Sometimes you people worry me. This a report from FreeFind, the site that provides my search box. Some of the queries are quite reasonable, but some of them, well, read for yourself...
Most Recent Queries
Day Time of Query Query
--- -------------------- ---------------
Mon Jun 28 14:46:37 2004 manners
Mon Jun 28 13:00:38 2004 caller
Mon Jun 28 13:00:21 2004 caller
Mon Jun 28 11:37:57 2004 mike
Mon Jun 28 11:36:24 2004 mike
Mon Jun 28 11:29:25 2004 mad mad house
Mon Jun 28 05:09:20 2004 reality show
Mon Jun 28 03:35:56 2004 mike
Mon Jun 28 03:35:42 2004 max
Sun Jun 27 21:12:07 2004 lilith
Sun Jun 27 07:31:54 2004 pedogirl
Sun Jun 27 03:08:22 2004 pretty girl
Sat Jun 26 21:34:59 2004 trans
Sat Jun 26 21:34:51 2004 trans
Sat Jun 26 08:30:22 2004 Tired Top Toy
Sat Jun 26 00:48:44 2004 bodybag
Sat Jun 26 00:13:24 2004 vermont
Fri Jun 25 23:56:59 2004 vermont
Fri Jun 25 23:32:13 2004 butches
Fri Jun 25 22:23:26 2004 escorts
Fri Jun 25 17:13:39 2004 "submissive girls"
Fri Jun 25 17:08:29 2004 submissive girls
Fri Jun 25 14:06:24 2004 mike
Fri Jun 25 13:48:34 2004 mike
Fri Jun 25 07:43:30 2004 milo
Fri Jun 25 07:42:50 2004 islands
Thu Jun 24 14:50:12 2004 Miss K
Thu Jun 24 14:40:38 2004 Miss K
Thu Jun 24 14:37:12 2004 Miss K
Thu Jun 24 14:33:50 2004 Miss K
Thu Jun 24 13:01:20 2004 cheese
Thu Jun 24 12:08:57 2004 cuckold
Thu Jun 24 11:17:24 2004 party
Thu Jun 24 01:36:34 2004 comport
Wed Jun 23 23:27:41 2004 saab
Wed Jun 23 17:54:02 2004 book laugh
Wed Jun 23 17:53:43 2004 book
Wed Jun 23 15:40:31 2004 digital
Tue Jun 22 08:26:11 2004 boobs
Tue Jun 22 08:25:47 2004 bra
Tue Jun 22 08:03:50 2004 caning
Tue Jun 22 08:03:27 2004 cbt
Tue Jun 22 08:01:15 2004 cane
Tue Jun 22 06:07:18 2004 dog
Mon Jun 21 22:29:12 2004 gag
Mon Jun 21 17:26:35 2004 spanking video
Mon Jun 21 09:16:55 2004 strap on
Mon Jun 21 07:45:39 2004 pottery
Mon Jun 21 07:45:31 2004 homemade
Mon Jun 21 07:45:21 2004 chad
Mon Jun 21 07:45:16 2004 2003
Mon Jun 21 02:26:25 2004 mama
Mon Jun 21 02:25:02 2004 mamma
Sun Jun 20 23:16:26 2004 thick
"Pedogirl"? Now, what is that about? "BodyBag"? "Cheese"? "Cuckold"? Oh, I ask you...
And, "dog"? God, I don't even want to think about that one too much.
"Pottery"? Well, all right, that one seems like a long shot - but, hey, whatever...
Wow, someone really wants to know about Miss K, don't they? Mike would be amused to know he's getting that many queries. And what is Max, chopped liver? One lousy query, that's all he gets? He is my primary partner, folks.
And what's up with my dentist's name - "Chad"? I know I mentioned him in my column once, but people - that was a joke. I don't really consider visiting my dentist to be a D/s experience. Jesus...
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Monday, June 28, 2004
I got a note from a guy recently who said some very nice things about me and my column, and then said he wanted to…
…ask you for advice. I know it's the classic scenario, but how can I get my vanilla wife to be more interested in the D/s lifestyle? She knows my sexual interests - which aren't even very extreme, just spanking and bondage. We have open and honest communication together - when I openly and honestly communicate what I want to do, she openly and honestly says, "No."
Well, that sucks, and you do have my sympathy. I've had partners who didn't share my sexual interests, and it's a problem. But unfortunately, there isn't a single thing you can do to make someone be turned on by something if they're not. You can't argue or reason or persuade someone into being kinky. If you really whine about it a whole lot, you may be able to nag her into grudgingly tying you up or spanking you. And believe me, that will exactly as exciting as it sounds. Resentful pity-fucks – oooh, that's sexy! Not.
You will not change your wife's sexual makeup. (She may choose to change herself, but you have no control over that process, and it doesn't sound that that's going to happen anytime soon.) So you have three options. You can a) stay with your wife and reconcile yourself to not getting your kinky desires satisfied, b) stay with your wife and get your kinky desires met elsewhere, either with or without her knowledge and permission, or c) you can get divorced and seek a kinky partner.
I'm not telling you what you should do – I'm just laying out your choices. But according to your email, you're rather young, younger than many people when they marry for the first time. Giving up on a chunk of your sexual desires at your age – well, I can't imagine anyone doing that without building up a whole lot of resentment towards their partner for it. That's poison to a relationship. If you think it would be hard to negotiate with your partner about your extra-curricular kink options now, just wait another ten years. It'll be even harder. The same goes for splitting up entirely.
I have a slip of paper from a Chinese fortune cookie taped to my computer monitor. It's been there since I was in the middle of separating from my husband. I was eating dinner with Miss K, and waffling about the relationship, and I opened the cookie and read this fortune: "Make up your mind and do what you want to do."
Not a very complex statement, but somehow it spoke to me. I read it as, "Matisse, stop trying to do what you think you ought to do, and do what you know is the right thing for you." I went ahead with the divorce, which was the best choice for me.
I'm not telling you that you should dump your wife – I don't know. But I think if you examine yourself very closely, at some deep level you know what you need to do. You'll have to examine your own mind and see what's the most important to you, and then talk to your wife about that. I wish you luck…
…ask you for advice. I know it's the classic scenario, but how can I get my vanilla wife to be more interested in the D/s lifestyle? She knows my sexual interests - which aren't even very extreme, just spanking and bondage. We have open and honest communication together - when I openly and honestly communicate what I want to do, she openly and honestly says, "No."
Well, that sucks, and you do have my sympathy. I've had partners who didn't share my sexual interests, and it's a problem. But unfortunately, there isn't a single thing you can do to make someone be turned on by something if they're not. You can't argue or reason or persuade someone into being kinky. If you really whine about it a whole lot, you may be able to nag her into grudgingly tying you up or spanking you. And believe me, that will exactly as exciting as it sounds. Resentful pity-fucks – oooh, that's sexy! Not.
You will not change your wife's sexual makeup. (She may choose to change herself, but you have no control over that process, and it doesn't sound that that's going to happen anytime soon.) So you have three options. You can a) stay with your wife and reconcile yourself to not getting your kinky desires satisfied, b) stay with your wife and get your kinky desires met elsewhere, either with or without her knowledge and permission, or c) you can get divorced and seek a kinky partner.
I'm not telling you what you should do – I'm just laying out your choices. But according to your email, you're rather young, younger than many people when they marry for the first time. Giving up on a chunk of your sexual desires at your age – well, I can't imagine anyone doing that without building up a whole lot of resentment towards their partner for it. That's poison to a relationship. If you think it would be hard to negotiate with your partner about your extra-curricular kink options now, just wait another ten years. It'll be even harder. The same goes for splitting up entirely.
I have a slip of paper from a Chinese fortune cookie taped to my computer monitor. It's been there since I was in the middle of separating from my husband. I was eating dinner with Miss K, and waffling about the relationship, and I opened the cookie and read this fortune: "Make up your mind and do what you want to do."
Not a very complex statement, but somehow it spoke to me. I read it as, "Matisse, stop trying to do what you think you ought to do, and do what you know is the right thing for you." I went ahead with the divorce, which was the best choice for me.
I'm not telling you that you should dump your wife – I don't know. But I think if you examine yourself very closely, at some deep level you know what you need to do. You'll have to examine your own mind and see what's the most important to you, and then talk to your wife about that. I wish you luck…
Sunday, June 27, 2004
Really Nice Things That Have Happened To Me Lately…
One of my favorite clients, Blue Eyes, purchased and installed one window-unit air conditioner in my workspace, and a second one is coming. This is the nicest and most exactly-what-I-needed gift I've gotten in a while, and I'm extremely pleased by what he's done for me. What a wonderful man.
I went to the Foot-Party, which I will give a detailed report on later…But while I was there, a very pretty eighteen-year-old girl came up me and said, "My friend and I saw you at the last foot-party, and we decided that you just exuded sex appeal like crazy. Every you did was sexy – the way you walked, the way you flipped your hair, the way you laughed - everything. We just thought you were so cool, and we decided that was the difference between being eighteen-year-old girls and being a woman."
What an amazing compliment! I mean, it's great when guys tell you you're hot. But for a lovely young girl to say this to me – well, I was really touched.
Matisse's Axiom on Sexual Attraction: If a woman feels desirable when she's with you, she will feel desire for you. I spent a lovely evening recently with a man who made me feel like I was the most beautiful and the most fascinating creature he'd ever seen. Roman was attractive to me before - he's doubly so now…
One of my favorite clients, Blue Eyes, purchased and installed one window-unit air conditioner in my workspace, and a second one is coming. This is the nicest and most exactly-what-I-needed gift I've gotten in a while, and I'm extremely pleased by what he's done for me. What a wonderful man.
