Happy Friday, everyone...The new column is here, and I’m off to shoot photos with the new photographer today, so ya’ll think good thoughts for me, please. It’s been awhile since I shot with anyone besides Tommy Edwards, so I have no idea what this’ll be like. But I think it’ll be good to have a fresh eye, and I’m pleased to be getting new pictures.

Website photos are a tricky thing. You want to get images that make you look your best, and yes, Photoshop is a wonderful tool. But you have to go easy with the editing, because that photo has to match the woman who’s going to open the door, or you'll have some disappointed clients. I have a lot of clients meet me and tell me I’m prettier than my pictures. I think my personality is what they’re responding to, because I think energy and personality are what make people truly attractive. But boys will be visually-stimulated boys, so pretty pictures are a must. I’m looking forward to seeing what Don Conrad does with me.

And I’m also really looking forward to the end of the week-long Photo Shoot Diet. I do not diet, as a rule. I mean, I don’t gorge myself, but within reasonable limits, I eat what I want, and then I work it off at the gym. I was raised Catholic, so the whole sin/penance cycle is familiar to me. Eat French fries, run on the treadmill, it all evens out, and I’m happy with the shape my body is in.

But the camera adds weight, no question about it, and one has to compensate for that. So when I have a serious shoot planned, for a week prior, there are no French fries. Nor pizza or pasta, no bread, no candy or processed sugar/carbs of any kind*.… You get the idea. Fresh fruit and vegetables and lean protein, that’s it, and a restricted amount of them, to boot.

I can’t maintain such a regimen for the long haul, and I wouldn’t want to. A life entirely without Stellars pizza is not a life I care to contemplate. In the short term, though, it’ll take about four or five pounds right off me. Some of that’s water, of course, but it doesn’t matter. It just has to not be there for the one day.

Another restriction: love-bites and -bruises. My sex life with Max and with Roman is such that I have to remind them, “Honey, I have that shoot, so don’t mark me up, okay?”

So cantaloupe, grilled chicken breasts, and careful love-making have been my life this past week. But I’ll have pretty pictures, high-calorie treats, and bruise-inducing sex this weekend. I can’t wait.

* I made an exception for the cupcake Max brought me a few days ago. I mean, it was such a sweet thing to do, how could I not eat it?

Happy Things In My Life

Things have been a little stressful lately, what with hackers, irate feminists, impending photo shoots, and some new planets (all good, but new and different and requiring discussion) in the polyamory orbit that revolves around my house. Plus five members (two adults, three kids) of Max’s family are arriving for a week-long visit soon, eek!

So I’ve been a bit frayed. But it’s times like this when I really appreciate what wonderful partners I have in my life. They both pet me and spoil me a lot in general, which I like. And yesterday, Max went to the bakery just to buy me a Cupcake Royale – chocolate, with pink frosting and coconut - because he loves me and knew it would make me happy. Later, Roman brought me dinner after work and gave me a massage. They are so sweet and wonderful to me. (And yes, they both do other things with me that are less aw-that’s-sweet and more oh-that’s-sexy, but I’ll leave those to your imagination.)

It’s a little quiet lately, workwise. But what I lack in quantity, I’m making up for in quality, having had several extremely charming encounters in my dungeon. They include:
a) one of the hottest boy-on-boy sex scenes I have ever seen in my life, with two gorgeous men,

b) a visit from Blue Eyes and my friend Jae, in which she was introduced to the fucking machine Mike made me,

and c) several intense one-on-one sessions with boys who know who they are.

I’m anticipating a delightful afternoon and evening tonight, too. Two very lovely boys are coming to see me – although not together - and a female pal is coming over to make a guest appearance in a domestic role-play that I think is going to be big fun.

***

Also: I want to do a favor for Roman – there are two women in Seattle who do a fire-eating act. We saw them performing at the burlesque/fetish fashion show at the last night of the old Catwalk Club. He wants to talk to them about perhaps hiring them for a gig. Anyone have contact info for these women, or even know their names?

So yesterday I threw up a quick little post on the Stranger blog about a Village Voice article by Rachel Kramer Bussel about kinky/slutty sex, and a link to a feminist blog discussion about it. And I also mentioned, rather briefly, that I don’t call myself a feminist, even though I support most goals that feminists say they’re working for.

Well. You would have thought I said I performed recreational vivisection on puppies and kittens. The outrage poured forth all afternoon and into the evening. How dare I not call myself a feminist? How dare I say anything that seems critical of feminism? Lordy.

The funny thing is: the reason I stopped saying I was a feminist is because I got tired of defending myself against outraged feminists who insisted that I wasn’t. I’ve had feminists go after me for: being a sex worker, being kinky, being femme, fucking men, being poly, and being bisexual. I’ve been hissed at, shouted down, poison-penned, and boycotted. I’ve been called a “delusional tool of the patriarchy” in front of a college classroom and ignored by a woman I was supposed to be politely debating. Not only was I not a feminist, they said, I was actively hurting the feminist movement.

Those are all real incidents in my life. But apparently it’s bad of me to mention them, even casually, without the polite disclaimer that not all feminists, etc, etc. It certainly isn't that no one who isn't a feminist has ever done anything like that. Far from it. But one expects to be attacked by winger Jesus freaks. I spent years being confused and hurt by (some) feminist's refusal to even civilly disagree with me. Many of them still don't - but I just don't care anymore.

However, never let it be said I don't respond to my readers. Here we go, forever and all time:

Many feminists are not… (insert negative feminist stereotype here). Many feminists are smart wonderful sexy fabulous people who do good things.

There. I hope anyone who was mortally offended by my post yesterday feels properly soothed. God, talk about your no-win situations. The only way I could have gotten more flack on that thread was if I'd said I was a feminist.

On the bright side, Rachel Kramer Bussel wrote me a very sweet thank you note for mentioning her in the Stranger blog, and offered to send me some of her books. Smart, sexy and polite. What a nice combination.
(Edited to add a link to RKB's blog on the matter, here.)

P.S. While I was annoyed by some of the responses on that thread, that doesn’t mean I’m going to listen to anyone spout nasty anti-feminist crap on this one. I’m in favor of most stated feminist goals - even though most feminists do not, as a group, support mine. (Perhaps it’s my version of a D/s relationship.) So, meaningful discourse and personal experience, yes. "Feminists are ugly bitches", no.

I was going to write yesterday…but retail fever overcame me, and I went to the sale at Nordstrom. Dangerous place, very dangerous. One pair of black patent leather peep-toe pumps, one pair soft suede knee-high boots with spiky heels, black of course, with corset-lacing up the back. One pair black leather boots with a chunky heel and slightly bondage-y buckles on them, also knee high. A short, tight, shiny black skirt (that looks perfect with the new pumps), a few fetching casual t-shirts and tops, and a pair of faintly punk-rock black Capri pants.

And there’s the Express store next door in Pacific Place, where they have a cut of pants that, when I wear them, makes Roman say, “Oooo, the bootie pants!” So I had to go buy some more bootie pants – 3 pairs. And a silky camisole that goes with the short tight skirt. And a dark satiny long sleeved button-up shirt, looking a bit like the bastard offspring of Annie Hall and Saturday Night Fever, but fitting me so perfectly I just had to.

Thus did commerce and fashion, not writing, rule my day.

But what about the evening, Matisse - the evening? you say. Ah, that is another matter.

You see, Eros ruled my evening. Mmmmmm….. So I will say no more, and simply purr.