Another email question…

I read your blog the other day. I began the experience as an innocent, with no knowledge of BDSM whatsoever, and finished with an understanding of some of the motivations of the people who follow the lifestyle. You are in a polyamorous relationship that you find very satisfying. I get some understanding of why that is in reading your blog. What I don't understand (and I don't mean this in a judgmental way) is why you have chosen this kind of a lifestyle over a monogamous one. What are the benefits of a poly relationship for you that have lead you to prefer it to a more conventional one? In my admittedly naive view, a poly relationship would seem to entail a large number of costs - jealousy, a large commitment in terms of time, work and emotional support to multiple people, societal disapproval, interpersonal relationships that shift between friendship and being openly sexual, greater STD concerns, and greater vulnerability to being hurt emotionally. For you to undertake such a relationship with your primary partner, there had to have been some benefit beyond having more varied and enjoyable sex. In my experience, I have had very close and satisfying relationships with people without having sex with them. So I don't see the non-sexual reasons for polyamory. Could you enlighten me?

I've heard this kind of question before, and while I'm not offended by it – uh, yeah, it's pretty naive. What this questioner is essentially saying is: why do you have to have sex with anyone besides Max? Why can't you just be friends with other people?

In some ways, I think this is rather like asking a gay person why he/she can't "just be friends" with people of the same gender instead of having sex with them. I can't be truly happy being monogamous because I'm not wired that way. I haven't "chosen" anything – it's just the way I am.

The strange part of the way this question is presented, however, is that the writer takes a position that both over- and under-emphasizes the power and importance of sexuality.

He over-emphasizes it by setting monogamy up as the gold standard, giving me arguments to show how much better it is – safer, easier, more time-efficient – and by questioning why I'd risk all those supposed benefits.

Yet simultaneously, he under-emphasizes it by acting as if having a sexual love relationship is just like having a good buddy with whom you also like to do the wild thing. This writer talks about sex like it's going bowling or something - he seems to think that Roman and I could have built exactly the same type, and the same level, of affection, intimacy, trust, closeness and love, without having had sex with each other.

Now, I have a good friend – Miss K. We've been good friends for about ten years. She and I know each other in certain ways that no one else understands, and I love her dearly. But I'm here to tell you: it ain't the same. Friendship is a vitally important part of being fully human. But a sexual love relationship is a whole different thing. You cannot substitute one for the other.

(Yeah, I've had casual sex with friends before, and while it's not on par with an intense sexual love relationship, I still consider even the most no-strings of sex to change the nature of a platonic friendship. But polyamory means "many loves" and sexual love relationships are what we're talking about here. Casual sex is a whole other discussion.)

Poly is complicated, no question about it. But if one is going to argue strictly on the virtues of minimizing risk and maximizing efficiency, one could say: why have sex at all? Remaining a virgin would eliminate all the concerns that the writer brings up. Jealousy, STD risks, the possibility of being hurt emotionally, loss of time for other things – they all become non-issues. But I'm guessing he wouldn't advocate that. Nor would I.

In a sexual love relationship, you open your heart to your partner. You expose yourself, you make yourself vulnerable, and you do that because you want to. You want to be seen and be known in the most intimate of ways, and part of that intimacy is physical. But - I know I don't really need to explain this, I know that the writer must understand the power of physical intimacy, because he's essentially saying that it's so important it should be reserved for Max. But at the same time he's saying that it's so trivial he doesn't understand why I can't just subtract it from my relationship with Roman without altering that relationship's essential nature. I don't think one can logically hold both those positions at the same time.

What I say is: there is a connection that only happens when your body and your heart move as one, and I call that love. I am actively polyamorous because I have the ability and the desire to share that kind of love with more than just one person at a time. And because of that, I have a life that's filled with love. I happen to think that's worth a few inconveniences.

Whatever man first said, "It's better to get pissed off than pissed on," and thought himself ever-so-witty, had clearly never met some of the guys that call me.

Ring ring!

Me: Hello?
Caller: How much do you charge for golden showers?

I think this guy has mistaken me for an a la carte menu. In fact, I have a feeling he's hoping he's at McDonalds. He's wrong on both counts.

Me: I do not charge per activity. I charge a per-hour fee for my professional time, regardless of what kind of scene I'm doing.
Caller: Oh. Well, what's your fee per hour?
Me: Two hundred and fifty dollars.
Caller: Oooo. That's kinda steep, isn't it?

It's not – it's exactly the same as everyone in town has been charging for some time. (Although I did notice lately that there's a newcomer charging three hundred. More power to her, if she's getting it.) Of course, he might also just mean "steep" relative to his discretionary income, which would be a not-my-dog situation. Either way, one always wonders how guys who say this think I might respond to such a remark. "Oh, do you think so? Tell me, dear man, how much would you like to pay me?" Surely, surely not. So I just say…

Me: Did you have any other questions I can answer for you?
Caller: Do you do fifteen-minute sessions?

Oh man. I get requests for half-hour sessions, and that's bad enough. But fifteen minutes? What the fuck does he think this is, a chair massage at an airport?

Me: No.
Caller: No?
Me: No.
Caller: But, I mean – you can't really pee for a whole hour, anyway. Can you?