I went to the Foot-Party, which I will give a detailed report on later…But while I was there, a very pretty eighteen-year-old girl came up me and said, "My friend and I saw you at the last foot-party, and we decided that you just exuded sex appeal like crazy. Every you did was sexy – the way you walked, the way you flipped your hair, the way you laughed - everything. We just thought you were so cool, and we decided that was the difference between being eighteen-year-old girls and being a woman."
What an amazing compliment! I mean, it's great when guys tell you you're hot. But for a lovely young girl to say this to me – well, I was really touched.
Matisse's Axiom on Sexual Attraction: If a woman feels desirable when she's with you, she will feel desire for you. I spent a lovely evening recently with a man who made me feel like I was the most beautiful and the most fascinating creature he'd ever seen. Roman was attractive to me before - he's doubly so now…
Saturday, June 26, 2004
I haven't forgotten you... I've been a busy girl for a few days. So, a real entry later, but for now, be amused by this blog post about translating polyamory-personal ads from the always sharp-witted Lilith, aka Cosmicbabe.
Meanwhile, I'm going go have lunch with an in-from-out-of-town relative. Sigh. (The things I do to please my mother.)
And then I'm going to come home and get ready to make a professional appearance at a foot-worship party.
Just another day in the life...
Meanwhile, I'm going go have lunch with an in-from-out-of-town relative. Sigh. (The things I do to please my mother.)
And then I'm going to come home and get ready to make a professional appearance at a foot-worship party.
Just another day in the life...
Thursday, June 24, 2004
So, I'm much happier with life since I bought a new cell phone, but it does entail one tedious task: copying over my phone book. (Verizon should have been able to copy the numbers over to my new phone in some magical electronic way, but the gods that rule such things did not look kindly on me yesterday, and so they were mysteriously unable to do so. Thus, I'm doing it manually.)
Copying over the numbers of my friends is going to be the easy part. When I scroll through the list, I'm struck by how many of the one hundred memory slots are taken up by entries with names like this:
ASSHOLE
ASSHOLE2
BUTTHEAD
DIPSHIT
DON'TANSWER
DON'TANWER2
DUMBASS
FLAKE
FLAKE2
JERK
NO WAY
Et cetera, on through the alphabet. Most of them are guys I never met – they're just time-wasting telephone pests. I've forgotten exactly what transgression many of them committed, but some of them stick in one's head.
SMOKINGWEIRDO, for example, is a guy who called me weekly for – I think – several years.
"Do you smoke?" he'd ask. "I want to do a scene with a Mistress who's smoking."
"No, I don't," I'd say. "But I'm fine with using cigarettes in a scene."
"No, no, you have to really smoke them – inhale them."
"No, I don't want to that."
"Oh, come now, you smoke, I know you smoke, every beautiful Mistress smokes. I'll bring you some really sexy French cigarettes."
"No, I really don't smoke…"
We went around and around for at least two different phone calls – me telling him I didn't smoke, him insisting that I should. Then he got programmed in and I never picked up when he called any more.
BADBOY is this guy who'd call up, and when I said "hello?", he'd say, "I've been a bad, bad boy – don't you wanna spank me?" Then he'd laugh like a crazy person and hang up. Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly amused with himself, he'd repeat his clever line one more time, and then hang up.
KINGCOUNTYJAIL speaks for itself. I cannot imagine the mindset of a man who thinks that a sex worker is going to take a collect call from anyone – let alone someone who's in jail, for chrissake. And to me – a dominatrix? I mean, come on guys, aren't you already having a pretty intense dominant/submissive experience? I think I'd feel a little inadequate after that...
NOENGLISH1, NOENGLISH2, and NOENGLISH3 have taught me that, apparently, Americans are not the only ones who raise our voices when we talk to foreigners because we think it'll make them understand what the hell we're saying.
YUCK! Is the guy who wants to talk about scat. And I don't mean jazz music.
Copying over the numbers of my friends is going to be the easy part. When I scroll through the list, I'm struck by how many of the one hundred memory slots are taken up by entries with names like this:
ASSHOLE
ASSHOLE2
BUTTHEAD
DIPSHIT
DON'TANSWER
DON'TANWER2
DUMBASS
FLAKE
FLAKE2
JERK
NO WAY
Et cetera, on through the alphabet. Most of them are guys I never met – they're just time-wasting telephone pests. I've forgotten exactly what transgression many of them committed, but some of them stick in one's head.
SMOKINGWEIRDO, for example, is a guy who called me weekly for – I think – several years.
"Do you smoke?" he'd ask. "I want to do a scene with a Mistress who's smoking."
"No, I don't," I'd say. "But I'm fine with using cigarettes in a scene."
"No, no, you have to really smoke them – inhale them."
"No, I don't want to that."
"Oh, come now, you smoke, I know you smoke, every beautiful Mistress smokes. I'll bring you some really sexy French cigarettes."
"No, I really don't smoke…"
We went around and around for at least two different phone calls – me telling him I didn't smoke, him insisting that I should. Then he got programmed in and I never picked up when he called any more.
BADBOY is this guy who'd call up, and when I said "hello?", he'd say, "I've been a bad, bad boy – don't you wanna spank me?" Then he'd laugh like a crazy person and hang up. Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly amused with himself, he'd repeat his clever line one more time, and then hang up.
KINGCOUNTYJAIL speaks for itself. I cannot imagine the mindset of a man who thinks that a sex worker is going to take a collect call from anyone – let alone someone who's in jail, for chrissake. And to me – a dominatrix? I mean, come on guys, aren't you already having a pretty intense dominant/submissive experience? I think I'd feel a little inadequate after that...
NOENGLISH1, NOENGLISH2, and NOENGLISH3 have taught me that, apparently, Americans are not the only ones who raise our voices when we talk to foreigners because we think it'll make them understand what the hell we're saying.
YUCK! Is the guy who wants to talk about scat. And I don't mean jazz music.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Updates...
Please note that Mike – the secondary partner to whom I recently bid a fond farewell – has been removed from the "Cast of Characters" page, and he has been replaced by two new (and very interesting) people…As-yet unrealized sexual tension is in the air, my friends, and I'm enjoying it. I mean, I'll enjoy the "realizing" part, whenever it happens. But there's something to be said for the build-up.
On other fronts, as all of you who read The Stranger now know, my column will not be in the paper version of The Stranger for awhile. I expect to be returning soon, but for right now, they want to use me as bait to lure you to the brand spankin' new personals ad site they've built. So, go forth and explore the Lovelab/Lustlab...
And if you have an opinion about my column returning to the paper, please direct your polite emails to the good people at The Stranger, who welcome your feedback…
Please note that Mike – the secondary partner to whom I recently bid a fond farewell – has been removed from the "Cast of Characters" page, and he has been replaced by two new (and very interesting) people…As-yet unrealized sexual tension is in the air, my friends, and I'm enjoying it. I mean, I'll enjoy the "realizing" part, whenever it happens. But there's something to be said for the build-up.
On other fronts, as all of you who read The Stranger now know, my column will not be in the paper version of The Stranger for awhile. I expect to be returning soon, but for right now, they want to use me as bait to lure you to the brand spankin' new personals ad site they've built. So, go forth and explore the Lovelab/Lustlab...
And if you have an opinion about my column returning to the paper, please direct your polite emails to the good people at The Stranger, who welcome your feedback…
Note to my friends: I just got a new cell phone - I switched from AT&T, the worlds lamest wireless service provider, to Verizon. (I kept the same number, of course.) Naturally there are being some bumps along the way, and I think I lost a few existing voicemail messages on my AT&T account. If you left me a message after about 2pm yesterday, I may not have gotten it. And if you were trying reach me late yesterday or early today and had trouble, that's why. Persevere, and all will be well.
Off into my day...
Off into my day...
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
In A New York State Of Mind...
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Yeah, is this Mistress Matisse? So, hey - I wanted to ask you a question.
The first thing I notice about this guy is that he's got a really heavy "Noo Yawk" accent. Now, I'm sure there are plenty of very nice and genuinely submissive guys who happen to sound like this, but somehow, I haven't met them. When I hear this accent, I remember several seriously annoying clients I had, early in my career, who talked like this. All of them were about as truly submissive as Genghis Khan, and all of them topped from the bottom in a rude, disruptive manner that drove me nuts - and I'm actually relatively forgiving about such things.
But hey, maybe this guy will be different. I'll give him a chance - for at least thirty seconds.
Me: Okay, what's your question?
Caller: So, I'm going to be coming out to Seattle on business, and I was wondering - do you do extreme scenes?
Me: Well, it depends on exactly what you mean. But as long as it isn't anything that's going to do permanent damage to your body, yes, we can talk about it.
Caller: It's like – I like doing really, really extreme stuff, and it's hard to find Mistresses who'll do the stuff that I like.
A red flag goes up. There are plenty of Mistresses who'll do heavy play around. He must want something really out there if he's having trouble finding anyone to do it. So I say, cautiously -
Me: Why don't you tell me what exactly it is you're looking for?
Caller: I wanna do a scene where you come to my motel room and I'm asleep, and you tie me up and gag me and beat the shit out of me and fuck me up the ass really hard. And so matter what I say, I don't want you to stop, I don't want to have a safeword.
Well, you have to give the guy credit for putting his fantasy out there. But this isn't going to work for me.
Me: You know, I think that's a great fantasy, but I'm not going to be comfortable doing something like that with someone I don't know.
Actually, I don't think I'd do it even with someone I did know, just because it's not my fetish. But that's not really the point I'm going to try to make here.
Me: But I'd be happy to talk to you about a somewhat modified version of that fantasy.
Caller: You know, I think if I'm gonna pay for it, I should get it the way I want it. Why would you not be willing to do it?
