who used that exact expression, TPE, to describe their own relationship. I am sure that people do, but there can’t be that many of them, or I would have encountered them. Thus, my impression of TPE is that it’s mainly a concept that you run into online. And that’s not something that’s going to increase my respect for the phrase.

On one level, it’s just words. Part of me thinks: If it makes you happy to create important-sounding acronyms for your kink, then fine, enjoy yourself. It’s not going to affect my life.

But especially in a shadow world like kink, language can shape the culture. It’s important that we examine them and provide appropriate community feedback to concepts. And as a writer, I think words are important in themselves. In this context, the word “total” is an intensifier, like the words “really”, “truly”, or “very”. Any writing teacher will tell you that overuse of intensifiers waters down your message. It's like saying "extreme", or "hardcore". Advertising-speak has invaded the kink language. I expect to see TOTAL POWER EXCHANGE on a can of energy drink any day now. It bothers me.

And psychologically, it conveys a whiff of desperation. When I read “I’m into TOTAL power exchange”, what I see is someone jockeying for credibility and status that at some level, he’s not sure he deserves. It’s a one-up statement. It's a way of saying "my special brand of dominance and submission is better than everyone else’s.” If you have to say that, to yourself or anyone else, then you have issues.

Everything BDSM people do, we construct in our heads. Once you get past the safe/sane/consensual part, there is no rulebook anywhere on how to do this, and no one gets to decide what kink means to the people doing it. Having limits in a relationship – in any relationship – is normal and healthy. This “Total Power Exchange” concept is silly and a bit pretentious at best, and I think it has the potential to be a negative force in a relationship. You have a dominant/submissive relationship? That’s dandy. The exact parameters of that are up to the two of you. Shape them however you want. But when random people start setting out rules for that, like they were carved on stone tablets, then you lose me. “In a TPE relationship, the slave must always wear purple shirts on Wednesday. The slave can never ever wear green shirts on Wednesday. Otherwise it’s not a true TPE.” Right. Whatever. If I wanted someone else setting out rules for how my intimate relationships must look, I’d could have stayed in the vanilla world, married some nice boy, voted Republican, and gone to church every Sunday.

Oh, I really hate it when this happens. I got an email today from someone who says she’s a sixteen-year-old girl. She says she really loves my blog, it’s taught her a lot about sex work and about her sexuality as a kinky person. She said the two words I really didn't want to hear: role model.

Sweet Jesus Christ. Emails like this greatly disturb me. I’ve written before in The Stranger about how profoundly uncomfortable I am with this, but allow me to expand on those thoughts here, just for the record.

My writing is not suitable for anyone under eighteen, period. I haven’t bothered with a lot of disclaimers and yes-I’m-an-adult-click-through windows on this blog, because I know damn good and well that is not going to stop anyone. Emails like this tempt me to do so, however, because at least I’d be able to point to them and say, “Hey, kiddo, you don’t belong here.”

The reason why under-eighteen people do not belong here is that many discussions of even the most private, vanilla, and monogamous adult sexuality assume a certain level of maturity and sophistication on the part of the participants. No matter how bright and smart and mature-for-their-age a teenager is, they don’t have that.

Now, you can argue that celebrating one’s eighteenth birthday does not automatically confer those qualities upon someone, and you’d be right. However, that is the mark at which our culture deems someone adult, and I think it’s appropriate to make a separation. When it comes to discussions of sexuality, under-eighteen people belong in environments designed for them, like Scarleteen.com.

What I do here is tell amusing stories about some very sophisticated expressions of sexuality. I’m not teaching lessons in a purposeful way - I write to entertain people. I think that perhaps because of my connection with The Stranger, people equate me with Dan Savage. No. Dan is a professional advice-giver. I am a professional dominatrix. Sure, I tell people my take on stuff. But grown-ups proceed through life at their own risk. We don’t let under-eighteen people do that, because they can’t be expected to understand all the ramifications of their behavior. I love my life, but there are risks and downsides that go along with my sexual choices that you simply cannot fully grasp when you’re so young. I’ve made my peace with them, but it’s not right for you to make those kinds of decisions now.

I’m aware that I’m well-known in certain circles, but celebrity does not equal role model. I don’t even think of myself as a role model for other adults, for god’s sake, and I am really, really not an appropriate one for a teenager. Legally, it’s a very bad idea for me to even write back to a minor to tell them I can’t give them advice. I definitely can not have any type of conversation about sex with any minor, ever.

(Parents, I know you can’t watch your kids every second, but hey! Your child is sending emails about her sexuality to strangers. You can't think that's a good idea. Maybe you should talk to them about that, if you haven’t.)

If you’re under eighteen, I wish you would not read me, but I am sure that won't stop you. So let's make a deal - if you like my writing, and you’d like to do something for me, here's what I want. I’d like you to look upon this blog as a description of a foreign land. Some distant place you might visit or even live some day. But not today, so please, don’t write me and ask me for directions.

An article on MSNBC.com about Seattle's own Wet Spot, recently renamed the Center for Sex Positive Culture. I can't say I'm completely ecstatic about the whole piece. Mr. Alexander seems a bit too eager to underline how he's just observing, you know, he doesn't really do this kind of thing himself. He says:

"BDSM is a lot of work, which may be why I’ve never taken to it. I’m more the “feed me grapes and bring me wine” sort of hedonist."