I swear to god that's what he said. And there was the faintest little breath of crazy, I-know-it-can't-really-be-true-but-I'll-ask-anyway kind of hope in those final two words. I was so incredibly tempted to say "Oh, yeah! Sure I can." Just because then the little piss slut would be jerking off in a frenzy for the rest of his life, thinking about a woman who an hour-long bladder. A woman, I might add, that he'd never, ever get to meet. The torture of it!

But he'd never stop calling me. So instead I say…

Me: I think we're through talking now. Goodbye….
Click.

Piss off, indeed…

Health, Kink, and Silliness...

Well, I don't think I'd want to go run a marathon or anything today, but, on the whole, I seem to be well again. Thank god, I hate being ill, it sucks. So that's the health update. Now on to pervy stuff...

Hey, all of you out-of-towners, this is the excuse you've been waiting for to come to Seattle...

Two Day Bondage Intensive - Bondage Basics Through Suspension
Saturday, February 12th/Sunday, February 13th at Studio 120 in Seattle. It's 11 hours of focused rope bondage instruction, starting from the basics and going all the way through suspension bondage. If you have a practice partner, register them too. If you don't, that's OK - we'll form small groups and everyone will get a chance to practice. Class size is limited, so early registration is strongly encouraged.
Max will not be doing stand-alone suspension workshops in the future, so if you want to learn suspension bondage from an expert, now's the time. This will almost certainly sell out quickly, so register soon. I'll be there, it'll be a great event, and you can go from rope novice to bondage whiz in one weekend. Go read all the details on Max's site.

Now that we've covered the educational thing, let's have some entertainment...

While I was ill, I was amusing myself pasting bits of my own blog into this thing and seeing if it says I'm a boy or a girl. It's only right about half the time, which either means the algorithm is lame or I'm a hermaphrodite.

Oh, this woman may actually have me beat for the most Completely Insane Email of the Century. Caution: Do not drink anything while you read this, because you will spit it all over the keyboard.

New blog: Trinity, who comments here often and who has kindly allowed me to post nekkid pictures/video of her, has begun her journal, here.... So go check her out, and say hi to her, if you've got an LJ account.

Well, my temperature has dropped down out of triple digits, and my voice is sounding much less like Harvey Fierstein. That's progress. However, I'm still not feeling wildly creative, so we'll just pull the top letter off the email stack and answer it here….

I have been reading your blog for about a month now and have to say keep up the good work!...Anyway, I wanted to ask a question and I understand that you probably don't have time to answer all the questions you must get. I was wondering if you, as a sex worker, and particularly as a dominant female, have any sort of body image struggles, or could speak to that piece of being part of the sex industry. I know that in your blog you mention going to the gym and stuff, but I am wondering if having many people find you desirable improves a person's body image. I realize that this could be an incredibly offensive question and I am not so much asking you as in what is your personal experience, but more asking you as an expert. Thank you in advance if you have time to answer this and if not thank you anyway for the lovely blog.

What a sweet letter. This lady is right, I don't have time to answer all the questions I get, but I can answer this one. I'm not sure I'd call myself an expert on women's body image in a general sense, but I am definitely an expert on my body image.

Let me admit one thing right up front: I like having people think I have a pretty body. And it's my opinion that since I'm a sex worker, it is not only a personal but a financial benefit to me to have what the average America thinks of as "a nice figure". Yes, my feminist side deplores the endless barrage of you're-not-good-enough messages that are beamed at women by fashion/beauty magazines. But realistically, I see those types of messages as a "take some, leave the rest" situation. I am actually not a runway model in New York. So do I need to be a size 1 with 10% body fat? No, I don't need that. But – do I think I'd be as personally happy or as professionally successful if I were a size 18? No, I don't. For me, it's a question of keeping everything in balance.

I also think what I do to maintain my body affects how I feel about myself. I am not the jock-ish type by nature. I'd much rather lie on the couch and read a book. But unfortunately, I lack the kind of hyper-speed metabolism that will allow me to do that while looking the way I want to look. And strict dieting is such a negative, pleasure-denying place to live in all the time. I think it makes you a bit neurotic, and it doesn't even work all that well, either. Thus, I've made my peace with the gym. Two hours a day, three days a week, and I can eat pretty much whatever I want without angsting about it. 6 hours out of 168? I can do that.

(Plus, yeah, it's making me healthier, cardiovascular benefit, weight-bearing exercise wards off osteoporosis later in life - yes, I know all that, but right now we're talking about the visible effects.)

So if you call that a "body-image struggle"…Well, okay, then - I guess you could say I'm struggling. But it doesn't feel like psychological trauma to me, it just feels like: this is what I want, this is what I have to do to get it – so, that's what I'll do.

Do I think there's pressure to look a certain way in the sex industry? Yes, although more so in some places than in others. In the strip clubs I danced at, for example, anyone over a size 6 was at a disadvantage, and anyone over a size 10 was pretty much dead in the water. But I see plenty of big beautiful women who are doing just fine as escorts and sensual touch workers. I think just about any woman, regardless of looks/size, can make a living in some aspect of the industry. Obviously, the more people your looks appeal to, the more clients you'll attract based on that, so from a purely business perspective, it behooves you to make your looks as broadly appealing as possible. If you're targeting a narrower potential-client demographic, you may have to compensate for that in some way, like aggressive marketing or superior customer service. However, I witness this being done successfully all time.