Okay, so he's not different. He's rude, and he's now going to try to pick apart my reasons for not giving him what he wants, his way. It's probably a lost cause, but let's see if we can make him understand why he's having a hard time getting his fantasy catered to.
Me: Because I don't know you, I don't know your physical limits, I don't have experience in reading your body, and without a safeword, I can't be sure I'll be able to tell when you've reached your limit.
Caller: But I want to feel really out of control, and this is the only way I can do that. I thought you said you did extreme scenes?
Oh, I'm not liking his tone here. Anyone who knows me well knows that I'm very happy to do physically extreme SM. You want your ass beaten until it bleeds? Great. You want needles all over your slippery bits? Love to. You want to be electrified until your eyes roll back in your head and your throat hurts from screaming? Darlin', we'll get along just fine.
But I have some limits, and one of them is that you have to consent – and keep on consenting - in a way that I can feel.
Me: I do. But I don't do no-safeword scenes with strangers. Or rather, I would – but not physically extreme ones. If you wanted me to put you over my knee and spank your ass with my bare hand and not stop until I was ready to, that would be fine, because I'd know I wasn't going to damage you and I'd be able to read your body pretty easily. But in your scene, there are just too many variables.
Caller: Well, I don't think I should have to pay for it if it isn't my fantasy. How about this – how about if you do a scene with me, and if it's really good and it makes me feel like I'm really out of control, then I'll pay you. But if it doesn't, then I won't.
I wish I could say this was the stupidest thing anyone has ever asked me. Unfortunately, it's not. (If you've been reading here for a while, you'll know I'm right.) But it's definitely in the top twenty-five or so.
Me: You know what, this isn't going to work. Good bye…
Caller: Hey, hey, hey, don't hang up!
Me: I thought you said you didn't have a safeword.
Click.
I hang up.
(Postscript: After I wrote this, I remembered that I do know one very cool New York guy...You know who you are, and I'm pleased that you're the exception to the rule...)
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Yeah, is this Mistress Matisse? So, hey - I wanted to ask you a question.
The first thing I notice about this guy is that he's got a really heavy "Noo Yawk" accent. Now, I'm sure there are plenty of very nice and genuinely submissive guys who happen to sound like this, but somehow, I haven't met them. When I hear this accent, I remember several seriously annoying clients I had, early in my career, who talked like this. All of them were about as truly submissive as Genghis Khan, and all of them topped from the bottom in a rude, disruptive manner that drove me nuts - and I'm actually relatively forgiving about such things.
But hey, maybe this guy will be different. I'll give him a chance - for at least thirty seconds.
Me: Okay, what's your question?
Caller: So, I'm going to be coming out to Seattle on business, and I was wondering - do you do extreme scenes?
Me: Well, it depends on exactly what you mean. But as long as it isn't anything that's going to do permanent damage to your body, yes, we can talk about it.
Caller: It's like – I like doing really, really extreme stuff, and it's hard to find Mistresses who'll do the stuff that I like.
A red flag goes up. There are plenty of Mistresses who'll do heavy play around. He must want something really out there if he's having trouble finding anyone to do it. So I say, cautiously -
Me: Why don't you tell me what exactly it is you're looking for?
Caller: I wanna do a scene where you come to my motel room and I'm asleep, and you tie me up and gag me and beat the shit out of me and fuck me up the ass really hard. And so matter what I say, I don't want you to stop, I don't want to have a safeword.
Well, you have to give the guy credit for putting his fantasy out there. But this isn't going to work for me.
Me: You know, I think that's a great fantasy, but I'm not going to be comfortable doing something like that with someone I don't know.
Actually, I don't think I'd do it even with someone I did know, just because it's not my fetish. But that's not really the point I'm going to try to make here.
Me: But I'd be happy to talk to you about a somewhat modified version of that fantasy.
Caller: You know, I think if I'm gonna pay for it, I should get it the way I want it. Why would you not be willing to do it?
Okay, so he's not different. He's rude, and he's now going to try to pick apart my reasons for not giving him what he wants, his way. It's probably a lost cause, but let's see if we can make him understand why he's having a hard time getting his fantasy catered to.
Me: Because I don't know you, I don't know your physical limits, I don't have experience in reading your body, and without a safeword, I can't be sure I'll be able to tell when you've reached your limit.
Caller: But I want to feel really out of control, and this is the only way I can do that. I thought you said you did extreme scenes?
Oh, I'm not liking his tone here. Anyone who knows me well knows that I'm very happy to do physically extreme SM. You want your ass beaten until it bleeds? Great. You want needles all over your slippery bits? Love to. You want to be electrified until your eyes roll back in your head and your throat hurts from screaming? Darlin', we'll get along just fine.
But I have some limits, and one of them is that you have to consent – and keep on consenting - in a way that I can feel.
Me: I do. But I don't do no-safeword scenes with strangers. Or rather, I would – but not physically extreme ones. If you wanted me to put you over my knee and spank your ass with my bare hand and not stop until I was ready to, that would be fine, because I'd know I wasn't going to damage you and I'd be able to read your body pretty easily. But in your scene, there are just too many variables.
Caller: Well, I don't think I should have to pay for it if it isn't my fantasy. How about this – how about if you do a scene with me, and if it's really good and it makes me feel like I'm really out of control, then I'll pay you. But if it doesn't, then I won't.
I wish I could say this was the stupidest thing anyone has ever asked me. Unfortunately, it's not. (If you've been reading here for a while, you'll know I'm right.) But it's definitely in the top twenty-five or so.
Me: You know what, this isn't going to work. Good bye…
Caller: Hey, hey, hey, don't hang up!
Me: I thought you said you didn't have a safeword.
Click.
I hang up.
(Postscript: After I wrote this, I remembered that I do know one very cool New York guy...You know who you are, and I'm pleased that you're the exception to the rule...)
Monday, June 21, 2004
I see that my fellow sex writer Dan Savage is writing about erotic electric stimulation this week... Good info, if you're curious about it.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
I'm busy writing a column just now... But, for my fellow bibliophiles out there, here's what I've been reading lately.
Edison's Eve: A Magical History Of The Quest For Mechanical Life by Gaby Wood
Very interesting book about 18th and 19th C. explorations of robotics.
The Turk: The Life and Times of the Famous Eighteenth-Century Chess-Playing Machine, by Tom Standage
A specific history of one early robot, which played chess – and won – with humans. Unsurprisingly, it turns out there was actually a person hidden inside, directing the chess moves. Still, an absorbing account of how it was done, and how people of that time reacted to the machine.
The Speckled Monster: A Historical Tale Of Battling Smallpox, by Jennifer Lee Carrell
Very interesting, if occasionally gross, description of smallpox, and the development of the vaccination for it, in the 18th C. I knew it was a deadly disease, but I had no idea it was so extremely disgusting and painful in it's manifestation. It would, indeed, be an effective bio-weapon in the hands of someone desperate enough to use such an uncontrollable tool.
Sharpe's Eagle: Richard Sharpe and the Talavera Campaign, by Richard Cornwell
One of the books in the excellent "Richard Sharpe" series - sort of the "Rambo" of the late 18th and early 19th C. wars. I wouldn't call them "lit-ra-choor", but it's great action/adventure reading - I'm working my way through the whole series chronologically and enjoying them a great deal.
By the Sword: A History of Gladiators, Musketeers, Samurai, Swashbucklers, and Olympic Champions, by Richard Cohen
A broad overview of the history of the sword and of sword use, and the culture of the sword. Occasionally meandering, but with many spots of interest to a pop-history junkie like me.
The Distinctive Book of Redneck Baby Names , by Linda Barth
Just what is says – complete with smart-ass remarks about the probable characteristics that go along with each individual name. Extremely funny, especially to any who, like me, grew up in the South and has known many people who actually had names like Eldred, Chet, Carlene and Maybelle.
The Devil in White City: Murder, Magic and Madness At The Fair That Changed America, by Erik Larson.
The true story about the architect, Daniel Burnham, who designed the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago, and the serial killer, H.H. Homes, who used the fair to lure his victims to their death. Not bad, but the part about Daniel Burnham bogged down sometimes, and the author was annoying coy about the details of the murders committed by Holmes.
Edison's Eve: A Magical History Of The Quest For Mechanical Life by Gaby Wood
Very interesting book about 18th and 19th C. explorations of robotics.
The Turk: The Life and Times of the Famous Eighteenth-Century Chess-Playing Machine, by Tom Standage
A specific history of one early robot, which played chess – and won – with humans. Unsurprisingly, it turns out there was actually a person hidden inside, directing the chess moves. Still, an absorbing account of how it was done, and how people of that time reacted to the machine.
The Speckled Monster: A Historical Tale Of Battling Smallpox, by Jennifer Lee Carrell
Very interesting, if occasionally gross, description of smallpox, and the development of the vaccination for it, in the 18th C. I knew it was a deadly disease, but I had no idea it was so extremely disgusting and painful in it's manifestation. It would, indeed, be an effective bio-weapon in the hands of someone desperate enough to use such an uncontrollable tool.
Sharpe's Eagle: Richard Sharpe and the Talavera Campaign, by Richard Cornwell
One of the books in the excellent "Richard Sharpe" series - sort of the "Rambo" of the late 18th and early 19th C. wars. I wouldn't call them "lit-ra-choor", but it's great action/adventure reading - I'm working my way through the whole series chronologically and enjoying them a great deal.
By the Sword: A History of Gladiators, Musketeers, Samurai, Swashbucklers, and Olympic Champions, by Richard Cohen
A broad overview of the history of the sword and of sword use, and the culture of the sword. Occasionally meandering, but with many spots of interest to a pop-history junkie like me.