Doesn't exactly make the author sound like a ball of fire in bed, does it? If "work" equals some planning, some shopping, and some physical effort, then vanilla sex can be a lot of work, too. But many people seem to feel that it's worth it.

Still, perhaps I am too picky. For a conservative mainstream news outlet, it's not a terrible piece. I have certainly seen us portrayed far less flatteringly. I will have to get the book and see who else he met that I know.

I will remark, though, that terms like "sexploration" are tired. They are over. They are so 1990. If you want to write about sex, I beg you, do not just slap an s in front of any word beginning with ex and think it's all edgy and hip. It is not.

(A tip of the hat to Chris and Miss D for reminding me of this article.)

Notes from a weekend
What did I do over the weekend? Well, I went to a pal’s birthday party, where I gave a cute boy an impromptu lesson in “How to Give A Lap Dance”. He proved an apt pupil, but his “customer” was very rambunctious – she kept grabbing him, and everybody knows you don’t touch the dancer! (Unless you tip very heavily. And the manager’s not looking.)

Afterwards, two other way-hot boys, who had apparently been paying attention to my lesson, gave me lap dances. Mrrrow! It was quite special.

Later on, I got to use my stun gun on the sensitive bits of a certain boy. (Photo). I love doing that. It wasn't really my scene, I was just the opening act. (You know it's going to be a good night when a stun gun to the nads is the warm-up. Heh.) People watching us were kidding him a bit about flinching, but let me just say, in my best Samuel L. Jackson voice: “Hey, anyone who lets me use a stun-gun on their cock and balls is a bad-ass mothafucka in my book. You best not tease the man unless you want to drop your pants and show us you can do better.”

(Which one man did. At least, that's what I think he was saying. It was a little hard to hear him inside that leather hood. But his friends said he was, and the muffled noises did seem to be indicating consent. And I haven’t heard from his lawyer, so I figure it’s all good.)

I missed my darling Monk, but he’s apparently doing quite well in Boston, in both the retail and the personal sense. I look forward to the stories.

Auto Updates
What else did I do over the weekend besides zap people with stun guns? I looked at cars. BMW and Audi, specifically. Car-buying is weird in that it’s very technical, and yet also very personal. I have gotten a lot of nice emails from knowledgeable people with good advice on what to buy, and that's cool. But it's sort of like dating - no matter how suitable someone is, if you're not attracted, you're just not attracted.

I drove a BMW 328xi and an Audi A4. They were both quite nice. The BMW was a shade more responsive, but it was an all-wheel drive model, and I couldn’t get over how heavy it felt. Like a tank. I haven’t checked the weight of the various cars, but I would bet the BMW weighs the most.

The Audi felt similar to my Saab – not as powerful, but lighter and more effortless to drive, if that makes any sense. However, the one I test drove had one of those little multimedia screens in the dash, and I would have to have one without that. They’re just annoying. This is a car, not my living room.

I came away liking both the BMW and the Audi in general, although I didn’t fall in love with either of the particular ones I drove. I am also going to go look at some Mercedes C-class. At some level I feel a little crazy even looking at Mercedes, because, you know, they’re Mercedes. I just don’t think of myself as the kind of girl who drives a Mercedes. (Plus, I have heard that they are not terribly reliable and a huge amount of trouble to maintain.) But they’re very pretty cars, and the prices on the baby ones aren’t out of reach, so I’ll go look. I've fallen in love with less likely candidates.

A Note To My Lovely Readers
Can I just tell you all how much I like you? I do. You rock, dear readers of mine. I love that you send me nice emails telling me how much you liked something I wrote. I love that you pass along bits of information you think would be useful to me. I love that when I tell you how someone is messing with me, you all take up for me. That’s really sweet and wonderful. You’re awesome. Thank you.

A new podcast: a reader writes in asking about a specific jealousy issue. No lawn-gnome jokes in this one, for some reason Monk and I got off onto a weird "sex with robot chickens" tangent.

***

Edit, Noon: Because of the persuasive words of you, my readers, the image has been removed. Have I mentioned how much I love you guys? I am, however, leaving this post up so that I can refer to it for future situations like this.

***

And from the Annoying Person Department: this woman refuses to remove my photo from her site. (EDIT: Link removed, since she has now done so.)

I sent her the email I send everyone, which just says, Hi, that's a picture of me, and I actually haven't given you permission to use it, so would you take it off your site, please? Her replies are as follow, edited down slightly.

I'm sorry to inform you that i recieved that picture from the front of a greeting card that was sent to me years ago. Everyone I know has that picture. Also if you look on the picture that you sent me.. there are no copyright signitures or watermarks at all. Once you put a picture over the internet you have to stamp them with your mark or they are anyone's to take....(snipped for incoherence)... Do you have the copyrighted picture or negative? I will look up the copyright and authenticate and also then apologize to you and my readers... It is not my intention ever to hurt or steal from anyone. That goes way beyond anything I'm actually capable of.

Yes, I'm aware everyone you know has that picture. It is one of the great regrets of my life that I ever put that damn picture online. And why is it that no one who's stolen it ever has it on a cool, intelligent, interesting site? At least this is better than the last guy I had to speak to about it. He had a page for a "Christian D/s" social group. No, you do not use my naked body to promote Christianity, thankyouverymuch.

