Since some of you expressed some curiosity yesterday about my date with Roman – and since he's given the okay to me writing about it in some greater depth – I suppose I could talk some more about that…
I knew he had a special surprise of some kind planned for this date in honor of my birthday. And I knew better than to take his mock-hints about Mexican wrestlers, midgets and trained llamas seriously. But I really had no idea what he had planned, and it's hard to explain why I enjoyed what he did so very much without first giving you some backstory.

You see, back when I was a teenager, and I was figuring out that gee, my sexual desires didn't line up with what the other kids seemed to get off on, the internet wasn't yet a part of people's daily existence. So it was a lot harder for a young person who was…questioning their sexuality, to find much evidence of a sexual world beyond very tame vanilla heterosexual monogamy. I was already a bibliophile, and in spite of what James Walker once said, I had occasionally found some vague intimations of who I might be by searching through books.

But the first real clue I ever had that there might be a culture that embraced me was…The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I was sixteen years old. I went into the theatre at midnight with a group of friends, without really knowing what I was going to see. I watched the movie, and watched the strangely dressed people cavorting in the aisles, and I knew there was something there for me. As I watched Frankenfurter, that bitchy, dominant, omnisexual drag queen, wreak sexual havoc on Brad, Janet, and Rocky, I saw what I wanted. I wanted to be him: dangerously transgressive yet irresistibly sexy. And I wanted to fuck him, the hot hungry man/woman, with whom nothing would be too much or too far. I wouldn't have to explain what I didn't yet have words for - he would know who I was. He would know what I wanted.

"At the late night, double feature, picture show…
I wanna go…Oh ohhhhhhh…
To the late night, double feature, picture show…"

I went back the next weekend. And the next, and the next…
The idea of getting all excited about a rather cheesy B-movie with a few only mildly naughty sex scenes will probably seem quaint to the under 25-crowd. But you perverts from my generation – you know what I'm talking about. Back then, Rocky Horror was the only place, in a lot of smaller towns and more conservative places, where a teenager could go and be openly freaky without too much fear of reprisal. (Plus, it does feature the young and quite yummy Susan Sarandon running around in white cotton panties.)
That's how I came to be a Rocky Horror regular for several years. Yes, I was in the cast for some of that time. (I was Magenta.) Yes, I have the bootleg copy of it on video with Japanese subtitles, from back before you could buy it legally. And yes, I still remember all the words to the songs, and all the audience partici – (Say it!) -pation lines. I haven't been for years, but still, whenever I see a snippet of the movie somewhere, or hear the music, I smile, because I remember how it felt to finally find a place where I felt…at home. Roman and I have talked about this, and he understands perfectly. He's a Rocky Horror alumnus himself.

So when I sat on my couch with a blindfold over my eyes, and the sound of Tim Curry's rich, throbbing voice came to my ears,
"How d'you do,
I see you've met my,
Faith-ful handy-man…"
I threw back my head and let out a shriek that was part delighted laughter, and part disbelief that no, I couldn't possibly see what I thought I was going to see when I took off that blindfold. He didn't really – he couldn't have…
"Okay, you can take off the blindfold now," said Roman.
He did.
Whiteface makeup with dark drag-queen eyeshadow halfway up his forehead, lushly painted red lips, a long black cape and – oh, my – fishnet stockings and fetishdiva six-inch platform heels. Roman danced and pranced around the room for me in those high heels like he'd been punching the clock at the Lusty Lady forever.
"But by night I'm one hell of a lov-a-hhrr!" With a dramatic flourish, he threw off the cape to reveal a black satin corset with garters, a silky black thong, and of course, a string of white beads, just like the ones Frankenfurter wore. With the fishnets and heels – it was…perfect. Just perfect.
"I'm just a sweet transvestite from Transexual, Transylvania." When he shook his barely covered package in my face, I howled like an overstimulated small-town girl at her first Chippendales show.
And I was definitely overstimulated. This is what went through my mind - try to imagine them all flowing through your head in rapid succession, several times in a row.

Oh, my god, look what he did for me! Look at all the trouble he went through to do something he knew I'd really like! This is so sweet and special!

Oh, my god, look at his cock in those shiny stretchy underwear. That's fucking hot.