The Distinctive Book of Redneck Baby Names , by Linda Barth
Just what is says – complete with smart-ass remarks about the probable characteristics that go along with each individual name. Extremely funny, especially to any who, like me, grew up in the South and has known many people who actually had names like Eldred, Chet, Carlene and Maybelle.
The Devil in White City: Murder, Magic and Madness At The Fair That Changed America, by Erik Larson.
The true story about the architect, Daniel Burnham, who designed the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago, and the serial killer, H.H. Homes, who used the fair to lure his victims to their death. Not bad, but the part about Daniel Burnham bogged down sometimes, and the author was annoying coy about the details of the murders committed by Holmes.
Friday, June 18, 2004
Legend In His Own Mind
Ring ring!
Me: hello?
Caller: Is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes it is.
Caller: I'm calling about your ad, but I'm not a submissive. My name (dramatic pause) is Master Ryker Blackstar.
Now I've met enough pompous twits in my time to know one when I hear one. "Master Ryker Blackstar", my ass. I live to stick pins in people like this.
Me: Are you calling to sell me long-distance service?
Caller: No!
Me: Oh, I'm so sorry, I must have misunderstood. What is it I can help you with?
Caller: I wanted to ask you some questions. How long have you been in business?
Me: Several years.
Caller: And who did you train under?
Who did I train under? Oh, give me a break. I'm really tempted to say something like, "Well, I worked with Ah-nuld on the weight training, but Jane Fonda advised me on my cardiovascular routine."
Me: Why are you asking me this?
Caller: Well, it's just that we've never heard of you.
We've never heard of you? Am I speaking to someone with Multiple Personality Disorder? Great. At least one of his personalities must have heard of me, though. Otherwise, how would he know to call me?
Me: Who is "we"?
Caller: A group of us…So, who trained you as Mistress?
Me: No one person trained me, I'd been in the community for years before I became a professional.
Caller: Ah. So you're not affiliated with anyone?
"Affiliated with anyone"? What am I, a fucking credit union or something? I have no idea where he's going with this.
Me: No – and again, why are you asking me these questions?
Caller: Well, as I said – we've just never heard of you.
Me: That's okay – I've never heard of you, either. I still don't understand why you called me. What is it that you want, exactly?
Caller: Do you give tours of your dungeon?
Me: No. (Not to people who annoy me, anyway.) Why do you want a tour of my dungeon?
Caller: We're just wondering what kind of facilities you have.
Me: Okay, who is this "we" you keep talking about?
Caller: There's a group of us.
Me: Yes, you said that already. Are you some kind of BDSM organization? Because if you're looking for a dungeon to rent for parties, I don't do that, sorry.
Caller: No, no, no. We're not that kind of BDSM organization. We have our own dungeon. You see, I am the head of a very private and selective BDSM house. It's called "The House Of Blackstar".
Oh, no. He's one of those "House of…" people. You run into this in the BDSM world occasionally. When someone says "I'm part of the House Of Joe Bob", what he means is he's part of a group of leather people who've declared themselves to be something like a family or a small clan. They may or may not actually live together, but they usually have a single authority figure –"Joe Bob", in this case - and they usually have some kind of formal structure and hierarchy. And they're usually a bunch of pretentious, self-important jackasses.
Not always, now, not always. I've meet some cool people who had a chosen leather family and who called themselves the "House of…" whatever. (And the fabulous "House Of Gord" people are great.)
But in this case, my sense is that it's sheer self-aggrandizing crap. I'm betting that "The House Of Blackstar" consists of Ryker – whose real name is probably Eugene – his pet iguana, Frodo, and several plump, shy, "cyber-submissive" girls who live in very small towns at least five hundred miles away from here. Call it a hunch.
Me: I'm going ask you one more time - what do you want from me?
Caller: Well, we'd have to check you out more thoroughly. But provided you meet with our standards, I'm prepared to offer you an affiliation with our house.
Me: No, thank you.
Caller: What? But –
Me: I don't want to be affiliated with anyone. So if that's all, then I'll say goodbye.
Caller: Wait a minute, I think you're making a mistake. The House of Blackstar is connected with some of the best Houses in the world.
Me: Really? Like, The White House?
Caller: (huffily) No, I mean some of the best secret European Houses!
Oh, God, no - not the "secret European Houses" thing. This is like the Loch Ness Monster of the BDSM community. The basic storyline of the fable goes something like this: There are secret "Story of O" type places in Europe where mysterious people train slaves in some brand of BDSM that's more pure and true than ours. Then they sell these slaves to other members of this secret society, where they have many erotic adventures. (Sounds just like a porn novel, doesn't it?) These houses have been in continuous existence since the late nineteenth century or even earlier, and lots of very famous and important people belong to these secret societies - as Masters and Mistresses. They can do that without fear of exposure, you see, because these houses/societies are very, very secret. Nobody knows about them.
Except, of course, all the pathological liars who claim to be connected with them in order to get laid and look important, and the people they tell their lies to. And, of course, folks like me, who tell other people what a flock of bullshit it is, and laugh at those who try to spin me this story. That all amounts to a pretty large group - so it's hard to imagine it's really much of a secret anymore.
So, just for the record: there ain't no such thing. There are plenty of very kinky people in Europe, there are some great events and organizations there, and I'm sure that there are people forming "Houses" of their own. But there are no ages-old secret European societies that keep and train slaves in some magical method of BDSM. Trust me, I'd know.
Caller: If we were affiliated, we could send you submissives for training. You see, I'm forming my own secret House here.
And he's calling up people he claims not to have heard of to tell them about this secret House of his. Hey, it's good that he's getting a head start on this – you don't want to be like the Europeans, they had to wait for a hundred years before people started talking about their secret Houses. This is what makes America great.
Me: No, I don't want to be affiliated with anyone.
Caller: I could really send you a lot of business.
Apparently it's going to be a rather large and busy secret House. Oy.
Me: No, I'm not interested, goodbye.
Click.
I hang up.
I wonder if Europeans talk about "the secret American BDSM Houses"?
I bet not…
Ring ring!
Me: hello?
Caller: Is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes it is.
Caller: I'm calling about your ad, but I'm not a submissive. My name (dramatic pause) is Master Ryker Blackstar.
Now I've met enough pompous twits in my time to know one when I hear one. "Master Ryker Blackstar", my ass. I live to stick pins in people like this.
Me: Are you calling to sell me long-distance service?
Caller: No!
Me: Oh, I'm so sorry, I must have misunderstood. What is it I can help you with?
Caller: I wanted to ask you some questions. How long have you been in business?
Me: Several years.
Caller: And who did you train under?
Who did I train under? Oh, give me a break. I'm really tempted to say something like, "Well, I worked with Ah-nuld on the weight training, but Jane Fonda advised me on my cardiovascular routine."
Me: Why are you asking me this?
Caller: Well, it's just that we've never heard of you.
We've never heard of you? Am I speaking to someone with Multiple Personality Disorder? Great. At least one of his personalities must have heard of me, though. Otherwise, how would he know to call me?
Me: Who is "we"?
Caller: A group of us…So, who trained you as Mistress?
Me: No one person trained me, I'd been in the community for years before I became a professional.
Caller: Ah. So you're not affiliated with anyone?
"Affiliated with anyone"? What am I, a fucking credit union or something? I have no idea where he's going with this.
Me: No – and again, why are you asking me these questions?
Caller: Well, as I said – we've just never heard of you.
Me: That's okay – I've never heard of you, either. I still don't understand why you called me. What is it that you want, exactly?
Caller: Do you give tours of your dungeon?
Me: No. (Not to people who annoy me, anyway.) Why do you want a tour of my dungeon?
Caller: We're just wondering what kind of facilities you have.
Me: Okay, who is this "we" you keep talking about?
Caller: There's a group of us.
Me: Yes, you said that already. Are you some kind of BDSM organization? Because if you're looking for a dungeon to rent for parties, I don't do that, sorry.
Caller: No, no, no. We're not that kind of BDSM organization. We have our own dungeon. You see, I am the head of a very private and selective BDSM house. It's called "The House Of Blackstar".
Oh, no. He's one of those "House of…" people. You run into this in the BDSM world occasionally. When someone says "I'm part of the House Of Joe Bob", what he means is he's part of a group of leather people who've declared themselves to be something like a family or a small clan. They may or may not actually live together, but they usually have a single authority figure –"Joe Bob", in this case - and they usually have some kind of formal structure and hierarchy. And they're usually a bunch of pretentious, self-important jackasses.
Not always, now, not always. I've meet some cool people who had a chosen leather family and who called themselves the "House of…" whatever. (And the fabulous "House Of Gord" people are great.)
But in this case, my sense is that it's sheer self-aggrandizing crap. I'm betting that "The House Of Blackstar" consists of Ryker – whose real name is probably Eugene – his pet iguana, Frodo, and several plump, shy, "cyber-submissive" girls who live in very small towns at least five hundred miles away from here. Call it a hunch.
Me: I'm going ask you one more time - what do you want from me?
Caller: Well, we'd have to check you out more thoroughly. But provided you meet with our standards, I'm prepared to offer you an affiliation with our house.
Me: No, thank you.
Caller: What? But –
Me: I don't want to be affiliated with anyone. So if that's all, then I'll say goodbye.
Caller: Wait a minute, I think you're making a mistake. The House of Blackstar is connected with some of the best Houses in the world.
Me: Really? Like, The White House?
Caller: (huffily) No, I mean some of the best secret European Houses!