Do I think being a professional dominant has affected how I feel about my body? No, not particularly. I do think pro domming is an area where skill and experience are definitely valued, perhaps more highly than in other areas of the sex industry. But a pro-domme's potential clients are certainly not above making their choice based on the mistress's looks. There was a time – I'm talking the 1950's here - when this particular branch of the industry was so taboo, and thus the market so underserved, that you could make money no matter what you looked like. But those days are long gone.

Do I think having people think I'm desirable improves my body image? I wouldn't say "improves", exactly. It's nice, although women of different shapes and sizes than I are also lusted after just as ardently. But the bottom line (no pun intended) is that if you don't feel good about yourself, no amount of praise from other will convince you you're beautiful. I can remember being in strip-club dressing rooms with women who were - I do not lie - goddesses. Fucking beautiful goddesses, with flawless bodies. And they'd stand in front of the mirror and say, "Oh, God, my tits are sagging, my ass is fat, I'm so ugly." It used to kill me that they couldn't see how gorgeous they were. But you couldn't tell 'em – they wouldn't listen. Guys threw handfuls of money at them nightly, howled and whistled and rolled on the floor like dogs in front of these girls, but…"I'm so ugly!" If you have a negative image in your head, that's all you'll see when you look in the mirror.
So, you have to feel good about myself, and then having other people praise you will be icing on your cake. The trick, of course, is to figure out just what you need to feel good about yourself. And that's likely to be more about what's above your shoulders than below it.

You Give Me Fever...

Sorry, no dirty stories about the sex party last night. As you may have inferred from Rossi's comment below, the Mistress is feeling a bit...under the weather. The sore throat isn't the bad thing, it's the 101 degrees of fever that's making me feel like I took some bad Extasy; the high is interesting, but my body feels terrible.

I'm reasonably sure it's the same bug that got Twisted Monk - although he's about 36 hours ahead of me with it. (Gee, how'd that happen? Hmmnn.) So I'm gauging my probable recovery by watching his. Survey says: I should be fine by Wednesday.

Hey! The Tylenol seems to have kicked in - thermometer now says 99.8. That's helpful - I have to conduct a telephone interview today for The Stranger, and I'd really prefer to be lucid for that. Maybe I'll go take a tepid bath and see if that gets me down to 99.

When I'm better, I'll tell you about the two naked chicks who were in the cage in my bedroom last night. And no, I did not hallucinate them...

What am I up to? Well, I'm busy with houseguests and such - Midori and her partner are staying with us this weekend, and if you're a kinky girl in Seattle, you should be at her party tonight.

Speaking of divas, I got a nice mention the UK newpaper, The Guardian, courtesy of the ever-gracious Belle De Jour, whose book is just out.

If you haven't already, check out this week's column, and the Kink Calendar.

I had dinner with Jake earlier this week, and in the wake of that, I have a private message for Jake's Canadian heartthrob. (This won't make sense to anyone else.) "Brionny, tell Vanessa to get over whatever weird issues she's got going on. Jake's a great guy, and she should definitely meet him face-to-face."
There. Now I've done my part for Romance...



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Pick and Choose

Ring ring!

Me: hello?
Caller: Hi, Mistress Matisse? I'd like to come see you today.
Me: Hmmn. Have we met before?
Caller: No, but you come highly recommended.

This guy sounds quite young, and he's talking very quickly, emphasizing the key words ("today!" and "highly!") in an unnatural-sounding way that I associate with those hucksters you see doing the cookware demos at state fairs. It's not something that's going to work in his favor.

Me: Okay, well, I don't do same-day appointments. The first day I'd have available is Tuesday, and –
Caller: (interrupts) Oh, really? Damn. 'Cause I just got into town. Can you recommend anyone else?
Me: You could ask Mistress X.
Caller: Well, what I'm really into is foot fetish. And I heard you've got beautiful feet. So I'd really like to come see you.

Then why the hell ask me for a referral?

Me: As I said, it would be Tuesday. But we'd have to back up some, because I would need to talk to you a bit and make sure that you and I would be compatible before I actually booked an appointment with you.

I'm already about 90% sure this kid isn't for me. He's talking too fast and trying to rush me along, and I don't like that. But we'll give him another minute to change my mind, since I am rather fond of foot fetishists in general.

Caller: Like I said, you come highly recommended, I'd really like to see you.
Me: You said that before – who recommended me?
Caller: Just some people. They said you had beautiful feet – and a beautiful everything else, too, heh heh heh. I mean, I can start with your feet, but who knows what else might happen? Do you think you'll have any cancellations tonight?

Oh, very rude and very pushy. And that leering little snicker? Bad, bad, bad…

Me: You know what? This isn't going to work for me. I think you should try someone else.
Caller: But you were recommended to me!

Inigo Montoya's line from "The Princess Bride" comes to mind. "You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means." This caller seems to think that because someone told him he should see me, I should automatically want to see him. In fact, unless you're going to supply me with a name or some other information about how you heard about me, saying "You were recommended" is meaningless to me. And if you act like it's going to get you some kind of special treatment, it's worse than meaningless.
I'm also suspecting that this kid's got some kind of recreational drug thing going on – there's just a subtle tone and a rhythm to his conversation that sets off my "this person is high" alarm. Hence the somewhat agitated insistence that I see him, right now.

