An example of a very sweet "thank-you" note sent to me by a happy client after a session. Not at all a requirement, but nice when it happens.

Hello Mistress Matisse:
I don't usually e-mail a thank you but I just had to drop you a note and thank you for the wonderful session. You are such an artist that your moniker of Matisse is just perfect for you. Your palate of skills painted the most wonderful portrait for me yesterday; you combined just the right proportions of deviousness, mystery, pain, pleasure and sensuality.
The ball busting was fantastic (and still memorable as I found out when I woke up this morning). As you said, it is such a taboo, and that is part of what makes it so exciting, especially experiencing the taboo mutually with you. One can go online to Max Fisch and read about all types of ball busting experiences, and most of them seem to incorporate humiliation of the submissive. Now I know some people are into humiliation, (not my thing) but, really what kind of talent does a Dom have to possess to kick a guy in the balls and have him feel humiliated? Not much.
But to do ball busting and not make it humiliating, but make it a sensual experience as you did takes real talent. The way you would stop my balls from swinging then hold and caress them with your pointed boots and then kick them was fantastically sensual. The same can be said for the way you manipulated them and kicked them with your bare feet - not to mention that great slap sound you produced. You truly are the Nordstrom of Mistresses.
Thanks again and I hope to see you soon - I'm saving my pennies.
Remembering you fondly (especially my balls)

Of course, I did not literally "bust" his balls, in the sense of breaking or damaging them. I just kicked them - very carefully. Aficionados of ball-kicking are necessarily a brave group - it's an activity where, if you don't do it properly, you can injure someone in a not-fun, doctor-visit-requiring type of way. A Mistress's attention to the fine points is crucial.
This particular gentleman is rather tall, so rather than trying to pretend I'm one of the Radio City Rockettes, I had him get on all fours on the floor, knees splayed wide. He watched me in a mirror as I stood behind him and took precise aim at his dangling, vulnerable flesh. There was no bondage involved - he stayed in position because he trusted me and he wanted to be there. Sometimes after a particularly resounding smack of my foot on his ball-sack, we'd both say, "Oooooo, good one!".
I really like what I do.

Today is Max's birthday, and what a happy girl I am that his mama gave birth to him, ah-hem, a certain number of years ago. He's my sweetie and I adore him.

So no long post today. You can amuse yourself with my latest column, or you can read about an escort service bust here in Seattle. As much as I would like to see sex-work decriminalized, this news report doesn't make the arrestee sound very sympathetic, and what I've heard about him from underground channels doesn't contradict that impression. So it sort of sucks, but I'm just glad it wasn't any of my friends in that branch of the biz.

As for me, I'm going to see one adventurous boy this afternoon who has asked about exploring this particular type of all-natural naughtiness…

And then I'm going to devote the lion's share of my evening to making Max glad he's alive.

Listening To Messages
Every Monday through Friday, after I get done with my morning activities – which, depending on the day, may mean I've been extremely busy, or may mean I slept until 11:45 – I turn on my phone and listen to my messages.

YOU HAVE 9 NEW MESSAGES. PRESS 1 TO HEAR MESSAGES.
Beep!
"Hey Matisse, it's me, Bob. You know, Bob from Microsoft, I saw you about three weeks ago? Listen, do you have any time Wednesday? Like around 4? I'd love to see you. Call me back at 206-XXX-XXXX…"
END OF MESSAGE.
Oh yeah – Bob. Nervous first-timer in a Hawaiian shirt. He was nice, I'll call him back.

NEXT MESSAGE:
"Oooh, uh, you sexy bitch, I wanna lick yo-"
MESSAGE DELETED.

NEXT MESSAGE:
"Uh, yeah, like, call me back as soon as you can, 206-XXX-XXXX"
END OF MESSAGE.
Sorry, if you don't leave a name, I don't call you back. Especially if you sound like you're stoned and you have very loud rock music blaring in the background.

NEXT MESSAGE:
Hello, Mistress Matisse, my name is Barbara, and I'd like to tell you about our exciting new adult advertising website, www.HereTodayGoneTomorrow.net. Text advertising rates start at only fifty dollars a month prepaid if you sign a five year contract and –"
MESSAGE DELETED.
It's a sad day when even sexual outlaws like me get rip-off telemarketing calls. What is the point of living on wild side if the tame side insists on following you around?