Oh, God, no - not the "secret European Houses" thing. This is like the Loch Ness Monster of the BDSM community. The basic storyline of the fable goes something like this: There are secret "Story of O" type places in Europe where mysterious people train slaves in some brand of BDSM that's more pure and true than ours. Then they sell these slaves to other members of this secret society, where they have many erotic adventures. (Sounds just like a porn novel, doesn't it?) These houses have been in continuous existence since the late nineteenth century or even earlier, and lots of very famous and important people belong to these secret societies - as Masters and Mistresses. They can do that without fear of exposure, you see, because these houses/societies are very, very secret. Nobody knows about them.
Except, of course, all the pathological liars who claim to be connected with them in order to get laid and look important, and the people they tell their lies to. And, of course, folks like me, who tell other people what a flock of bullshit it is, and laugh at those who try to spin me this story. That all amounts to a pretty large group - so it's hard to imagine it's really much of a secret anymore.
So, just for the record: there ain't no such thing. There are plenty of very kinky people in Europe, there are some great events and organizations there, and I'm sure that there are people forming "Houses" of their own. But there are no ages-old secret European societies that keep and train slaves in some magical method of BDSM. Trust me, I'd know.
Caller: If we were affiliated, we could send you submissives for training. You see, I'm forming my own secret House here.
And he's calling up people he claims not to have heard of to tell them about this secret House of his. Hey, it's good that he's getting a head start on this – you don't want to be like the Europeans, they had to wait for a hundred years before people started talking about their secret Houses. This is what makes America great.
Me: No, I don't want to be affiliated with anyone.
Caller: I could really send you a lot of business.
Apparently it's going to be a rather large and busy secret House. Oy.
Me: No, I'm not interested, goodbye.
Click.
I hang up.
I wonder if Europeans talk about "the secret American BDSM Houses"?
I bet not…
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
So, now that I'm secondary-partner-less, I'm taking a moment to look around at my dating options. I've always liked this part – it's kind of like shopping.
I've never been a lust-at-first-sight kinda girl - you have to sink into me a little before I'll get hot for you. Thus, when I think about new partners, I tend to think about people I already know.
But it occurred to me, today, that I might at least consider the beautiful-stranger option. I mean, one doesn't want to get into a rut about these things. So, just for laughs, I went over to Bondage.com and flipped through the personals.
My first response was, "Thank God I already have a primary partner." Whoo - very scary. Paging the Fab Five, please – emergency! But even aside from cosmetic and grooming issues, most the people I looked at were just so not right for me.
As I was looking, though, I got several messages. The site has a feature where you can see who's logged in, and I was showing up on people's radar screens. I wasn't logged in as "Mistress Matisse", you understand. But just being a female on such sites is enough.
Some of them were about as bad as you'd expect – you know, all caps, terrible spelling, and with a definite one-handed-typing tone to them. But two of them were actually nicely written and polite, and so I replied.
And they replied, and I replied, and they seemed like cool guys. Wow, I thought, it's kinda nice to flirt with people who don't know me. You see, when you're a bit of a local celebrity, unencumbered flirtations are hard to come by. In my community, even if I don't know someone, chances are they've heard of me. That's flattering in some ways, but other times it bugs me, because it means that when I meet someone, they already have certain kinds of expectations about who I'll be and what I'll be like. Expectations, I might add, that are rarely accurate.
I'm not trying to sound like, Oh, poor me, it's so terrible - but it really skews the getting-to-know-you dynamic. This is why I tend to go with people who either a) have known me since long before I ever was "Mistress Matisse", or, b) have known me long enough for the ooo-that's-Mistress-Matisse factor to have completely worn off. Or, as in this case, I attempt to go with people who don't know me at all.
But as I swap another round of emails with Guy #1 and Guy#2, it starts to go downhill…
Guy#1 says: Oh, do you go to community events? Might we have crossed paths at the Wet Spot?
Guy #2 says: Hey, I know Rose Algren and...(names several other people, all of whom I know). Do you know them?
Damn. So much for anonymity. I always say: it's a small town if you're kinky.
I've dodged their questions for now – but what do you think, people? My choices are: I could lie about my identity and pretend I don't go anywhere or know anyone. Or I could just stop talking to them. Or I could 'fess up and hope for the best. Survey says: what?
I've never been a lust-at-first-sight kinda girl - you have to sink into me a little before I'll get hot for you. Thus, when I think about new partners, I tend to think about people I already know.
But it occurred to me, today, that I might at least consider the beautiful-stranger option. I mean, one doesn't want to get into a rut about these things. So, just for laughs, I went over to Bondage.com and flipped through the personals.
My first response was, "Thank God I already have a primary partner." Whoo - very scary. Paging the Fab Five, please – emergency! But even aside from cosmetic and grooming issues, most the people I looked at were just so not right for me.
As I was looking, though, I got several messages. The site has a feature where you can see who's logged in, and I was showing up on people's radar screens. I wasn't logged in as "Mistress Matisse", you understand. But just being a female on such sites is enough.
Some of them were about as bad as you'd expect – you know, all caps, terrible spelling, and with a definite one-handed-typing tone to them. But two of them were actually nicely written and polite, and so I replied.
And they replied, and I replied, and they seemed like cool guys. Wow, I thought, it's kinda nice to flirt with people who don't know me. You see, when you're a bit of a local celebrity, unencumbered flirtations are hard to come by. In my community, even if I don't know someone, chances are they've heard of me. That's flattering in some ways, but other times it bugs me, because it means that when I meet someone, they already have certain kinds of expectations about who I'll be and what I'll be like. Expectations, I might add, that are rarely accurate.
I'm not trying to sound like, Oh, poor me, it's so terrible - but it really skews the getting-to-know-you dynamic. This is why I tend to go with people who either a) have known me since long before I ever was "Mistress Matisse", or, b) have known me long enough for the ooo-that's-Mistress-Matisse factor to have completely worn off. Or, as in this case, I attempt to go with people who don't know me at all.
But as I swap another round of emails with Guy #1 and Guy#2, it starts to go downhill…
Guy#1 says: Oh, do you go to community events? Might we have crossed paths at the Wet Spot?
Guy #2 says: Hey, I know Rose Algren and...(names several other people, all of whom I know). Do you know them?
Damn. So much for anonymity. I always say: it's a small town if you're kinky.
I've dodged their questions for now – but what do you think, people? My choices are: I could lie about my identity and pretend I don't go anywhere or know anyone. Or I could just stop talking to them. Or I could 'fess up and hope for the best. Survey says: what?
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
So I did go see the Harry Potter movie this past weekend. It was good – not as good as the book, of course. Movies never are. But fun just the same.
And can I just say how turned on I am by Alan Rickman in the persona of Severus Snape? A cliché, I know, but there it is… Alan Rickman also played a sexy evil guy in the BDSM cult-classic Closetland – he's really got a knack for it. (Disclaimer: Closetland is not supposed to be an erotic film. But it is - oh my, it definitely is.)
Harry Potter is one of those cultural phenomenons that I resisted for years. Sometimes when something seems to be liked by nearly everyone, I figure it has to be schlock. I'm snobbish that way.
But when the third book came out and everyone I knew was talking about it, I succumbed to peer pressure and read the first one. And then I went and bought the other two books, and then the next, and the next. And I'm glad I did, because they're delightful.
A lot of writers like to slag JK Rowling, because they feel her writing isn't as pure as, say, Joseph Heller, or John Updike. To that I say: bullshit. The job of a popular fiction author is to entertain, and Ms. Rowling does her work admirably. You won't catch me carping about the degraded tastes of the public, to embrace an author who uses – oh, the horror! - too many adverbs!
Stories are like sex – if it feels good, it's working. I don't care if your method of literary cunnilingus has been given the Papa Hemingway Seal Of Approval – if it doesn't tickle me the right way, I'm not taking your book to bed with me.
So if anyone has links for some good "slash" porn fiction with Severus Snape, do let me know…I have a number of degraded tastes.
And can I just say how turned on I am by Alan Rickman in the persona of Severus Snape? A cliché, I know, but there it is… Alan Rickman also played a sexy evil guy in the BDSM cult-classic Closetland – he's really got a knack for it. (Disclaimer: Closetland is not supposed to be an erotic film. But it is - oh my, it definitely is.)
Harry Potter is one of those cultural phenomenons that I resisted for years. Sometimes when something seems to be liked by nearly everyone, I figure it has to be schlock. I'm snobbish that way.
But when the third book came out and everyone I knew was talking about it, I succumbed to peer pressure and read the first one. And then I went and bought the other two books, and then the next, and the next. And I'm glad I did, because they're delightful.
A lot of writers like to slag JK Rowling, because they feel her writing isn't as pure as, say, Joseph Heller, or John Updike. To that I say: bullshit. The job of a popular fiction author is to entertain, and Ms. Rowling does her work admirably. You won't catch me carping about the degraded tastes of the public, to embrace an author who uses – oh, the horror! - too many adverbs!
Stories are like sex – if it feels good, it's working. I don't care if your method of literary cunnilingus has been given the Papa Hemingway Seal Of Approval – if it doesn't tickle me the right way, I'm not taking your book to bed with me.
So if anyone has links for some good "slash" porn fiction with Severus Snape, do let me know…I have a number of degraded tastes.
Monday, June 14, 2004
Phone Call with Miss K
"I don't know what I should do about this – and maybe I shouldn't do anything. But I just wanted to get your opinion about a call I just got from one of my clients."
"Okay," I said. "Fire away."
"Well," she said. "I posted on one of the escort-review boards. And this guy called me and was like, 'oh, I'm so glad I found your post, I saw you a long time ago and I'd lost your number'."
"Did you remember who he was?" I asked.
"Sort of vaguely. But that wasn't the weird part. Then he said, 'Yeah, I remembered where your apartment building was, but I couldn't remember which apartment you were in. So I was thinking about just coming over there and knocking on all the doors until I found you.' "
I sucked in my breath. "Are you kidding me? He said that?"