He's really good in those heels. He must have been practicing. And, wow, they make him look about seven feet tall. Oh, yeah, bend over, oh yeah - nice buttcheeks, baby…

What a sweet, thoughtful, special thing to do for me. What a wonderful, kinky, nasty boy he is. I think I'm going to have to fuck him raw.

I was saying some of this out loud, of course, in between catcalls and wolf-whistles and various other sexually appreciative noises.

"So I'll remove the cause - but not the symptom." As the music faded, he planted one high-heeled foot – (Where did he get those shoes?) on the couch between my knees.
"So," he said, panting just slightly, "want your other present?"
"There's more? Did you bring Rocky as well?"
"No, I asked (insert name of Roman's good friend), but he passed. Didn't want to bleach his hair blond."
I stared up at him. "Hair…Oh my god, that's why you look so different. You shaved off your beard!"
He let out a whoop of laughter. "That's why I look so different?"
I flapped my hand at him. "Oh, you know what I mean! But darling – your nice beard. You shaved it off – for this? For me?"
He smiled, his teeth gleaming whitely against the dark, glossy lipstick. "No big deal, it'll grow back."
"You are absolutely the coolest thing alive, did you know that? Okay, if there's more, bring it on."
He brought me a gift-wrapped package slightly smaller than a shoebox. I tore off the paper, opened it, examined the contents.
"Oh my. Well, look at these pretty things…" I stared at him, arching one eyebrow questioningly. "For tonight?"
He nodded.
"You're ready for this?"
He nodded again, giving me Frankenfurter's come-hither look.
"All right then, baby…let's go downstairs."
So we did, and there, dear readers, is where I draw the curtain. Because certain things that happen between a girl and her drag queen in the dark of the night should remain…private.

"Touch-a touch-a touch-a touch me!
I wanna be dirty!
Thrill me, chill me, fulfill me,
Creature of the night…"

Good god...A completely fabulous date with Roman last night, which resulted in my stumbling into bed at 5am. And far too early this morning: clients, email, phone calls, aarrggh...And I'm supposed to go the gym this afternoon, double aarrggh. It's gonna be a two-Rock-Star-day, I can tell.
But worth it...

Yes! Yes! Oh, I am so very, very happy right now. I got a note today from Dan Savage (the editor of The Stranger) telling me that in two weeks, my column will be back in the paper version of The Stranger.
This is fabulous news. I've been trying to be patient, but I really missed being in the paper, and I'm very pleased that, after five months of being only in the online-version of The Stranger, I'll be back in the actual paper again. (Don't worry, non-local readers, I'll still be online, too.)
And, the extra-cool part: I'll be at 725 words instead my previous 400-word-limit. Whittling something meaningful down into 400 words was always a challenge, but I can do something with 725 words.
Happy, happy girl! What a nice almost-birthday present!

I need a volunteer. I found this link to - brace yourself - a Christian FemDom site, and I just cannot bring myself to go explore it. Someone else has to go and come back and tell us about it, because I'm sure it's just rife with opportunities for spoof and sarcasm. But I just can't do it.

I've tried. I enter the URL, I get to the entry page, I look at the warnings and the cheesy tiled graphic and my hand, with any conscious volition, moves the mouse to the upper right corner and hits that tiny X to click it away, away, away.

I did gather my courage to click (on a picture of a frigging cross, no less) and enter the body of the site just once. But some terrible MIDI music began playing and I shuddered so violently that I accidentally (?) closed the window. I took it as a sign from God.

So I need a volunteer. Some brave pervert, with a snarky sense of humor and the ability to remain undaunted by the unholy marriage of christianity and kink that has spawned this GeoCities website. Go forth, and report back to us. We'll be praying for your safe return.

Okay, I think it's time for another video clip...This is taken by me rather than of me - it's footage from a private BDSM play-party where my lovely friend Trinity was suspended by her ankles. It is a bit choppy, because I was trying to avoid getting the faces of any camera-shy party guests in the frame. And it's obviously not work-safe.
Hosting for the clip has been generously provided by Twisted Monk, just because he's a sweet guy. We'll probably take it down after a week or so, or if the traffic to the clip is so very heavy that we're threatening to suck up all of his bandwidth. But in the meantime, enjoy!

Trinity Suspended

A photo from the archives, just because...It's from my self-portrait series, Dec 2002.