Me: No, sorry, this isn’t going to work. I think you should call someone else.
Caller: Well, why do you think you were so highly recommended?

I have no earthly idea what he means by this. It might be a rather petulant rhetorical question, or he might just be trying to keep me on the phone. But it doesn't matter, since we're just going to finish this up right now.

Me: Okay, have a nice day, goodbye.

Oh, I am so glad I don't have to deal with anyone I don't want to…



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You Dirty…

People ask me, sometimes, "Aren't you ever nervous that someone will come into your dungeon and harm you?" I usually tell them that I'm quite careful – but that to live is to take risks, and I'm comfortable with mine.

However, I did have an encounter last week with an unpleasant character, and while I definitely think I got the best of the situation, it did make me a little jumpy for several days.

It began one afternoon when I went into my basement storage room. It's not anyplace one would linger - a cold, dark little room with a concrete floor. I often don't go in there for days at a time. I'd stepped into the room and picked up the item I wanted when I registered the thought: God, something smells funky in here...

And then, I sensed a presence where none should be. From the corner of my eye, I saw a dark shadow near the hot water tank – ugly, unwelcome, and quite alarming. I let out a sharp cry of surprise – one might even say that I screamed – and fled.

So quickly and so thoroughly did my animal instincts take over that I was almost to the second floor of my space before my rational brain was able to process what I'd seen and say: Matisse – calm down. It's not coming after you. It's dead. That's a dead rat.

It wasn't like I hadn't suspected that I might have a rodent roommate. Several weeks before, I'd found a garbage bag that had been…nibbled. I immediately called my landlord, who said he'd come over and check for holes in the exterior walls and such, and put out some poison.
"Poison? But don't they sometimes die in the walls and smell if you do that?"
"No, no," said my landlord. "They go outside looking for water and die there."
What do I know about pest control? Okay, fine. I dismissed the matter from my mind, and there were no further incidents. Until…this nasty thing.

I took several deep breaths and tried to slow my heartbeat. Clearly, it had to be gotten rid of. For one thing it smelled bad, and besides, I just could not walk peacefully around in my place, knowing that ugly gray corpse was down there.

Okay. Okay. I can do this. Really. I am a brave and rational person, I can pick up a dead rat and throw it away. Really I can.

I went hesitatingly downstairs again, and while still standing on the basement steps, peeked through the open door. Oh, god, there it is! Even though I knew what I was going to see, I let out a little eeek noise.

I ran back up a few steps and then stopped myself. Matisse, you're acting like an idiot. It's dead. That's why it stinks. It's not going to hurt you.

What if there's another one? The cowardly part of my brain asked.

Even if there is another, all your shrieking and running up and down the steps has certainly frightened him away. For gods sake, they aren't ninjas – he isn't going to come try to take revenge for his friend or anything.

I went and got a garbage bag and a thick rubber cleaning glove. C'mon, just go pick it up by the tail. It'll just take a second and then it's over. Just do it.

Again I got as far as peeking at it through the doorway before my stomach flip-flopped. No. No. I cannot go near that thing. No way.

I went back up a few steps, sat down, and had a stern talk with myself. Matisse, be reasonable. There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of. That rat is deader than Michael Jackson's musical career. It is not going to suddenly spring to life and jump on you. As John Cleese would say, it's rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. That is an ex-rat.

It was no use. I couldn't do it.

Once I accepted that I was irrationally terrified of touching a dead rodent, I considered my options. I could call Max. But he's not very close by…I'd hate to drag him all the way over here.
There's Roman – but again, I hate to interrupt him when I know he's so busy.
Landlord? Maybe. Go outside and die, my ass. But shit, I've got to do something soon, I've got a client coming over in…

My client! Oh, glory halleluiah – it's Blue Eyes. He'll do it. Oh, thank you god, I know he'll do it.

Now, I don't make a habit of asking my clients for help with my real-life problems. I want them to regard their time with me as an oasis, in which workaday world concerns will intrude as little as possible.

But this was a special situation – and Blue Eyes is definitely the white-knight kind of man who'd love to help me with it. He's a sweet, gentlemanly guy, mature enough to remember when this sort of gender-based division of labor was seen as perfectly appropriate. And he's a problem-solver by nature - I don't think I've ever expressed the slightest little difficulty that BE hasn't tried to fix for me. I mean, this is the guy who bought and installed three room-unit air conditioners last summer because I said I was hot.

Plus, I also feel close enough to him to ask him for a favor. Some guys – well, I just wouldn't feel okay asking them to do this for me. But BE and I have a connection.

I should wait until after the session, though. I don't want to ruin the mood. So I closed the storeroom door, sprayed air freshener heavily, and went to get dressed, trying not to jump nervously at every little shadow along the baseboards.

After we'd played, BE and I were in the sitting room, and as he stood up to leave, I laced my fingers together and said, "So, I have a favor to ask you…"

As I expected, he was happy to help. "Sure, sure, I can do it – do you have a plastic bag?" I handed it to him and led him to the storeroom.

"In there," I said, pointing without looking.

I heard him walk across the concrete floor and then stop. "Wow, he's a big one."

I gasped and clapped my hands over my ears. "Oh, Jesus, don't tell me that. Just get rid of him."