"Oh yeah."
"Oh my God."
What Miss K and I didn't have to say to each other was that this is a really, really bad idea. The fastest way to go from "he's a nice guy" to "he's a deranged stalker" in a working girl's mind is to show up at her place when you don't have an appointment. We're rather jumpy about that, and not without reason.
(Note: This doesn't include "sensual bodywork" establishments that usually employ several people and are set up to accommodate drop-in business. I'm talking about women who work independently.)
It's not just the "stalker" thing, either. Miss K does what's called incall service. That means you come to her - she has an apartment that's exclusively for her client rendezvous. Now, the prime directive of any working girl is: be discreet. Fly under the radar. And unlike the outcall ladies, who visit the client in his space, having a dedicated workspace means you're a fixed target. Thus, one strives to minimize anything that might make one's neighbors say, "Huh, that's funny. I wonder what she's doing in there…" That way lies disaster. Or at least a whole lot of hassle involving a moving van.
So the mere idea of this guy knocking on every door of an apartment building asking for her…Jeeee-sus. One would hope he'd have the brains not to say, "I'm looking for this call-girl I saw once…" But who the hell knows what he'd do?
"Wait," she said. "It gets better."
"Oh no. What?"
"Well, I told him that it was a good thing he hadn't done that because it would not have been cool. He didn't seem to get why not, so I said, 'What if I'd been with somebody else when you knocked on the door and interrupted us?'"
"That should have made sense to him."
"It didn't. He said, 'Hey, I would have just joined right in'."
I held the phone at arms length and let out a shriek of outrage. Then I put the phone back up to my ear. "No, he didn't say that. Tell me he didn't seriously say that."
"Yep."
"That is unbe-fucking-lievable."
"It's pretty amazing."
"'…I would have just joined right in'. That has got to be the most mind-blowingly dumbass thing I've heard in days."
"So, the question is; what should I do about it?"
I thought about it. "Do you feel like you've contained this one guy?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"But you're wondering if some other maroon might do the same thing?"
"Let's just say that, thanks to him, it's become a concern of mine."
"I think you could go back to the message board where you post and say something like, 'Dear gentlemen, I'm glad you like me, but please don't come wandering around in my building knocking on random doors and talking to my neighbors about me, and please don't just show up at my door and expect me to let you in.' I mean, say it nicely, but say it. Most of the guys are pretty smart and they'll be right there with that. And hopefully you can give a little tap with the clue stick to the rest of them."
"That sounds like a good idea. I'll probably wait a few days, and then I'll do something like that. Thanks a bunch."
"Anytime."
We hang up.
"'…I would have just joined right in'". I mutter to myself. "Fucking crazy man."
"I don't know what I should do about this – and maybe I shouldn't do anything. But I just wanted to get your opinion about a call I just got from one of my clients."
"Okay," I said. "Fire away."
"Well," she said. "I posted on one of the escort-review boards. And this guy called me and was like, 'oh, I'm so glad I found your post, I saw you a long time ago and I'd lost your number'."
"Did you remember who he was?" I asked.
"Sort of vaguely. But that wasn't the weird part. Then he said, 'Yeah, I remembered where your apartment building was, but I couldn't remember which apartment you were in. So I was thinking about just coming over there and knocking on all the doors until I found you.' "
I sucked in my breath. "Are you kidding me? He said that?"
"Oh yeah."
"Oh my God."
What Miss K and I didn't have to say to each other was that this is a really, really bad idea. The fastest way to go from "he's a nice guy" to "he's a deranged stalker" in a working girl's mind is to show up at her place when you don't have an appointment. We're rather jumpy about that, and not without reason.
(Note: This doesn't include "sensual bodywork" establishments that usually employ several people and are set up to accommodate drop-in business. I'm talking about women who work independently.)
It's not just the "stalker" thing, either. Miss K does what's called incall service. That means you come to her - she has an apartment that's exclusively for her client rendezvous. Now, the prime directive of any working girl is: be discreet. Fly under the radar. And unlike the outcall ladies, who visit the client in his space, having a dedicated workspace means you're a fixed target. Thus, one strives to minimize anything that might make one's neighbors say, "Huh, that's funny. I wonder what she's doing in there…" That way lies disaster. Or at least a whole lot of hassle involving a moving van.
So the mere idea of this guy knocking on every door of an apartment building asking for her…Jeeee-sus. One would hope he'd have the brains not to say, "I'm looking for this call-girl I saw once…" But who the hell knows what he'd do?
"Wait," she said. "It gets better."
"Oh no. What?"
"Well, I told him that it was a good thing he hadn't done that because it would not have been cool. He didn't seem to get why not, so I said, 'What if I'd been with somebody else when you knocked on the door and interrupted us?'"
"That should have made sense to him."
"It didn't. He said, 'Hey, I would have just joined right in'."
I held the phone at arms length and let out a shriek of outrage. Then I put the phone back up to my ear. "No, he didn't say that. Tell me he didn't seriously say that."
"Yep."
"That is unbe-fucking-lievable."
"It's pretty amazing."
"'…I would have just joined right in'. That has got to be the most mind-blowingly dumbass thing I've heard in days."
"So, the question is; what should I do about it?"
I thought about it. "Do you feel like you've contained this one guy?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"But you're wondering if some other maroon might do the same thing?"
"Let's just say that, thanks to him, it's become a concern of mine."
"I think you could go back to the message board where you post and say something like, 'Dear gentlemen, I'm glad you like me, but please don't come wandering around in my building knocking on random doors and talking to my neighbors about me, and please don't just show up at my door and expect me to let you in.' I mean, say it nicely, but say it. Most of the guys are pretty smart and they'll be right there with that. And hopefully you can give a little tap with the clue stick to the rest of them."
"That sounds like a good idea. I'll probably wait a few days, and then I'll do something like that. Thanks a bunch."
"Anytime."
We hang up.
"'…I would have just joined right in'". I mutter to myself. "Fucking crazy man."
Saturday, June 12, 2004
Various things...
I've added a "search" box to the blog, so now you can search archived entries for keywords. (Over to the right, under the list of archives.)
By the way, the "Cunning Linguists Journals" link and the black box that says "Clix" on it are toplist link-trades. That means, if you click on them, it moves my banner on that site closer to the top of the list. So if you come by here often, do me a favor and just click on one of those links occasionally. It'll make me look good in the world of sexy bloggers.
I'm probably not going to post tomorrow - I've got other writing I really need to be doing, and I generally draft my Stranger column on Sunday as well...But I thought I'd give you a few sneak previews of things I'll most likely write about here in the coming week.
* Why good manners are truly essential to the successful sex worker
* Ways in which I like to be hit on, and ways in which I don't.
* A conversation with Miss K in which she reveals an incredibly stupid thing a client said to her
* A telephone call from a man who claimed to be part of a secret SM club
And more!
And now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go look at times and locations for the new Harry Potter movie...
I've added a "search" box to the blog, so now you can search archived entries for keywords. (Over to the right, under the list of archives.)
By the way, the "Cunning Linguists Journals" link and the black box that says "Clix" on it are toplist link-trades. That means, if you click on them, it moves my banner on that site closer to the top of the list. So if you come by here often, do me a favor and just click on one of those links occasionally. It'll make me look good in the world of sexy bloggers.
I'm probably not going to post tomorrow - I've got other writing I really need to be doing, and I generally draft my Stranger column on Sunday as well...But I thought I'd give you a few sneak previews of things I'll most likely write about here in the coming week.
* Why good manners are truly essential to the successful sex worker
* Ways in which I like to be hit on, and ways in which I don't.
* A conversation with Miss K in which she reveals an incredibly stupid thing a client said to her
* A telephone call from a man who claimed to be part of a secret SM club
And more!
And now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go look at times and locations for the new Harry Potter movie...
Friday, June 11, 2004
Had another session with Milo last night…We always have a very intense time together. Playing with him is deeply satisfying to me, and I think one reason for that is that, even though I really unleash my sadistic side with him, he doesn't fear me.
That may sound odd to those of you who think that a Mistress would want her submissives to be afraid of her - but I don't get off on fear. A little nervousness – yeah, that's fine. It's natural, especially for new people. But I want people to receive what I give them with trust, and a certain kind of pleasure – even if it doesn't seem like pleasure to the uninitiated. Oh, I'll do role-plays where someone pretends to resist, saying, "No, no, stop!" - that can be lots of fun. But they'll have to have set that up with me in advance, and I'll have to be able to somehow feel that they truly want to be there.
Milo is quite clear about wanting what I give him. I love that about him. Last night I whipped his butt, hard – it's so nice of the Universe to be sending me all these boys lately who can really take hard impact play. Both Vermont and Milo take it so sweetly for me, and I so enjoy doing it.
I had Milo bent over at the waist with his arms tied tightly behind his back, which is a tough position in itself. I started with the soft leather floggers, but my sadism rather quickly got the better of me and I switched to the nasty rubber flogger. The tails on that thing are about an eighth of an inch thick – and I don't mean wide, I mean thick. When they made contact with Milo's ass – pow! - I could feel the vibration run up my arm and straight down my body to my pussy. Very hot.
But electricity is my favorite of favorites with Milo. His tolerance is increasing – I'm now having to use the nastier channels on the electrical box, whereas I used to use the nicer ones. (It's the wave pattern – certain ones are "sharper" and more intense than others.)
As usual, I staked him down the bondage table and lay on top of him. There really are not adequate words to express what deep and ferocious pleasure I took in feeling Milo's body shaking underneath me as I turned the dial up higher and higher and the electricity flowed into him with increasing strength. It was like having my own personal earthquake. It was like commanding a force of nature with a roll of my index finger and thumb. I was a storm goddess, throwing down bolts of lighting at him, and his shouts were answering cracks of thunder. It was completely intoxicating.