I sent this person a reply stating again that yes, it definitely was a picture of me, and asking again that she take it down. She responded:

This picture is not of you. I found the owner and the site it's displayed on... Again.. I'm sorry for your trouble though you've been through it .. it seems to me "a million times" as you said that's how many times it's been stolen. I see this photo all over the place.. it's on greeting cards .. and on a million profiles.. and erotic sites.
Again,, if you still believe this photo is yours please send me the copyrighted number to be authenticated and i will take it down.... Im not trying to steal and am certainly not making money off of the picture. But the site i got it from is a FREE site. Please do your research and take it up with them I do not want to be involved in your battle with them.

She then blocked me from sending her any more emails. So much for being all loving and open.

I don't know why she thinks I'd say it was me if it wasn't. I can assure you, I do not get off on emailing strangers to ask that they remove a photo from their (badly designed and rambling) websites. I don't find it so entertaining that I'd do it just for kicks. Given that she's also displaying the complete text and images from, "The Little Prince, " I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that she doesn't understand copyright.

Or at least pretends not to understand it. But for those folks who do - here's the original image from my camera. (Note: really big file!) No one else can produce this, because I never posted it full-size anywhere. But I suppose you could enlarge a tiny one and try to smooth out the jagged edges, so here also are two other (big) images from the same shoot. One, two. It's the same set, lighting, camera angle and model - me. No one else can show you these images without the red edits, because I have not posted them anywhere before now.

It pains me to have to present my work defaced with the cutouts and X's, but it's obviously the only way. I don't expect that this woman will get it, but now that I've posted it, I can link back to this post in future emails to similar image-thieves.

Okay, I didn’t get around to uploading a podcast. But I will! However, there’s a new column up about rocking your strap-on.

If you just want sexy stuff, click over and read the column. But lest some ya’ll think I never have to deal with the inconveniences of the real world, let me tell you about my unsexy day yesterday. My car is sick, and my cat was sick.

My car is very sick and I’m cranky about it, because it shouldn’t be. It’s not very old – faithful readers of the blog will recall my buying the Saab 9-5 in 2004, and it was only two years old then. I was amused to be buying a Swedish car. I joked that I’d had a Swedish husband, and that hadn’t worked out too well for me. But it was a good deal for what seemed like a good car, and I really liked the way it looked and the way it drove.

Well, my second Swedish romance has also gone sour. In my crankier moments with the Saab, I have called it “The Swedish Revenge”, or more specifically, “(My ex-husband’s name) Revenge.” The Saab has proved to be a fussy car, and I do not like fussy cars. When I got a quote for the latest projected repair, I said, “That’s it – this thing is outa here, I’m getting a new car.”

I have been in obsessive research mode for the last week or so, trying to decide what kind of car I should get. Frankly, I do not enjoy the process of shopping for a car. It’s stressful. It is better this time around, because now that I have a mortgage, everyone and their brother wants to loan me more money. Very odd, to a girl who spent many years functioning in an all-cash, off-the-grid system of personal economy.

So I’m checking Kelly Blue Book and I’m filling out loan applications online and I’m readings car reviews on Edmunds.com and Consumer Reports, and in the middle of all this, I look up and see my cat doing something that bodes ill: she's piddling on the floor in a corner of my office.

I said a rude word and jumped up. Of course she ran away, but I watched her for a little while and determined that yeah, she's acting like a cat with a UTI. So, I get on the phone and cancel my plans for the rest of the day, while I simultaneously stuff my unwilling pet into her cat carrier, because we are going to the vet right now, before she gets any sicker. Unlike my car, my cat actually is quite old – she’s nineteen. So I do not dally in these matters.

We get into the Saab, and I cannot tell who’s making the most noise – my cat, who strongly disapproves of this whole plan and is saying so, loudly, or my car, which is screeching as badly as the cat. It is not a pleasant ride.

So, two hours at the vet’s office, and my cat is on her way to being fixed. At significantly less cost than the Saab repair shop wants, I might add. She’s a much older model, but at least in this case, American-made seems to trump imported.

I seem to either be posting looooong rants or very short snippets, don't I? And the more sex-work advice posts I write, the more questions come in. Seems like a lot of women have questions about this, which actually does not astound me.

I've got a couple more in the chute for later, but hey, I have to talk about poly and kinky stuff, too. So I'll upload another silly podcast today and link to it shortly...

Meanwhile, Monk has a very cute video-blog post up....Enjoy.

Advice For The Ambitious Escort

Let me just start by saying braaa-vo. I just got hip to you recently and I like what you are about... I have been an exotic dancer on and off for six years and i'm done with that, at least in seattle I am. I want to escort because I want to make ALOT of money this year. I've contacted several agencies and never hear back??? So I try craigslist but feel like I need a set guideline for how to go about it. 2 major problems. The rates are too low. I am seriously hot and know I can do WAAAY better than 2-300a visit (no offense to u or anyone else out there who may have had those rates) . The second problem is that several times I had a man on the hook about to pay 1000$ then he finds out i'm black (ethiopian) and bails out. I am a mess. Please help. If you know any UPscale places I could get n touch with and or suggestion...