So BE made the bad thing go away, and for that, he shall always have a special place in my heart. I've had no further need for his assistance, thank god, and both Max and Roman have assured me that I could call on them if need be. But I'm crossing my fingers that I don't have any more unwelcome guests in the future.

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A Shameless Marketing Moment, and a Political Message

Whoo-hoo! Guess what I got in the mail today? A book!
"Big deal, Matisse," you're thinking. "You get books in the mail all the time. You're single-handedly keeping the Amazon used book dealers in business."
Well, yes, that's true. But this is not just any book. This is MY book. The book that my writing is in. The sex blogger book!

I got two copies - and a nice check, too - from the fabulous editor, Maxim Jakubowski, who tells me that the book should be available in the UK by January 15th and here in the US by mid-February. I am extremely pleased.

And I want all of you to buy a copy. Yes, I know, you've already read the entries. But it's like this: buying smutty books isn't just about the literature, it's also a political act. Talking about transgressive sex is always risky, and especially so in the US these days. But money talks, too – loudly. If you want publishers to keep publishing sexy books, make it worth their while, and they'll ignore neo-con maunderings about morality, and what-about-the-children, and keep turning out books that are intended to be read by consenting adults.
And thus, all of us who write sexy stuff will be encouraged to continue entertaining and arousing you. I'm not getting royalties from this – all of us bloggers got our money on the front end, and I'm fine with that. But if you feel like you've gotten thirteen dollars and ninety-five cents worth of enjoyment from reading my blog – not to mention all the other great people who contributed – then buy a copy of the book, please. Think of it as an investment in my future writings, and in the writings of other sexy girls and boys.

I know I said something about writing about sex today, but I must have been crazy, since in I'm always deep in column-writing mode on Mondays and Tuesdays. That's why you usually get shorter entries those days. So, perhaps something about fucking later this week. For now, some links to amuse you...

Yet another perspective on this past weekend's adventures....

A kinky man I know recently asked me my thoughts on figging, and I can do no better than to say go read this. I love ginger root...

This isn't sexy - but god, it's just so fucking weird I had to post it. I'm wildly curious as to what precipitated this incident. Did this guy stop taking his meds, or has he not yet been properly prescribed to? "Carol-singing burglar accidentally shoots himself in leg."

And, finally, from the Sort-Of-Sweet, But-Highly-Unlikely-to-Happen folder, an email...

have a nice day miss my name is Fadi i really love and die to worship your facsinating feet and your high heels so if u have any trip to any country in middle east just pls send me an e-mail and your cell number then u will find me in front of your belle and sweety soles and shoes. my cell number is (deleted) your feet slave Fadi.

My "belle and sweety soles". That's got kind of a nice roll to it, doesn't it?



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More Than You Ever Wanted To Know About My Weekend…

Author's note: after writing all this out, I realize it's sort of long and rambling, and I didn't even get to the part about me and Roman having sex. But rather than trying to edit this, I think we'll just write about that tomorrow…

Sometimes the most complicated part of being polyamorous isn't the emotions, it's the logistics. Who's going to be with who, and when, and how will they get there, and where shall we have dinner?
Such was the case on Saturday night. First off, let's identify the players. We have:

Me and Max

Roman and Mrs. Roman

a woman I'll call Milan

Another woman we'll call B, and her primary partner, a man.

Several weeks ago, Roman said to me, "Hey, B is going to be in town the weekend of the 8th and I think she and Mrs. Roman are going to have a date together. Any chance you and I could see each other that night?"

"Sounds great to me - I'll check with Max," I said. Then I went home, and in a perfect example of poly-stars-in-alignment, Max said to me, "I have a date to play with Milan on the 8th, and I want her to stay overnight."

I smiled lovingly at him and said that would be no problem whatsoever. So you're with me so far – Mrs. Roman has a date with B, I have a date with Roman, and Max has a date with Milan.

Friday, Roman tells me that he and Mrs. Roman are having dinner with B and her primary partner on Saturday night. Neither of us found this odd – poly people almost always prefer that everyone they're involved with know everyone else in their erotic network, and Mrs. Roman and B's partner hadn't met yet.

So the amenities would be observed, and then B and Mrs. Roman would peel off and have their date, and Roman and I would hook up. (B's primary partner was going to go do some Live Action Role Playing (LARP), which I think says a lot about the demographic of people who are likely to be having complex polyamory love-lives.)

Roman went on to say that Mrs. Roman needed to have the car – so could I pick him up from dinner? Of course, I told him.

Saturday rolled around and Max and I were busy all afternoon – so busy, that we didn't have time to have dinner before it was time for me to pick up Roman.

"Well," I said, "he'll have just eaten, but I guess we'll go out somewhere and he'll watch me have dinner." Max agreed, and then it occured to me, "Honey, what are you going to do about dinner? Milan isn't coming til later, right? Do you want to eat with Roman and me?"

After I said it, I thought; God, if you drew all this out on a chalkboard, it would look like one of those diagrams of a football play. And it would sound like a French farce. But Max agreed that yes, he'd like to do a quick dinner, so off we went.

To recap: Roman has first had dinner with his primary partner, her date for the evening, and her date's primary partner. Now he's going to sit with me (his secondary partner) and Max (his secondary's primary) while we have dinner. Anyone who thinks poly is all about carefree fucking should ponder whether they'd be able to remain relaxed and cheerful through such multi-layered social encounters.