NEXT MESSAGE:
"Oh, uh, hi, I'm calling for Mistress Matisse? My name is Quentin, and I've been thinking about calling you for a couple of years, but, you know, I'm just pretty nervous, because I don't have a lot of experience, and I was wondering about a couple of things. See, I've been interested in spanking ever since this little girl next door - well, she wasn't really next door, she lived down the street, but we used to play house together in this little playhouse she had, and she used to spank me and I didn't really understanding it then, but now looking back I can see that I really liked it, and I used to wonder about trying to find her, but you know, that was so many years ago, and she might not feel the same way anymore, but anyway I was wondering if you've met other guys like me that got spanked when they were little kids and liked it and how you sort of handle that and –" Beep!
END OF MESSAGE.
Oy. Quentin here might be a perfectly nice guy - once he gets over his unfortunate case of verbal diarrhea. It's not uncommon for people to be nervously chatty when they call me, and I can be patient with that. However, if they continue blathering nonstop all the way into the actual session, well, that's a mood-breaker I don't permit. But it's nothing a good inflatable gag won't fix. I'm guessing I'll get another message from Quentin somewhere in this string where he actually gets down to business.

NEXT MESSAGE:"Oh, Mistress, I wanna be your slave-slut, can I please be your slave? I want you to fuck me in the –"
MESSAGE DELETED.
Interesting how quickly they jump from, "be your slave" to telling me what to do. Seems like a rather loose interpretation of the word slave. But I never do get obscene phone callers who say, "Oh, Mistress, I wanna be your little Do-Me Queen." That would actually be rather refreshing.

NEXT MESSAGE:
"John. 253-XXX-XXXX."
END OF MESSAGE.
Oh, now what am I supposed to make of that? He's one of those my-phone-company-charges-by-the-word types. Would it have killed him to say, "Hi, my name is… Please call me back at… " ? He just sounds rude, and I don't like rude boys. He goes to the bottom of the call-back list, and you know, I just may not get around to calling him at all.

NEXT MESSAGE:
"Hey Matisse, it's Marty. Call me, let's get together."
END OF MESSAGE.
Yes, if you come see me twice a month for four-plus years, you can leave me that kind of message, too, and I'll put your name right at the top of the call-back list. But there is no line-jumping in The I-Don't-Have-To-Leave-My-Number-Because-It's-Programmed-Into-Matisse's-Phone Club. Certain things take time.

NEXT MESSAGE:
"Oh, um, hi, Mistress, it's Quentin, sorry about that, I guess I talked too long on the last message, but, um, so I was wondering about a session? Because I had a kind of special request and I don't know if you do that or what, and, you know, it's kinda personal and all, but, I was wondering…Would you, um, be willing to wear, like, sort of a kind of a girlish dress, and pretend that I'm a naughty little boy? I mean, if that's okay, because I know your website says you do domestic discipline and stuff, but I don't want to offend you by asking you for that, so if you're not okay with doing that then that's fine too, but it's a really big fantasy of mine and stuff…Oh I guess I should give you my phone number before I get cut off, again, it's 206-XXX-XXXX. So, I'm looking forward to talking to you, I should be home all afternoon, except if I run out for a few minutes, that might be around three, but I will be right back, so –"
END OF MESSAGE.
Quentin gets cut off before he can give me all his potential movements for the next eight hours. Perhaps I'll do a scene with Quentin where I only allow him to speak one sentence, of ten words or less, every three minutes. Hey, I've got an egg timer.

This guy got one important thing wrong, and so did this guy, and so did these people.
They're wrong for calling this woman a dominatrix.

No. I'm a dominatrix, and I'm disgusted by this abuse. Whether Lynndie English was a unwilling pawn or a gleeful participant, she is in no way worthy of the title dominatrix. This is not BDSM, because BDSM, by definition, is consensual. This isn't. It's abuse, plain and simple.
And if you profess to be outraged by this, tagging Private English with a sexy title is a strange way of showing it. What kind of message are you really sending? Would you call an accused rapist "a stud"? A "ladies man"? A "love god"?