Thanks for reading, I’m glad you like what I have to say. Yes, I do have some advice for you. Here’s what I think...

I believe you. I am sure that you are so hot that your time is worth a thousand dollars an hour. In fact, I’m sure it’s worth ten thousand, or a million, or any sum one cares to name, because you’re beautiful and special. But you see, every woman is worth that, because we are all beautiful and special and infinitely precious in our own way. That is what’s true in, shall we say, the spiritual realm.

Now we’re going to leave the metaphysical realm and talk about business. And in the business world, you’re not being realistic. Two to three hundred dollars an hour is the average rate for an escort here in Seattle, and the idea that you are seven to eight hundred dollars worth of better than all the other local ladies, just because you say so, is silly. You may be hot, but hotness ain’t all there is to being a high-end escort. Far from it. You need a better grasp of how this business works, which I’m about to give you.

First, understand that escorting is not a con-game. At least not in my book, and I’m the one you asked. I am somewhat skeptical about your good intentions here, because of what you say about your would-be clients “finding out” that you’re black. Are you not saying so up front? What, do you think you’re going to sneak that fact by them somehow? If you honestly want to do well as an escort, then the key is creating good experiences for your clients, not getting someone "on the hook” and scamming them. I’ve been a dancer myself, so I know that’s how it works in clubs, and that’s probably true for the lower-priced women too, but that’s not the market you’re trying to break into.

(Also, you are looking in the worst possible place for high-rollers. Craig’s List? My dear. No. Sell a used couch on Craig’s List. Or find a guy to haul your trash away. But do not expect to find clientele for a high-end call girl.)

The fact that you haven’t heard back from agencies can be due to one of two things. A) many escort agencies are not exactly run like Fortune 500 companies. Especially if they’re not looking for new staff, they may just blow you off because they’re doing other things.

B) You may be making a bad impression on them. If you’re telling them what you told me, I bet that’s probably the case. No agency is going to take you on if you’re telling them you’re not willing to work within their fee structure. That doesn’t make you seem like a hot woman with a lot of confidence, it makes you seem like a troublemaker who’s going to piss off their regular clients by trying to demand more money for the same service. No agency wants that, no matter how pretty you are.

When it comes to high-end escorts, Seattle is a clubby, insular town. There’s a very active escort-review board. (Or two, perhaps. I only keep tabs on the one. I’m not going to link to it, because it doesn’t need the attention, but a Google search would find it.) Most guys who see escorts regularly – and a lot of guys who are just curious – read at least one of the boards and use the reviews as their buying guide. There’s also a lot of private-channel discussions between the guys. This is not a bad thing necessarily – once you gain a good reputation with this in-group, you don’t have to market a whole lot in other places. But most guys with money to spend shop among the ladies who are well-known and who have very good reputations. You don’t have that. You’re an unknown woman, advertising on Craig’s List - which is generally regarded as low-rent and full of scammers - and asking a very high price. That’s not going to work. I know some ladies who charge upwards of six hundred dollars an hour for their time, which is high-end for Seattle. They all started out as new girls, charging the same rate per hour as everyone else. You have to prove yourself, create a reputation for excellence. Then you can raise your rate.

On the other hand, if you don’t give what is commonly regarded as good value for the money, you will quickly get a bad reputation, and that’s a very hard thing to shake. In some matters clients are rather forgiving – see Sunday’s remarks about flaky indy escorts – but they react very badly to the feeling that they’re being deliberately hustled. And who can blame them? So if you over-promise and under-deliver, word will get around about that, and the client pool will dry up quickly.

So, you asked me my advice, and I’m giving it to you. I’m guessing it’s not what you wanted to hear. But at some level, you must know it’s true, because you have not succeeded in getting anyone to pay you a thousand bucks within your current system. You sound like a determined woman, and that’s a good trait. So, get off Craig’s List and get an ad here instead: www.eros-seattle.com. If you put your energy into honestly being a really good escort, then I predict you will indeed make a lot of money. I wish you very good success in attaining your goals.

Links, schedules and random remarks

I’m going to try to remember to talk about my schedule for the week here every Monday. This week, I still have Tuesday free, and I have some time on Friday before 4:30 pm. Drop me a note as soon as you can if you’d like to get time with me either of those days.

***

Also, there was some talk of me going out of town this month – that’s been postponed. So I’m around all of January. My time goes fast, so carpe diem.

***

Thanks to everyone who made Mark Yu’s visit here such a success!

***

I do indeed have a Sweeney Todd poster promised to me, so thank you, everyone who emailed about that.

***

Interesting link: This is a well-written and very informative post about how straight men should act at sex parties, and it's good advice. “…at every sex party, it seems like some guy messes up and pisses off some woman. In most cases, he is a perfectly nice and not at all creepy fellow who just screwed up slightly while following his instincts. Men of the naughty party world: I’m here to tell you that when it comes to sex and play parties, your instincts are wrong.”