Max and I went and said hi to Mrs. Roman and B - although B's primary had already left - collected Roman, went across the street to a different restaurant, and had a pleasant dinner, tinged with only the slightest sense of how surreal this all might seem to a non-poly person. Roman quizzed Max about his plans for his date with Milan – oh, and did I mention that Roman and Milan have played with each other, too? It's small town for kinksters.

Max finished eating, and then glanced at his watch and stood up. "Time for me to go. Oh, and call me and tell me if you two are going to sleep in the spare room tonight, okay?"

Because that was the other issue on the table – where were Roman and I going to sleep? He and Mrs. Roman have only one bedroom, which was going to be occupied by her and B.

Max and I, on the other hand, have a big house with a nice spare bedroom, and the general policy is that whoever has a sleep-over guest sleeps in the guest room, leaving the master bedroom to the other person. (I suppose that technically, Max knew he had a date before I knew I had a date, so perhaps that might land him with the spare bedroom and me with the master. But the master bedroom has certain…equipment…that Max wanted to use, so I ceded it to him.)

However, choices of bedrooms aside, we were both feeling a little uncertain about the situation, because while Max has slept with Maura in the guest room any number of times when I've been home, Roman and I had never slept together with Max in the house. He'd always been over at Maura's when Roman stayed overnight. Max had told me over and over that it was fine. But I still hadn't quite gotten comfortable with the idea – clearly some baggage from my previous jealous partners that I hadn’t quite let go of.

Roman and I knew we could stay over at my studio. But while it’s great for playing, it's not so great for sleeping, and so we decided to take the spare room.
"Oh, I can't wait to bump into Max in the hallway in the morning," said Roman. "Or Milan, for that matter."
"I know – it’s sort of bizarre, isn't it? But I need to get over my hang-up about it, because I like sleeping with you, and it's not fair to try to get Max to go to Maura's place every time."
"Especially when he's having a date with Milan."
"Yeah, that does make it particularly awkward."

Fast-forward to 4:30 am. Roman and I were walking quietly up the stairs. The door to the master bedroom was slightly ajar, but the lights were all off, and everything was silent. I felt like a kid sneaking her boyfriend past her parent's room. Silly, when one considered that Max is in there with someone, too. But still… And even though we'd already had a long night of it, once Roman and I were in the spare bedroom, we couldn't resist the temptation to engage in some muffled, furtive fucking, giggling like teenagers.

We woke up later that morning to the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside. "Max is taking her out to breakfast," I whispered to Roman. "As soon as they leave, the coast is clear."
"God, this is such a French bedroom farce," he replied.
After some lingering in bed, we finally decided to get up, too, and we had some coffee going before Max and Milan returned home. In spite of all of my slightly-joking angst about it, the four of us wound up talking together quite comfortably, comparing notes (and bruises). Soon, Mrs. Roman arrived to pick up her husband and we got a quick thumbnail of her date, too. After a nice chat, everyone hugged each other and the party broke up. As we watched our friends walk away from the house, I turned to Max and said, "I sure love you."
He kissed me. "I love you too. And I'm glad you had fun."

What an amazingly complex and satisfying life.

Hey, remember to go vote for me in the "Best of Blogs" Contest! You can vote once every day, now through the 17th!

Just a teaser for tomorrow's post - there was a whole lot of kinkiness going on in Seattle last night, and the complex schedules and configurations of primary partners, secondary partners and play-partners reads like one of those math problems that starts out, "If a train is leaving Chicago at 11am, and another train is leaving New York at 12:30 pm..."

But we made it work out - very nicely, in fact. So we'll talk about poly, BDSM, and French bedroom farces tomorrow...

Ring ring!

Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes, it is.
Caller: Uh, so can I ask you a question?

You just did, I think. This guy sounds awfully young, and my instinct says he's not a viable client for me. But we'll give him the usual thirty seconds.

Me: Yes, go ahead.
Caller: I know you're like a professional dom and everything. But I was wondering if you were looking for a slave – you know, like a personal slave?
Me: No, I'm not. Sorry.
Caller: Well, do you know any, like, non-professional mistresses looking for slaves?

Sigh. I get this kind of call at least once a week, sometimes more. It's sort of tiresome, because really, it just seems like these guys haven't thought this through very carefully. I mean, since the caller is aware that there is enough of demand to support professional dominants, they also might reasonably suppose that non-professional ones are in demand as well. They want one, after all, so it's highly likely that other guys do, too.
They might then go on to grasp the idea that calling up a stranger and asking to be put in contact with these in-demand women is unlikely to yield positive results. And really, the majority of single submissive guys in the world apparently do understand this, as evidenced by the fact that I only get one of these calls a week instead of dozens. But answering the same questions over and over – well, it just gets old.

So I say what I always say:

Me: No, I'm sorry, I can't help you with that.
Caller: You don't know any Mistresses who are looking for slaves?

Well, as a matter of fact, I probably do. For example, there is a certain stunningly attractive fetish model here in town who I know was looking for a houseboy recently. (Of course, he wouldn't get to fuck her or anything like that. But she'd let him scrub her floors while wearing panties, and maybe she'd give him a good sound spanking now and then. But I think she's since found someone, so don't bombard me with emails asking for her name.)

