Happy Friday, my friends. Max is out of town visiting family for the weekend and so I've lured Roman away from work to spend some extra time with me over the next two days, mmmm....

I should note: In the wake of yesterday's post, I got lots of sweet offers for MS software, and that's all good to go now. So thanks to all of ya'll who were so kind.

Meanwhile, enjoy the new column, and my thanks to Tess and Otis for giving me the interview....

Tech Toys

So, I got a new toy today – a laptop. I’ve never had one before, and I’m very excited about it. It’s a Dell Latitude, very sleek and fast, and it’s great. I definitely feel like one of the cool kids now.

And a new toy is, of course, an excuse to do a little shopping. I’m going to need a laptop case. Now, I’ve heard good things about the Aussie Crumpler bags. (Though I hate their website. Hate. It. Unlabelled icons, annoying music, and a slider bar that defaults back to the starting position every time you click on an item? Very bad.)

From this list, I think I like the Oakley bag best. But I'm still shopping. I want something stylish for under, say, two hundred dollars. Do any of ya'll have a bag that you love and that you'd recommend?

Also, I need a (legal) copy of MS Word. Max is checking to see if he’s got a license I can have, but if that falls though – anyone got a good connection for that? I just know somebody out there knows Bill and could score me a deal.

Oh, and the one thing about my laptop that made me giggle: the graphic from the plastic bag it was wrapped in.

I think this is the international symbol for: “If you’re very unhappy, put this bag over your head and hold it tightly around your neck. You’ll look like your face is on TV and that’ll cheer you up. But then you’ll die.”

Ring Ring!

Me: Hello?
Caller: Is this Mistress Matisse? I’m calling to get some information.
Me: Okay, what do you want to know?
Caller: So you’re like, what, a dominatrix?

He says the last word like it’s a species of beings he’s been told about, but doesn’t quite believe exists. This doesn’t bode well.

Me: (sigh) Yes, that’s what I am.
Caller: So you’re not like, an escort or anything?
Me: (very firmly) No.
Caller: You don’t do like, a massage, or anything?
Me: No, I do not.
Caller: So what exactly do you do with people?
Me: Every session is different. It’s something that’s agreed upon between the individual and I, depending on just what they’re looking for. Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for, and I can tell you if it’s something I do.
Caller: Well, what do you charge for, you know, just an average session?
Me: My time is two-hundred and fifty dollars an hour.
Caller: Two-fifty! Wow, that’s a lot. I think that’s pretty high. Don’t you think that’s pretty high? Can you do any better for me?

Okay, we’ll leave aside the fact that my rate isn’t any higher than several other dommes in town, and hey, buddy, I am Mistress fucking Matisse, thankyouverymuch. Of course, this yabbo doesn’t know that my rate isn’t unusually steep, because he hasn’t done any market research. If he had, perhaps he’d understand what a dominatrix is, for god’s sake.

But yes, ignoring all that – this is quite possibly the worst and lamest attempt to bargain with me I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard more than I’d like. What answer can he possibly imagine I would make to his flattering little gambit? “Why, yes, I hadn’t noticed, but now that you mention it, I guess it is pretty high. Two-fifty? Yep, you caught me, I’m really not worth that much money. Let me just slash my prices just for you, for being such a perceptive and smooth-talking guy.”

And you know, gentlemen, if you do talk to a lady – in any branch of the sex industry – who instantly agrees to lower her base rate when asked by a stranger: be afraid. That’s a sign of something bad, and whatever her reason for doing it is, you so don’t want to be in a room with that gal. Trust me.

But I don’t feel like giving this guy a lesson in either sex worker etiquette or in Bargaining 101.

Me: No, I don’t think it’s high. But if you do, I suggest you call somewhere else. Goodbye.

Click. I hang up. I can’t do any better for you, pal, but I can definitely do better than you, with one of my good clients.

Hollywood Musings

(I have nothing meaningful to say today, so instead I'll talk about other people's love lives.)

I am so not a celeb-o-phile. I don’t even watch TV. But I do go to the grocery store, and this little feud with Heather Locklear and Denise Richards over Heather’s soon-to-be-ex-husband is almost impossible not to notice, emblazoned as it is across every glossy People-esque magazine on the racks by the checkout lanes. I will read trash while I stand in line, always. I won't buy the magazines, you understand, but when there are four carts in front of you at QFC, one has to do something. So it's the classic dog-in-the-manger scenario: Heather breaks up with her husband, but gets pissy because Denise wants him, and he wants Denise. Now, I’m not saying I’ve never felt that way myself. But it's more dignified not to display one’s irrational impulses so publicly.

It all seems pretty ho-hum to me, though, because in my little kinky circle, things are pretty incestuous, especially if you back up and look at it over, say, a five-year period. Not everyone gets all coupled up, you understand, but my sage old leatherdyke daddy once said to me, about ten years ago, when I was wailing about the unavailability of a certain woman I wanted: “Honey, ain’t neither one of you dead yet. If you just wait long enough, everything comes around.” She was right – over time, one does see some play-partner pairings that seem highly unlikely at first glance. (And there are also some very discreet ones which would dumbfound the general public. Trust me.) This is why you should never announce your deepest phobias to a kinky dinner party, because years later, you’ll be bottoming to one of the guests and boom, out come the incredibly lifelike plastic spiders.

And just for the record, I can see why Heather is dating David Spade, but then I have a weakness for nerdy boys. Too-handsome men usually make me suspicious*. Spade’s not exactly George Clooney, but he is funny, cute in offbeat quirky sort of way, and – most importantly - I bet he treats Heather like a princess and knocks himself out when he’s in bed with her. After being married to a couple of rock stars who probably treated her like a groupie with a day job, having a guy who thinks that seeing her naked is the best thing that’ll ever happen to him is probably a very charming thing to Ms. Locklear.

(*Which should not be interpreted to mean that Max and Roman are anything less than extremely yummy. )

I owe ya'll a post. But I'm writing this at one-thirty in the morning Sunday night, and I just got home and unpacked from Max's bondage class and the bondage party. It was great fun, but it's a long day and evening, and wow, I'm pretty wiped. Plus I have a busy day ahead of me - two busy days, actually, and a column to write. So I predict everything is going to be a little sketchy around here until Wednesday. Compose your souls in patience, please.