Meanwhile, I'm spending my day puttering around the house, doing all those little things that one keeps meaning to do and getting too busy to take care of...
And perhaps doing a bit of quiet contemplation as well, on the topic of my upcoming birthday, six days from now. Max is going to take me out for an intimate dinner alone somewhere, which is exactly what I think I'd really like. I adore all my friends, but the social whirl gets me a little...dizzy, sometimes. And since there are a number of other big events coming up soon, I decided I'd save my social diva energy for those.

Speaking of social occasions, and my opinions about how to behave at them: there was a bit of a snafu with the column last week - but it's up now, and correctly formatted, yay!

And speaking of November birthdays...I'm not really into astrology, but it's fun to read about it sometimes. I was amused to see that Clean Sheets has some sexy astrological lore about me and my possible partner combinations. But she doesn't seem very sanguine about me and any of my boys...Max is a Taurus, and I do have a history of picking Taurus men. (Not on purpose, it just turns out that way.) And Roman is a Leo, and doesn't that just fit him? But according to the author, I should be choosing Virgo or Pisces, and I've never had a lover with those signs that I know of. (I admit I haven't really kept serious track of these things.) So, not something I'd steer my life by. But entertaining, and we're all about entertaining around here.

Video clip of Trinity tomorrow!

"Why don't you have any tattoos?" People ask me that sometimes – meaning, people who've seen enough of my body to be certain that in fact, I don't.

While it's true that lots of kinky people in Seattle do have tats, it's actually not a legal obligation. And I'm not the only pervert I know with no ink. Why, I live with another: Max. But I think I can count the other un-tattooed kinksters I know on one hand, so yes, we are in the minority here.

Why not? Well, I've just never had a burning desire for one, and I think if you're going to have the damn thing for the rest of your life, you better be real sure you want it. (Yes, I know, now there are laser treatments to remove them, but I'm told that's a long and rather expensive process, and that it doesn't always yield perfect results, either. I'd prefer that any time and money I spend - and any discomfort I endure - in my dermatologist's office be spent gilding the lily that I am, rather than dealing with self-inflicted wounds.)

I might have been more impulsive when I was younger, but even then it was clear to me that the clients of my chosen profession disliked tattoos. The vast majority of my clients were (and still are) middle/upper middle class white guys living in the suburbs, leading relatively traditional lives, and their ideas about beauty are fairly, well - mainstream. (I'm not saying you can't make it as a sex worker if you have tattoos. But I think it's a handicap.)
Sure, I could have gotten by with a dainty little anklet or something, but if I were going to get a tattoo, that is not what I'd get. I'd probably get a big-ass Celtic blackwork piece. Go big or go home, a friend of mine likes to say - I took the latter option.

I don't have any permanent piercings, either, except my ears. Again, I've just never felt a big desire for any.

The only body modification I've ever done is of what I would call a semi-permanent type - cuttings. When BDSM people say cutting, what they mean is: someone takes a sharp implement, like a surgical scalpel, and makes light cuts in someone elses skin, usually no deeper than a cat scratch, and usually in a design or shape of some kind.

A lot of people squick when I mention this, and that always perplexes me a bit, especially when the squickees have tats themselves. On the scale of such things, a cutting blade doesn't seem any more intrusive into the body that a tattoo needle. Cuttings are usually completed much more quickly, and I definitely don't think it's any more painful – it's always seemed to me like it would be less so.

For the adventurous among you, I do have some photos from a shoot I did of a friend getting a cutting. (And the finished product here.) Don't go if you faint at the sight of blood.

What you essentially wind up with is a drawing in/on your skin. When it's fresh, it looks a lot like a red tattoo. Most people choose shapes and designs that have meaning to them, although lots of people also just like the endorphin buzz they get from the process. I've done cuttings on people as part of a BDSM scene, although I got mine as just a body-mod experience. Either way, cutting is a careful, measured activity, and you must observe all the reasonable safety precautions – sterile tools and a clean area, etc.

As the cut heals, it goes away, but sometimes it leaves a very faint scar in the shape of the original cut. If you like the scar effect, you can re-do the cutting over again until it becomes more raised and noticeable. I haven't done that myself, but I've admired it on other people.
So you can just call me the Mies van De Roe of the body modification set. No tatts, no permanent piercings, just those very faint lines that are visible in certain angles of light.