And I know several other women who, while they may not be typical fetish-model material, are damn good dominants, and who might be open to meeting someone new.

But that isn't how this works. There's no way I'm going to give another woman's contact information to some god-knows-who stranger. I don't know the first thing about this guy, I certainly can't recommend him to anyone.

Me: I do understand that you want to meet somebody, but I'm not running a dating service.
Caller: You don't have to do anything, you could just, like, give them my number.
Me: Look, even if I did know someone who was looking for a submissive - calling someone up and giving them your phone number is doing something.
Caller: Oh, but –
Me: What you need to do is join the Wet Spot and start going to events there and make some friends. That's the best way to meet people.
Caller: Well, I went there once and I just didn't see anyone who looked good to me.
Me: You "went there once"? Oh, honey, that's like saying you went into a party once and you didn't see anyone you wanted to marry, so there's no point in ever going to a party ever again. You're going to have to work a lot harder than that, and it's going to take some time. But I think that's your best bet.
Caller: I read that you had a party at your house. Do you think you'd want to use me at your next party?

I think we're having a communication breakdown here. I could just hang up, but I give it one more try.

Me: Listen to me carefully. I know that in porn novels, BDSM people just pluck slaves up off the street and take them into their homes, but in my very wide experience, that doesn't happen in real life – especially with women. I would never just invite some guy I've never met over to serve at one of my parties. And anyone who would just take on a stranger at the drop of a hat – believe me, you don't want them. They will be scary people, really. You have to go about this the same way you'd go about finding a non-kinky lover, and it'll probably take longer, because there are fewer kinky women in the world.
Caller: So you're saying you don't know of anyone who'd want to have a date with me tonight?

Click. I hang up.

Hey, remember to go vote for me in the "Best of Blogs" Contest! You can vote once every day, now through the 17th!

After a lovely date with Roman last night - including a lot of public kissy-face at The Grind - I'm dashing off to see a client. Meanwhile, enjoy the new column, and the Kink Calendar. More later...

Hey, remember to go vote for me in the "Best of Blogs" Contest! You can vote once every day, now through the 17th!

Apparently I should post bootie shots of myself more often. January is typically one of the slower months of the year for sex workers, but yesterday's pic – and maybe the one over on ErosBlog as well – seems to have stirred up a flurry of um-I've-never-done-this-before phone calls from new guys. No stunningly weird callers, just people asking the basic questions about rates, hours and availability. Since I mostly see repeat clients these days, I almost have to stop and consciously shift my head into "processing a potential new person" mode, when once upon a time I could do it with only half my mind on it.

There is a charm to playing with a new person, whether it's in a professional or a non-professional setting. Everything is fresh territory, and all my senses are fully engaged, as I gather every bit of data I can about how they're responding to whatever it is I'm doing. And it's almost always the brand-new people who will look at me after a session with that blown-away expression on their face and say, stammeringly, "That was great. I mean, that was really great. That was exactly my fantasy. Only better!" Hearing things like that is one of the things that makes my job so nice.

Regular play-partners give me good feedback, too, though. And there's an intimacy there, and an ease to it, that I like. I played with a man today that I've seen a lot – Blue Eyes. He and I have good kinky chemistry together, and he has the cutest trick when I'm spanking him. At first, he'll wince and wiggle and gasp - what one might think of as a normal response to someone smacking your ass with a thick rubber paddle. But then, all of a sudden, he'll throw his head back and start laughing. It's not a nasty laugh, it's a sweet laugh, like someone has told him a particularly amusing joke. It's just the way the endorphins hit him. And I like it when people laugh when I'm tormenting them, so I'll usually laugh, too, just because I'm happy. Thus, if you were listening at the door of my dungeon, you'd hear the whack-whack-whack sound, followed by peals of laughter. I'm sure it would be confusing to someone not in the know.

It's funny how my body remembers details of how I played with someone before, even if my conscious mind has forgotten. I've had guys come back after not having seen me for a year or longer. After such a long gap, I'm always going to have a fresh negotiation session with them, of course. But then I'll be in the dungeon with them, and I'll see their body, touch them, move them into different positions, begin to play with them, and whoosh, everything I learned about them the last time we played will all come back to me in a rush. That's right, when he makes that noise, it means yeah-that's-good, and when he twists that way, it means he's getting close to his limit. I remember that.

I hadn't thought much about it til just now - but I'm sure my regular boys get to know me just as I get to know them. They must get to know my tastes in toys, and in types of play, as well as my facial expressions, and the tones of my voice - and what they herald. It's sort of charming to think about this small slice of the population walking around in the world with a very intimate knowledge of how I look and sound when I'm getting my sadistic pleasures fed. Some of those boys don't even know my real name (although some do), but they all know a certain side of me in a very real way. Galahad talked yesterday on Monk's blog about achieving immortality through one's stories. I like to think of all those boys knowing and remembering me as my way of being a little bit immortal.

Hey, remember to go vote for me in the "Best of Blogs" Contest! You can vote once every day, now through the 17th!

I'm feeling a bit behind on some things, so no long post today. Instead, a few quick links...