Love my life…
That may sound odd to those of you who think that a Mistress would want her submissives to be afraid of her - but I don't get off on fear. A little nervousness – yeah, that's fine. It's natural, especially for new people. But I want people to receive what I give them with trust, and a certain kind of pleasure – even if it doesn't seem like pleasure to the uninitiated. Oh, I'll do role-plays where someone pretends to resist, saying, "No, no, stop!" - that can be lots of fun. But they'll have to have set that up with me in advance, and I'll have to be able to somehow feel that they truly want to be there.
Milo is quite clear about wanting what I give him. I love that about him. Last night I whipped his butt, hard – it's so nice of the Universe to be sending me all these boys lately who can really take hard impact play. Both Vermont and Milo take it so sweetly for me, and I so enjoy doing it.
I had Milo bent over at the waist with his arms tied tightly behind his back, which is a tough position in itself. I started with the soft leather floggers, but my sadism rather quickly got the better of me and I switched to the nasty rubber flogger. The tails on that thing are about an eighth of an inch thick – and I don't mean wide, I mean thick. When they made contact with Milo's ass – pow! - I could feel the vibration run up my arm and straight down my body to my pussy. Very hot.
But electricity is my favorite of favorites with Milo. His tolerance is increasing – I'm now having to use the nastier channels on the electrical box, whereas I used to use the nicer ones. (It's the wave pattern – certain ones are "sharper" and more intense than others.)
As usual, I staked him down the bondage table and lay on top of him. There really are not adequate words to express what deep and ferocious pleasure I took in feeling Milo's body shaking underneath me as I turned the dial up higher and higher and the electricity flowed into him with increasing strength. It was like having my own personal earthquake. It was like commanding a force of nature with a roll of my index finger and thumb. I was a storm goddess, throwing down bolts of lighting at him, and his shouts were answering cracks of thunder. It was completely intoxicating.
Love my life…
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Hormones? Acting Classes? I don't know what, but something…
Ring ring!
Me: hello?
Caller: Uh, hi, is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: yes.
Caller: (very breathy voice) Hi, my name is Sherri Lynn. I saw your website and I was calling to see if you'd do a session with me.
Now, it states on my site that I don't see single women. But even aside from that, there is something about this caller that makes me deeply suspicious. The voice is very fake-sounding.
Me: Well, Sherri Lynn, I actually don't see single women, I'm sorry.
Caller: Oh, I saw that – but I was hoping you'd reconsider. I'm very beautiful – I have long…
Now I know why the voice sounds wrong. It's a guy. No woman would say "I'm very beautiful". It's a guy pretending to be a woman.
Caller: …silky legs and really nice firm breasts and –
Me: Sherri Lynn –
Caller:...a firm, round ass, and I want you to make me eat your pussy and -
Me: Stop! Stop talking, please.
Caller: But –
Me: I do not see single women – thank you and goodbye.
Click.
I hang up.
Five minutes later…
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, Mistress Matisse, I called you a few minutes ago?
Me: Yes, you did. And I told you I didn't see single women.
The only reason I'm even talking to this twit is because there's a very small chance that he/she might be a transsexual. By that I mean: she used to be a guy, but she's gone through gender reassignment therapy. That would explain the masculine voice – hormones alone won't change that, it requires a special surgery to physically shorten the vocal cords.
That doesn't mean I'd see her for a session, of course. If she is a woman now, then she falls under the I-don't-see-single-women rule, despite her tacky attempt to change my mind. But still, I'd be civil enough to try to refer her to someone else.
However, I really think this is just some schmuck trying to get free phone sex. He thinks if I believe I'm talking to a woman that I'll be willing to engage in sexy dialogue about cunnilingus. But his simulation of a woman's voice seems to be based largely on Marilyn Monroe when she sang "Happy Birthday, Mr. President". Offhand, I can't think of any women I know who actually sound like that in real life. (I don't think Marilyn even sounded like that when she wasn't singing to her illicit lover.)
Caller: So, if I could find a guy to come with me, then you'd see me?
Me: You know, I really don't think I would – I have a feeling that you and I just wouldn't be compatible. Let me ask you a question – are you a transsexual? I mean, have you had your penis surgically removed?
Caller: (in a horrified voice that's an octave deeper than the previous tone) No!
Me: Don't call me again.
Click.
I hang up.
Score another point for emasculation anxiety.
Ring ring!
Me: hello?
Caller: Uh, hi, is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: yes.
Caller: (very breathy voice) Hi, my name is Sherri Lynn. I saw your website and I was calling to see if you'd do a session with me.
Now, it states on my site that I don't see single women. But even aside from that, there is something about this caller that makes me deeply suspicious. The voice is very fake-sounding.
Me: Well, Sherri Lynn, I actually don't see single women, I'm sorry.
Caller: Oh, I saw that – but I was hoping you'd reconsider. I'm very beautiful – I have long…
Now I know why the voice sounds wrong. It's a guy. No woman would say "I'm very beautiful". It's a guy pretending to be a woman.
Caller: …silky legs and really nice firm breasts and –
Me: Sherri Lynn –
Caller:...a firm, round ass, and I want you to make me eat your pussy and -
Me: Stop! Stop talking, please.
Caller: But –
Me: I do not see single women – thank you and goodbye.
Click.
I hang up.
Five minutes later…
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, Mistress Matisse, I called you a few minutes ago?
Me: Yes, you did. And I told you I didn't see single women.
The only reason I'm even talking to this twit is because there's a very small chance that he/she might be a transsexual. By that I mean: she used to be a guy, but she's gone through gender reassignment therapy. That would explain the masculine voice – hormones alone won't change that, it requires a special surgery to physically shorten the vocal cords.
That doesn't mean I'd see her for a session, of course. If she is a woman now, then she falls under the I-don't-see-single-women rule, despite her tacky attempt to change my mind. But still, I'd be civil enough to try to refer her to someone else.
However, I really think this is just some schmuck trying to get free phone sex. He thinks if I believe I'm talking to a woman that I'll be willing to engage in sexy dialogue about cunnilingus. But his simulation of a woman's voice seems to be based largely on Marilyn Monroe when she sang "Happy Birthday, Mr. President". Offhand, I can't think of any women I know who actually sound like that in real life. (I don't think Marilyn even sounded like that when she wasn't singing to her illicit lover.)
Caller: So, if I could find a guy to come with me, then you'd see me?
Me: You know, I really don't think I would – I have a feeling that you and I just wouldn't be compatible. Let me ask you a question – are you a transsexual? I mean, have you had your penis surgically removed?
Caller: (in a horrified voice that's an octave deeper than the previous tone) No!
Me: Don't call me again.
Click.
I hang up.
Score another point for emasculation anxiety.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
News Roundup…
Yes, I got a car, a hot red Saab 9-5. Very fast and just really nice – I'm liking it a lot already. But I feel a trifle guilty when I look at my old car. I've had that car for twelve years – it's a long-term relationship, and we've been though a lot together. It looks at me as if to say, Sure, use me, and then just throw me aside when I get old and start leaking oil. Get yourself a shiny new toy. I thought you cared about me!
I have a bad habit of anthropomorphizing… Since I'm going to donate it to charity, I have told my old car that some very nice people are going to come and take it to a nice new home where people will be very grateful to have it. Cross your fingers it doesn't do a "Christine" number on me before that happens.
And speaking of relationship changes…This will be mentioned in next weeks Stranger column, but ya'll get the sneak preview. Mike, the Worlds Most Perfect Secondary Partner, has come to me to say, in the nicest and most polite way possible, that he is falling for someone – as in, someone else. And he wishes to, at the very least, put our physical relationship on hiatus for awhile. It may be completely over - it's hard to say. I haven't yet gotten a clear picture of where things stand with the woman he's falling for. But we're going out to lunch Thursday to talk about it, so I'll know more then.
Am I sad? A little. He's a great guy and he's been lots of fun. But we'll stay friends, and my heart definitely isn't broken. It's not even a little chipped. Mike and I didn't get deep. (At least, not emotionally, heh heh.)
I'll miss lots of things about Mike – his silly humor, his wacko imagination, his house that looks like a set from The Nightmare Before Christmas, his amusing stories about his wild college days. But I must admit, some of my sadness is selfish. I mean, damn, where am I going to find another secondary partner who is as low-impact as Mike? The man was fabulous – he's smart, he's sexy, he's fun, and he never once created one iota of drama in my life. That's a completely unique experience for me with poly relationships. I loved it.
So, I'm not planning on starting anything else right away. But…there are two guys around town that I currently think are rather attractive. Actually, there a number that I think are attractive. But there are two particular guys that I feel just might, possibly, make appropriate secondaries for me.
One of them is married-but-poly. I don't know him, or his wife, ultra-well, so I'm not quite sure how I would proceed there. But he's as cute as all get-out, and frankly, his wife's kinda sexy, too. Based on past (bad) experiences, I avoid ongoing triad relationships like The Plague, and I'm not looking for a female partner right now. But I do enjoy her esthetically.
The other, who was also married-but-poly, is in the middle of getting a divorce. I can't decided if he's in the perfect place to appreciate some no-pressure fun and games, or if I should just leave him the hell alone and let him deal with his life. When I was getting divorced, I was definitely in the leave-me-the-hell-alone category. But he may be in a different place, who knows.
I'm going to be stepping carefully here. I have plenty of examples, quite close to home, of how I don't want my poly relationships to look, and what kind of energy and attitudes I don't want in my life. There are tons of people around who, though they look good and say the right things, actually have all the emotional maturity of, say, Aviril Lavigne. No, thank you.