I don't eroticise non-consensual violence. It's a damn shame some so-called "normal" people do.

Rare Occurrence yesterday: I got blown off by a client.

I'd say I get stood up – as I define that term - about three, maybe four times a year. "Being stood up" means: I'm there at my studio, I'm dressed and ready, and he doesn't show.

My "stood up" rate is so low for several reasons. Number one, it's new clients who are, by far, the biggest no-show risk. I'm at a point in my career where I see perhaps one new person a week- the rest of my appointments are guys I know.

Everyone who is seeing me for the first time always has to confirm with me the morning of the appointment. Now, I do very occasionally get new clients who confirm in the morning and then don't show, but that's quite rare. So I generally know hours ahead of time if a new person has gotten cold feet. I don't like people making appointments and then not keeping them, but with this system at least I'm not there waiting and there's a chance I can re-book the time with someone else.

Once in a while a new guy will forget – or something – to confirm in the morning, and then call me shortly before his appointment time, acting as if he thinks it's still a go. But it's not going to happen. I won't be keeping the appointment, and I won't rebook with that guy, either. I have rules, and if you can't follow the rules at this stage of the game, it's not going to get any better.

But my blow-off guy yesterday wasn't a new guy. He's one of those clients – I suppose now I should call him an ex-client – who's seen me about two or three times a year for the last couple of years. So not a real steady regular, but certainly a known entity. He's a nice guy when you're with him, attractive and charming. But when he called to make the appointment, my brain was running a little more slowly than it should have. Here's what happened:

Ring ring!
Me: hello?
Caller: Hey, it's me, Mr. No Show.
Me: Oh, hi, baby, how you doing?

As I say this, my brain grabs the name and does a fast search through the mental hard drive. Ping! Up pops an image of a face and the thought: yeah, we know this guy, and he's cool.

Mr. No Show: Just great. Listen, can I get an appointment Monday at 2?
Me: Monday at 2? I think that's open, let me check - yeah, that works. Okay, fine, Monday at two, we're on.
Mr. No Show: Terrific! See you then.
Click. He hangs up.

And now, about three seconds too late, my brain pulls up another bit of info: Yeah, he's cool - except that he blew you off that one time. Make sure to tell him to call and confirm Monday morning, so you don’t go all the way over there and get dressed and ready for nothing!

Shit.

And of course I don't have contact info for him, dammit, because I don't require it. I'll certainly take an email addy or a phone number if someone's willing to give it to me, but I don't insist. And 99% of the time I wouldn't need it anyway.

So Mr. No Show was already in the category of clients that the English would call, "dodgy". That means "of uncertain outcome; especially fraught with risk". Dodgy clients always have to call to confirm, too - except when I let them get off the phone too quickly.

After Mr. No Show's previous no-show, which was about two years ago, he called and apologized and I let him sweet-talk me into forgiving him and taking him back as a client. (Some financial reparations were also called for.)

But this time, I have a feeling I've seen the last of him. It's just a hunch. I'll keep you posted if he calls up with some creative excuse; "The dog ate my cell phone!" Riiiight…

I had dinner at Hana with Miss K a few days ago. I don't recall if I've mentioned this, but Miss K is an independent call girl. So whenever we do dinner, it's an opportunity to have a Bitch-About-Work Fiesta. We both like what we do, but sometimes you just have to vent to someone who gets it.

"Okay, who gets to go first?" I asked.
"Oh, I think that would have to be – ME!" she answered
"Ooo, that good, huh? Well, let me have it, baby."
"Fuckin' A, the weirdo I saw this week – you won't believe what he did."

I start laughing a little already, just watching her head do that snakelike swivel of outrage. Miss K has a background in theatre, and it shows: her eyes, her hands, her shoulders – they all eloquently express her total disdain for this man who dared offend her. When all six feet of an irritated Amazon queen gets going, it's better than a floor show. I love having such entertaining friends.

"So, it was a new guy, and he sounded a little weird on the phone, but not scary-weird, just no-social-skills-weird."
I understand this perfectly. It's nice when one gets to see sophisticated men as clients, but frankly, if it weren't for guys with no social skills, there'd be a lot of hungry sex workers in the world.