***

I found out recently that some sex-negative bloggers refer to me, pejoratively, as “that yuppie mistress”. I am vastly, but vastly, amused by this. Perhaps I'll start using it as advertising text. Yuppie, huh? Well, I’m not old, I do live in an urban area, and yes, I am a professional…dominatrix. However, I’m guessing they’re referring more to the fact that I own a house, drive a nice car and buy new clothes. Oh, and that I’m happy. In certain circles, to be both emotionally and financially stable obviously means you’re a shallow sellout. You should be poor, and tortured with angst! To which I say: I can’t be a sellout, because I never bought in to your philosophy or your politics. And it isn't like you'd ever approve of me even if I was poor and unhappy, because my sexuality is just way too wrong for you. So keep your approval, I don't care about it. Now pardon me while I go shop for a BMW.

Screening Escort Clients

A friend of mine, who has just recently begun working for an escort service, is toying with the idea of going solo and booking her own calls, and she’s asked me for advice on how to do so safely. In my time as an escort, I worked for two cool women who ran good services. But I also worked as an independent escort. And my safety-screening process now is not substantially different, since I still spend time alone with my clients.

I think working for yourself is the best way. Granted, you need to be a reasonably intelligent and well-organized person to book and keep track of appointments. (Or else you need to be really hot in bed, so that clients forgive you for being flaky and keep calling you anyway. This second category accounts for a large number of indy escorts.)

But more important than time-management is learning to observe and analyze people's behavior quickly, in order to determine who you should see and who you should not. This is what I am most frequently asked for advice about, and it's the hardest thing for me to teach.

It is common, now, for an escort to require a referral from another working girl before seeing a new client, and I sometimes use that system myself. At least here in Seattle, that method works rather well. Most established working girls are good about answering such requests from another woman, and I have not heard of any cases here where a reliable escort gave a thumbs-up to a guy who then turned violent on another woman.

However, I have booked plenty of perfectly nice guys – many of whom are still clients of mine - on nothing but gut instinct. It’s an eclectic skill: there are so many tiny clues and tricks and tells, all of which I have learned over time, and whenever I pick up the published phone line all that information is running through my head, below my level of conscious thought. It’s like the book “Blink” -I get a snippet of information and make a quick judgment about the situation. And while I have probably excluded some nice guys, I have never had a client harm me or threaten to harm me, and that’s what we’re going for here.

So, how to screen: some off-the-cuff thoughts…

Read this: Yes, No, Maybe.

Next, search for “ring ring” and “beep” on this blog and read all the phone call and message posts. They’ll give you an idea of what a bad caller sounds like.

A good caller:

• Talks to you in a way you’re comfortable with. That’s a really subjective thing, so you have to figure out for yourself what type of client makes you comfortable. It’s likely to be someone from a similar culture and background to you. It's just harder to quickly assess the meaning of someone's behavior if they're from a vastly different world than yours. That’s why men from other countries – like, say, New York – often throw me a bit on the phone. A man with an unfamiliar manner is going to have to work a bit harder to demonstrate to me that he shares my sex-work values: safety, discretion, mutual respect.
• Acts as if he has a life. Be careful of anyone who says something like, “I can come over anytime, anytime at all.” A guy you want has other stuff going on in his world. He also should act as if he's interested in safeguarding himself, like he has something to lose. A guy who tells you his full name, address, phone number, ect, in the first three minutes of conversation? That’s odd behavior and highly suspect.
• Realizes that yes, you’re another human being in the world, and that he’s negotiating an intimate rendezvous with you, not reserving a table at a restaurant. If he’s expecting to call a stranger and get an appointment in a hundred words or less, this is not a guy you want, because he’s not considering how you might feel about anything.
• Is willing to accept that he may not get exactly what he wants, exactly when he wants it. Children throw tantrums when they hear, “No, not right now”, or even simply, “No.” A grown-up who does this is not a client you want.
• Evinces a sense of humor. This is the most flexible requirement – callers are often a bit nervous, which can squelch humor. But it does make the sessions nicer.

Read, if you haven’t already, The Gift Of Fear. That’s a requirement. I have also read dozens and dozens of books about behavioral analysis and found them helpful. Go search through Amazon for “how to spot a liar” – there’s a lot there. Some are better than others, but information is never a waste.

Other advice on booking your own calls: Don’t go out too late. It’s not like ladies don’t ever get hassled or assaulted in the afternoon. But there’s something in the phrase “nothing good happens after midnight” when it comes to one-on-one sex work. The later at night an appointment with a stranger begins, the higher the chances of it going sideways. I might make an exception for a really upscale hotel. It’s unlikely – although definitely not impossible – that you’d get seriously physically assaulted in The Four Seasons. But I have known ladies who have had (non-consensual) wrestling matches in five-star hotel suites, and you still run the risk of the drunk/stoned client who is a huge pain in the ass and/or who stiffs you. Be careful here.

If the caller says something like, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” that’s bad. That’s very bad. Do not see anyone who says something like that. Dangerous guys will very often telegraph their intentions in this way, so if you pay attention, it’s not so hard to weed out the problem people.

The majority of the bad client stories I have heard began with the line, “So there was this guy, and I knew there was something kinda wrong with him, but I really needed the money, so I went…” No. No. Do not do that. First, as an independent sex worker, it is essential that you plan ahead and don't get into a situation where you feel desperate for cash, because desperate people make very bad judgments. And second, you must listen, listen, listen to that voice in your gut that says, “No.” It must be the highest authority, and if it says don’t go, you don’t go, and that’s it.