I've been checking the results in the BOB competition every now and then, and I admit to being pleased that, at least for the moment, I'm in first place. (You like me, you really like me!) Thanks for the support, and remember, you can vote every 24 hours.
In addition to voting for me, you should also go vote for the uber-fabu Bacchus (and his merry crew) over at ErosBlog. He's a finalist in the "big-name blog" category, a classification he says he finds somewhat mysterious. But no matter what his name is, if you haven't looked at his site, you should, because it's always entertaining.

A Public Service Announcement...
I am acquainted with a physician's assistant student in Oregon who is doing a research project surveying people who are involved in the BDSM lifestyle or activities, with specifics to seeking health care. Here's what she wants to know: if you have an appointment on Monday for your annual medical exam, but your ass is still red and raised from Saturday's caning, do you keep or cancel the appointment? Help her out by answering the survey questions, all quite anonymously...

To Amuse and Inform You...
I haven't checked every link, but this looks like a rather exhaustive list of definitions and explanations of various BDSM activities. Consult this before sending me "what-does-X-mean?" emails, please.

And a short, slightly dirty, and rather amusing video clip. Doesn't look like any brothel I ever saw, but…This Old Whorehouse.

And now, a bulletin from the Not-Bloody-Likely Department...

Dear Mistress Matisse,
I loved what you had to say about having a foot fetish, especially coming from a girl. It seems like only a certain number of us guys are into feet and only a rare girl out there. I liked how you talked about plushies and furries but then came down to what you are really into. I suggest we meet for coffee and discuss this further, what do you think? It could even be a game: see how long it takes from first meeting to my having your beautiful toes in my mouth--that would be a thrill worth chasing after. This could all be the topic of your next column but let's talk about that first.

Whack from Mistress Matisse's clue stick, number one: When reading a paper, understand that editorial content is different from a personal ad.

Thank you ma'am, may I have another?

Whack from Mistress Matisse's clue stick, number two: Chicks who get paid to write about sex are usually pretty well-taken-care-of in the sex/dating department, and thus they are unlikely to respond to emailed propositions from strangers.

Thank you, ma'am, may I have another?

Whack from Mistress Matisse's clue stick, number three: Chicks who can get paid to allow strangers erotic contact with their feet are unlikely to do so for free. Especially when Clue Number Two is also in effect.

Thank you ma'am, may I have another?

Whack from Mistress Matisse's clue stick, number four: Read this... And understand that Darwin is not just a harbor in Australia.

Okay, by popular demand - and with permission - a couple more pictures from the New Years Eve party...

Another shot of caged heat! They look like a really pretty barrel of monkeys, don't they? And they were as clever as monkeys, too. When I laid down on top of the cage to get a better look, they started pulling my clothes off immediately, and they were amazingly efficient about it. (Except for my thong, which I declined to let them remove. I simply mentioned that having it pulled off might just cause me to pee, and they desisted instantly. Smart girls.)

Max eventually let them out...

But then the boys decided to try it. See anyone you know?

I admit that I offered them some incentive... But when I said, "If you guys get into the cage, I'll lay on top of it again", I didn't think they'd really do it! They weren't nearly as quick about getting my clothes off as they girls were. (I had put them back on, you see.)
But they managed it eventually, and then things started getting a little frisky. This shot was taken just before someone pinched my nipple too hard and I got...pissy. Sadly, the one who pinched wasn't actually the one who recieved the shower. But sometimes these things are like sports or war: you have to take a hit for your comrades.

Then some folks had to leave, but their places were swiftly taken by others....Resulting in a more gender-balanced enviorment.

At first, Kitten took advantage of the situation to tickle her Galahad's feet.

...but soon she decided to just get inside with him.

There are more - so if you were at the party, and you were in the cage at any point, email me, and I'll send you some pictures...

I had a festive New Years Eve...How about you?

I had a late night with Roman last night, and now I'm busy preparing for some NYE festivities, so in the meantime, please be entertained by the new column, and the Kink Calendar.

And make particular note of my darling partner Max's bondage class this Sunday...

Heads, Tits, and Bits: Bondage Techniques For The Head, Breasts and Genitals. Bondage instructor Max brings in guest presenters James Mogul and me, Mistress Matisse, to help demonstrate these specialized techniques in rope bondage. This workshop assumes no previous bondage experience and is appropriate for all genders and orientations. It's this Sunday, at the Wet Spot, from 2:30 pm-5:30 pm. Admission is $30, and Wet Spot membership is not required to attend the class. (Although you must be a member to stay for the party afterwards.) For more info check out his website at: BondageLessons.Com

It's going to be a great class. I'm of the shamelessly-biased opinion that Max is the best bondage instructor in the world, but James Mogul is also a terrific practioner of the art and a great teacher, too. As for me - well, I'll be the first to tell you: I am not a rope-top the way they are. I can tie some knots, and I know some techniques, but my strongest talents as a dominant lie elsewhere.
However, I know a lot about playing with and tying up boy's bits, and that's what I'm going to be doing. Oh, and three guesses who has graciously volunteered his bits as a model for the class? Gee, let's see - who do I know who's got the moxie to stand up in front a thirty or forty people with his wedding tackle out and let me show people ways to tie it up? Oh, you'll never guess...(Yes, you will, actually, if you've been reading this blog for more than a couple of weeks.)

So that's my weekend. Happy New Year!