"He arrives for the appointment ten minutes early." We share a grimace. We hate it when people are early, since we're always flying around getting ready until the last possible moment.

"I have him sit down on the couch in the living room and ask him to wait for a few minutes. I leave the room for, oh, maybe five minutes. When I come back into the room-" she leans forward for emphasis, "he's rearranging all my fucking furniture."
"You're kidding me?"
"I'm serious. He's moved the couch and coffee table, and he's got the edge of the area rug, and he's pulling on it."
I sit there silently for a moment, picturing this. "That's bizarre."
"Oh - and did I mention he's naked?"
I give a whoop of laughter. "No!"
She gestures with her hands to indicate that she can find no words to express her incredulity. I try to stop laughing, not because it offends her – we always play these kinds of incidents for laughs with each other – but because it's so outré that I have to say:
"So you asked him what the hell he was doing, right?"
"Oh yes," she says, with a rising inflection that bodes ill for the nude furniture mover. "Yes, I asked him what he was doing. And he told me – get ready for this – he told me that in his fantasy, the room was arranged differently."
I can hardly speak for laughing. "He- he- he had a fantasy about your living room furniture?" I really don't know what the staff at Hana must make of our conversations. I'm sure they think we are very, very strange.
"Apparently he felt it was important."
"Okay, you win the prize for weirdest person of the week. So what did you do?"
"Well, I just stood there for a minute and gave him a look. And then I told him that he shouldn't have moved my furniture without permission, and he apologized. And then I asked him if the way that I looked more or less fit with his fantasy, because I really wasn't interested in having him try to rearrange me."
"Oh, good one."
"So he apologized again, and,"- she shrugged - "we did the date."

Of course she did, because for all her show of indignation, Miss K has the generosity of spirit to forgive faux pas like these. It's one of the traits that makes her a good friend, and I also consider it essential to being a good sex worker. Yeah, it's great to have a good figure and a pretty face and the technical skills that go along with your particular speciality. But if you don't have some kindness and compassion to give your clients, they'll feel that, and a lot of them won't come back. That's true in any branch of the sex industry - even mine.

An Event Reminder For Local Folks

I'm going to be teaching a workshop at the Seattle sex toy store Toys In Babeland on May 23rd.
The topic will be "Erotic Impact Play". My partner Max will also be teaching "Rope Bondage 101". It'll be a great pair of classes, and a great opportunity to say hi to me! My TIB classes always sell out, so get tickets in advance through the website.

Which brings me to another thought…I do like teaching people about SM, and so while I get a lot of email from people who have question about BDSM, I generally don't mind answering simple questions. I think it's sort of a good kinky karma thing on my part.

But some people who write to me ask me for detailed explanations about rather complex BDSM issues or advanced techniques. Sometimes they want me to give them a lesson plan on how to do a BDSM scene with their partner. I usually tell them that I'd have to write a whole book to do these kinds of questions justice, and actually, there a number of excellent books on the topic already.

If you're interested learning about the psychology of BDSM, and why people like it, I'd recommend Dr.Gloria Brame's book, Different Loving. (She has a rather large website as well.)

Want to learn how to do it with your sweetie? Greenery Press publishes a bunch of easy-to-understand books on a variety of BDSM specialties, as well as some A-to-Z theory-and-technique books, like the venerable SM 101, by Jay Wiseman.

Looking for good fiction to wank to? Check out the Quality SM online bookstore. I also recommend the work of kink veteran Pat Califia, or my friend Jeff Gord's books, at House of Gord.

As I said, I don't mind polite people asking me multiple choice/yes-or-no, or short-answer questions. But I have neither the time nor the inclination to write ten-thousand-word emails.

And, frankly, I tend to look somewhat askance at people who aren't willing to exercise their brains enough to learn some things on their own. If you aren't willing to do a little work on your end – and yes, that may include forking out a few bucks to support some starving kinky author – then I'm not terribly inclined to spoon-feed you for free.

I sound rather severe, don't I? But of course, that is one of the perks of my profession.