There’s a line I use in talking about this with the other women I’ve mentored. One time I wrote it out in block letters on a piece of masking tape, and stuck it on a pal’s (land-line) phone. The line is “The Phone Will Always Ring Again.” That means, this is not the last client in the world. Don’t get panicky and take the gig because you think you won’t get another. There are a lot of horny men in the world, god bless them, and if you’re putting it out there that you’re available for them, they’ll find you, trust me. Perhaps you’ve heard the expression, “Dance like nobody’s watching.” Well, screen like you don’t need the money.

So I'm talking about safety because there are bad people in the world. But most of the guys who call you are not serial killers - far from it. On the contrary, I think most of the time if you respect your client, then your client will respect you. I have known some women who hated doing sex work and hated the clients, and they all thought they acted their part so well that the clients never knew. Ha. Meryl Streep those girls were not. They fairly radiated rage, and the clients sensed it and were brusque and resentful in return. This is not to say that it’s a girl’s own fault if a client treats her badly. But the last rule of screening is: if you think you’re going to hate the guy, don’t go, even if he looks great on paper. You can’t possibly have even a neutral experience in that mindset. Listen to the guy, listen to your gut, and then do what’s right.

Anyone seen one of these posters for sale around town? Drop me a note and tell me where, please, because I want one...




Also: Are you in Dublin, Ireland and looking for polyamory resources? A reader of mine there has started a meetup, which I think is very bold and cool of him. Go here and read all about it.

A few more remarks about the NYE party…

It’s odd how one gets used to things. We had sixty-five people at the party, and several folks remarked on how it seemed so markedly less insane than the last one. I felt a difference myself. Fewer than twenty people can noticeably tip the balance, it seems. I am the one who’s really the head-count police – Max has a higher tolerance for crowds than I do. But I told him we could invite, say, five more people next time, for a total of seventy, and see how that felt. Always trying to find the sweet spot.

Still, even with our friend Chris and his lovely sweetheart D there to help us, it was pretty much an all-day thing getting the house and the food and such ready, and then Puck and I spent some time getting our girly on. Max had to snap a picture of us primping.

One of the toys at the party : my fucking machine. It was made for me my by the secondary partner I had before I started dating Monk. His name is Mike, and he’s a metal artist, and I love his work. So this is not just any fucking machine. This, my friends, is a one-of-a-kind piece of sexual art.

I brought my lovely fucking machine home from my dungeon for the party, because a certain cute girl had expressed a wish to try it out. And then we put her in the little cage in the dungeon so she couldn’t change her mind, heh.

Here’s a photo taken right after the fact, when Puck decided to climb up on the cage and congratulate that brave cute girl on her voyage. Yes, photos exist of the event in progress, but there are some not-publishable faces in those pictures. But do note the tiny blue Pocket-Rocket vibrator on the white towel there. Cute.

And I just love how the machine is poised behind Puck, as if to say, “Hey, there’s another girl! I can go again, really!” We tried to get a boy to do it, too, but they all got shy.

Max also did some holiday decorations on Puck – bells, held on by needles. He kept taking Puck by the arms and shaking her to make her jingle. It was charming, even when Puck’s eyes started to cross a bit.

People kept kidding me that I wasn’t drunk enough, which is just so odd, given that we are not a heavy-drinking group. Two of the people teasing me about this are NA/AA people, for heaven’s sake! Sometimes I think I make a good story about something on the blog, and it sort of takes on a life of it’s own in real time, even among people who know me. Behold the power of publishing. I did enjoy some very lovely champagne, though.

And now I think I’m getting settled into 2008. It looks to be an interesting year…

So, a lovely time was had by all on New Years Eve at my house. Perhaps some more pictures tomorrow, but we have to have the traditional NYE “naked people in a cage” photo, so here it is…

Amusing note: I have no idea whose shoe that is. It does not belong to any of the ladies in the picture, though. We have a silly number of cages in the house for two people who don't have a particular fetish for them. (That number would be three, for the record.) I don't think I've ever actually used one of our cages in a scene. But Max uses them some - and they do get lots of play at parties. (Especially when we put a fucking machine next to one of them... But, sorry, that's not my story to tell.)

It was about 5am by time everyone cleared out, and Puck and Max and I fell into bed, drunk slightly with wine and mostly with exhaustion. It was rather late in the day when we woke up again, as you may well imagine. We spent some of the first day of 2008 socializing with our overnight guests, and then we went and saw Sweeney Todd. Yes, I’d already seen it with Monk, but as he often remarks, that’s part of being poly: seeing all the good movies at least twice.

Also: thank you to the friend who sent us some very lovely red wine. It was much enjoyed, and we did put some aside for a more private occasion.

Now I have to finish a column and get back to my holiday-neglected life.

No Comment

So, you may have noticed that the comment box has gone away. I made a vague remark a few days ago suggesting it was a technical issue, but in fact, I took the comments box off myself, because I was the one having issues.

This blog has evolved a lot since I started writing it. It’s gone from being a little add-on to my professional site to taking on a life of it’s own. A big life, too. Writing this blog is almost like having another partner – it’s a whole separate relationship that needs care and attention. And truthfully, the relationship it reminds me of is the one Seymour had with his blood-sucking plant in Little Shop Of Horrors. Like Seymour’s plant, this blog has connected me with awesome people and made a lot of really amazing things happen for me. I would never choose to un-do all that. But some days, I feel like the constant cry of “Feed me!” is making me a little anemic.

Of course, as long as I have this blog, that voice is going to be in my head. One of my rules for life is that I don’t take myself too seriously - but I take what I do very seriously. If I’m going to blog – and I am, this is not a farewell speech – then I am going to blog well.

However, I have become aware, lately, that my writing here has gotten really…careful. Almost defensive. When I considered it, I realized that it was due to my thinking too much about what people were going to post in the comments. When I first started blogging, I loved getting comments. At some point, that changed. Naturally it’s always been nice to have people say how much they liked this or that. I’m human, I like praise. But getting strokes can’t be the entire goal of the blog. Monk told me how Pete Townsend once remarked that people always talk about how musicians influence their listeners, but that the reverse was also true: fan feedback influences musicians. That’s true for me as well, and I feel it’s been detrimental to my writing here. When I took the comments off ten days ago, it was an experiment to see how I felt. And what I felt was an immediate sense of being freed from a constraint. Thus, I will not be having comments here anymore.

Even as I write this, I’m feeling the urge to bring up and pro-actively address all the various protests and arguments that I think you, the reader, might make. Defensive. But as with everything in my life – and in yours too – my choice to remove comments is influenced by a number of factors, both large and small. Some of my reasons I have shared with you here, but there are others I’m not going into, either because they are too complex or too personal. Without the comments box hanging over my head, I feel freer to write what I want, without lengthy justification.

I suppose it’s possible the silence will get to me after a while and I’ll put them back up, but not any time in the foreseeable future. You can, of course, email me with your comments, and I will probably post and publicly respond to selected ones.

To all the people who said pleasant and/or thought-provoking things here, I thank you. Your input was appropriate, and it was appreciated. But I’m going to take it alone now.

There's a new poly column over at The Stranger....

And there's a new podcast up, too. Monk and I address a letter from a reader who asks the age-old question: How do I introduce my partner to kink? We each offer some remarks, both serious and silly. (About ten minutes long, and NWS. As if you didn't already know that.)

***

An aside to my clients: I am not usually around on the weekends. However, this weekend, I am available. So if you'd like to come play on Saturday or Sunday, drop me a note.

***

Edit: I'm shopping the after-xmas sales, and whoo, it's tempting. Like this little number. I never wear suits. I have no reason to wear suits. But good lord, this is such a gorgeous color that I may have to buy this suit anyway.

When I am alone out in the world, I usually walk around quite intent on my own inner thoughts and purpose. That’s why I’m always startled when strangers speak to me on the street. Unless it’s someplace where I feel that I must be alert to ensure to my immediate physical safety, I am just not paying attention to other people moving around me in public places. And while I do not wish to liken myself to an ostrich with its head in the sand, I do fall into the habit of thinking that most other people are similarly absorbed.

However, now and then I am reminded that that’s not so. I went to dinner with Miss K not long ago and she told me a story that surprised me.

“Remember the first day you came to visit me in the hospital?”

“Yes,” I said.

She told me that I’d left just moments before another friend of hers, a man I’ll call B, arrived to visit. She is fond of this man, and she’d already told him about her best pal – and I do mean all about me, including that I am Mistress Matisse, etc. Which is all quite fine.

Whatever she said about me seemed to stick in his mind, though, because Miss K then informed me that when the elevator near her hospital room opened its doors to allow B to get out, I was there waiting to depart, and he recognized me. It may have been just from her description, or it might have been because he’d already gone and looked at photos of me, I’m not clear about that.

But I’m sure than in my usual way, I just looked right past him and stepped in the elevator as he stepped out. I was undoubtedly either worrying about Miss K, or thinking of the next action item on my day’s agenda.

However, Miss K told me that based on this fleeting encounter, he developed something of a temporary crush on me, albeit in absentia. I accepted Miss K’s assurances that this was something I should be flattered by rather than concerned about. But it was just rather startling. I think I’m an attractive woman, certainly. But I don’t think of myself as someone for whom a total stranger would conceive a slight infatuation after passing me in an elevator. Certainly I didn’t look that glamorous – as I recall, I was dressed for a cold wet day, in jeans and a heavy wool peacoat and my lug-soled Harley-Davidson boots.

I said as much to Miss K, who rolled her eyes at me. “As if that makes any difference.”

So I shrugged and smiled and said to tell him thank you, and we went on with our dinner.

Then yesterday, she told me that B had checked my blog to see if I’d told the story here. I hadn’t, simply because I couldn’t think of any way to tell it without sounding egotistical. But I’ve had a few crushes on strangers myself, so I am sympathetic. And neither do I wish to disappoint any friend of Miss K’s. So, B, I am flattered, thank you. I don’t think any woman is ever displeased to hear that people find her intriguing.

Still, it’s the sort of thing that makes a girl get a little more conscientious about checking her lipstick before she goes out. Apparently I am not as invisible as I think.

A quick note before I dash off again...

Monk and I went to the midnight showing of Sweeney Todd last night. We enjoyed it tremendously. It’s a Tim Burton film, no doubt, it’s got that look to it. Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham-Carter have great screen chemistry together. Neither of them are powerful singers, but who cares? Wow, lots of spurting blood, though. Having only seen the show onstage before, it was different to get the throat-cutting scenes up close and personal.

The theater was full, mostly of what looked like high-school drama enthusiasts, and they were so cute and so excited. I was a theatre geek myself, so I was charmed. I predict a sudden return to the Victorian look for goth guys - waistcoats and full-sleeved shirts. And I also expect to see a lot of boys sporting wavy black hair like a lion’s mane, with one pure white lock.

I continue to get good feedback about the Stranger article, perhaps I’ll do a sampling of emails next week. I got a bit of blog-love from Belle De Jour, and I have lost her email address, so Belle, let this serve as my thank-you.

Bye!

Before I go further, yes, commenting is off right this second, there’s some issues there, hopefully it’ll be back up soon…

So, my feature piece in The Stranger is out. It’s so different, writing a longer piece. With the column, it’s fairly quick and dirty – what you read is pretty often exactly what I wrote. Occasionally changes are made, but usually not. There was a much longer writing/submitting/editing/rewriting cycle with this piece, and even so, my editor had final say of what ran. That’s probably for the best. Every writer needs an editor, even though we hate it. We think poetry flows from our pen like liquid silver and that it should be unstained by any other human hand. But that’s why we have blogs. For any other type of publication, the dispassion and discipline of another set of eyes is a necessary thing.

Until comments are back up, you are welcome to email me with feedback.

I am off today to spend a day and a night with a friend. We have some lovely afternoon plans, and then we have tickets to The Jersey Boys. I love musicals. So we’ll do dinner at Ruth’s Chris and then go watch some singing and dancing.

And then there will be some private performances, but that’s a whole other post.

But meanwhile I have something to entertain you, dear readers: another podcast with me and Monk. It’s a bit longer than the previous ones, about fifteen minutes, because it’s a topic I enjoy talking about. We play a phone call from our pal Hannah who has a question about urethral sounds.

(And we make various tacky jokes about Monk’s lawn gnome fetish. You should expect the lawn gnome jokes to be a constant in these things. We don't seem to be able to stop.)

Enjoy!

Milestones: After my recent email exchange with the legendary Susie Bright, she asked me if she could re-publish one of my recent Stranger columns on her blog. Naturally I replied that I would be honored. So that’s slated to be up today, and I am very excited about it. Hey, baby, I’ve arrived! w00t!

***

Otherwise, it’s been an insanely busy two weeks. I was laughing to myself last Friday night – in an exhausted sort of way – at how overloaded everyone in my universe is. The usual disclaimer: it’s all good stuff. There’s just a lot of it, that’s all. Friday night was supposed to be Date Night with Monk. Normally we would all spend this time doing, shall we say, date-like activities.

However, when Monk showed up at my house Friday, I said, “I’m sorry, darling, I’m not going to be much fun tonight. I do need to go eat, because I pretty much haven’t all day. But then I have to come back and finish this last round of edits on the Stranger article, and then write this sidebar piece, because it all has to be in my editor’s email in the morning.”

He ran a dye-stained hand through his hair and sighed tiredly. “You know what, babe, that’s cool, because I’ve actually got a ton of work I need to do too.”

I looked at him concernedly. “I know you’re fighting that cold. Do you need some chicken pho? I can do that.”

“No, I need some meat. Let's go get protein.”

So we went and grabbed some Jones Barbeque, and then came back and worked on our computers. Sexy, huh?

Monk went to bed before I did, as befit a boy who’d gotten up at the crack of dawn. Later on, when I got under the covers with him, I naturally slid my chilly self right on over and cuddled up to his heat-radiating body. Mmmmmn, warm.

He made a vague noise in his sleep, as he always does when I do this. I suppose it could mean, “Jesus, babe, you’re like a human icicle, get off me until you defrost.” But I choose to interpret it as, “Oh hello darling, please do wrap yourself around me and get warm.”

I ran my hand down his chest and stomach, to the base of his torso, where I found… my goodness. I know Monk likes it when I cuddle him, but I didn’t think he liked it that much. It wasn’t a full-on woody, but it was still quite…noticeable.

Monk made another sleepy noise as I gave it a slight squeeze. “Well, even when you’re sick… I wonder what were you thinking about before you went to sleep.”

I didn’t really expect an answer, but he stirred, and said, in the thick drawl of the sleeper, “Soup.”

I giggled. “Soup? You were thinking about soup before you went to sleep and it gave you a hard-on?”

He stretched and sighed, without opening his eyes. “Yep. Does it every time.”

I laughed again and considered some possible answers to that, but then his breathing changed and I could tell he was falling more deeply asleep, so I took my hand away and wiggled my behind up to his side instead, and went to sleep myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ring ring!

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

Ring ring!

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

Me: hello?

Caller: Yeah, hi.

(Silence…)

Me: Can I help you?

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

(Silence…)

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

Me: Excuse me, are you there?

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

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

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

Me: Why did you call me?

Caller: I want to see you.

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

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

Caller: I dunno, just curious.

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

Caller: So, you gonna see me or what?

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

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

Click. I hang up.

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

Give Me Money

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

It was from Susie Bright.

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

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

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

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

Snippets from a social occasion...

***

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

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

“Your business sounds like war,” he replied.

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

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

“I work at Microsoft.”

***

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

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