So we'll just see what the universe drops in my lap…Meanwhile, I'm just driving along the road, playing the classic Queen song, "I'm In Love With My Car".
Yes, I got a car, a hot red Saab 9-5. Very fast and just really nice – I'm liking it a lot already. But I feel a trifle guilty when I look at my old car. I've had that car for twelve years – it's a long-term relationship, and we've been though a lot together. It looks at me as if to say, Sure, use me, and then just throw me aside when I get old and start leaking oil. Get yourself a shiny new toy. I thought you cared about me!
I have a bad habit of anthropomorphizing… Since I'm going to donate it to charity, I have told my old car that some very nice people are going to come and take it to a nice new home where people will be very grateful to have it. Cross your fingers it doesn't do a "Christine" number on me before that happens.
And speaking of relationship changes…This will be mentioned in next weeks Stranger column, but ya'll get the sneak preview. Mike, the Worlds Most Perfect Secondary Partner, has come to me to say, in the nicest and most polite way possible, that he is falling for someone – as in, someone else. And he wishes to, at the very least, put our physical relationship on hiatus for awhile. It may be completely over - it's hard to say. I haven't yet gotten a clear picture of where things stand with the woman he's falling for. But we're going out to lunch Thursday to talk about it, so I'll know more then.
Am I sad? A little. He's a great guy and he's been lots of fun. But we'll stay friends, and my heart definitely isn't broken. It's not even a little chipped. Mike and I didn't get deep. (At least, not emotionally, heh heh.)
I'll miss lots of things about Mike – his silly humor, his wacko imagination, his house that looks like a set from The Nightmare Before Christmas, his amusing stories about his wild college days. But I must admit, some of my sadness is selfish. I mean, damn, where am I going to find another secondary partner who is as low-impact as Mike? The man was fabulous – he's smart, he's sexy, he's fun, and he never once created one iota of drama in my life. That's a completely unique experience for me with poly relationships. I loved it.
So, I'm not planning on starting anything else right away. But…there are two guys around town that I currently think are rather attractive. Actually, there a number that I think are attractive. But there are two particular guys that I feel just might, possibly, make appropriate secondaries for me.
One of them is married-but-poly. I don't know him, or his wife, ultra-well, so I'm not quite sure how I would proceed there. But he's as cute as all get-out, and frankly, his wife's kinda sexy, too. Based on past (bad) experiences, I avoid ongoing triad relationships like The Plague, and I'm not looking for a female partner right now. But I do enjoy her esthetically.
The other, who was also married-but-poly, is in the middle of getting a divorce. I can't decided if he's in the perfect place to appreciate some no-pressure fun and games, or if I should just leave him the hell alone and let him deal with his life. When I was getting divorced, I was definitely in the leave-me-the-hell-alone category. But he may be in a different place, who knows.
I'm going to be stepping carefully here. I have plenty of examples, quite close to home, of how I don't want my poly relationships to look, and what kind of energy and attitudes I don't want in my life. There are tons of people around who, though they look good and say the right things, actually have all the emotional maturity of, say, Aviril Lavigne. No, thank you.
So we'll just see what the universe drops in my lap…Meanwhile, I'm just driving along the road, playing the classic Queen song, "I'm In Love With My Car".
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Dear Mistress Matisse,
In your blog, you only talk about how nice your clients are and what a good time you have with them. Isn't this a bit unrealistic? I'm a dancer, and I get a lot of asshole customers at my job. Surely you have clients you dislike, or who do things that annoy you?
Not for more than one session, I don't. I've danced myself, so I do know what that's like, and I agree, there's a pretty high asshole ratio there. But it's a whole different situation for me. I can pick and choose who I'm going to see, and I'm good at sussing out who I'd like and enjoy playing with over the phone.
However, there is one type of client who, in the past, has annoyed me – and in one case, seriously pissed me off. It took me longer to learn how to spot them early on. That's because what they do is more subtle - they aren't dangerous or blatantly disrespectful, they don't disobey the rules, or try to get me to do things I don't wish to do. But I hate dealing with them - so I won't. They are the guys I call Mr. Defensive. I've learned not to waste my time with clients like this. It's not that I've met that many of them - just a few, really. But having even one in the regular roster is too many.
Mr. Defensive's problem is that he's deeply conflicted about what he's doing. Getting off on being submissive doesn't fit his image of himself, and he's unable to let go of that and just say, "What the fuck – I don't know why, but it makes my dick hard, so I'm just going to do it and enjoy it. It's got nothing to do with who I am in the rest of my life. It's just for fun." Mr. Defensive hates himself for his desires. He brings all that self-hatred into the dungeon with him, projects his negative attitudes about what we're doing onto me, and then spends the entire session responding to them. He doesn't seem to be enjoying himself at all, he doesn't believe that I like what I do, and after the session is over I can feel him trying to psychologically distance himself from what he's just done as fast as he can. Usually he'll do that by making disparaging remarks about what freaky weirdoes my other clients must be. The subtext clearly being "I'm not one of those people". It's the kind of energy that makes me close the door behind someone and say to myself, "Thank you God that's over."
I'm always amazed when Mr. Defensives call me back for another session, because it's so clear to me that it's just not working. But they usually do. The urge is all the stronger for them trying to forbid it to themselves.
Ultimate Mr. Defensive moment: there was a client I'd been seeing for a year or so. He was so extremely defensive that it was impossible to have any kind of connection with him. (It was only barely possible to have a conversation with him.) But he kept calling, and I kept doggedly trying to create a scene with him that I, at least, could feel good about. I'm rather stubborn that way – too much so, really.
So I'd been working extra hard, trying to find the button to push in this guy that would let him have the experience he seemed to saying he wanted. I tried every toy, every type of sensation, every role play I could think of – and that's a lot. It never worked, and every time he left I swore I wouldn't book with him again. But a few weeks would go by, and he'd call, and I'd mentally vacillate for a minute and give in. He's not a bad guy – maybe he just needs more time to trust me before he can really let go. I'll give him another chance. Soft-hearted? Maybe – but I also just hate to lose, and admitting I couldn't really get this man to embrace the experience I felt he wanted felt like losing.
I was about three-fourths of the way through a session with the Mr. Defensive in question. I had him tied down to my bondage table on his back, and I was preparing to do some electrical play with him. He looked up at me and said, "Can I ask you a question?" This was a common ploy of this guy – he would try to try to regain some sense of control by asking me questions like, "Why do you think you like doing this?" It was his way of sabotaging the mood and the flow of the scene, and an attempt to put me on the defensive by making me explain myself. Usually I would say, "Let's talk about it later," and just go on with what I was doing.
But that day he said, "So, why do you think you hate men so much?"
I stood there and stared at him for a moment, and then I turned around and walked out of the room. I was so angry that for a moment, I could hardly see. Why do you hate men so much? This, when I've been knocking myself out trying to make something happen for this asshole, this is what he gives back to me? I pour my positive energy into these sessions with him, try to give him an experience that's good for him even though he's resisting it all the way, and he has the nerve to tell me I hate men? How dare he? How dare he! Fuck, I should show him what a scene with someone who hates men would look like. It was the only time in my career when I was really tempted, just for a second, to hurt someone in a non-consensual way.
I sat on the couch in my reception room and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Don't let him get to you, I told myself. Don't let him dump his shit on you. Get your boundaries up, girl. What he says, what he thinks – it's got nothing to do with you, and you know it. It's all about the bullshit in his head. Breathe, and let it go.
Through the curtains into the playroom, I could hear him breathing and stirring restlessly on the table. "Mistress?" he called out.
"Don't talk."
Now, the question was: untie him and kick him out immediately – or finish the session? My first impulse was to throw him out, pronto. Then I thought, But then he wins. He's trying to get control by making me lose my cool. He's trying to make himself feel powerful by emotionally manipulating me. I'm not going to let him make me react like that.
A few more deep breaths, and I walked back into the dungeon. "The Mistress has decided she doesn't like you talking," I announced. "So we'll just fix that right now." I took a large gag and put it into his mouth, and then I went on with the rest of the session I'd planned. I got him out the door without any conversation afterwards. And the next time he called, I refused to book with him.
In your blog, you only talk about how nice your clients are and what a good time you have with them. Isn't this a bit unrealistic? I'm a dancer, and I get a lot of asshole customers at my job. Surely you have clients you dislike, or who do things that annoy you?
Not for more than one session, I don't. I've danced myself, so I do know what that's like, and I agree, there's a pretty high asshole ratio there. But it's a whole different situation for me. I can pick and choose who I'm going to see, and I'm good at sussing out who I'd like and enjoy playing with over the phone.
However, there is one type of client who, in the past, has annoyed me – and in one case, seriously pissed me off. It took me longer to learn how to spot them early on. That's because what they do is more subtle - they aren't dangerous or blatantly disrespectful, they don't disobey the rules, or try to get me to do things I don't wish to do. But I hate dealing with them - so I won't. They are the guys I call Mr. Defensive. I've learned not to waste my time with clients like this. It's not that I've met that many of them - just a few, really. But having even one in the regular roster is too many.
Mr. Defensive's problem is that he's deeply conflicted about what he's doing. Getting off on being submissive doesn't fit his image of himself, and he's unable to let go of that and just say, "What the fuck – I don't know why, but it makes my dick hard, so I'm just going to do it and enjoy it. It's got nothing to do with who I am in the rest of my life. It's just for fun." Mr. Defensive hates himself for his desires. He brings all that self-hatred into the dungeon with him, projects his negative attitudes about what we're doing onto me, and then spends the entire session responding to them. He doesn't seem to be enjoying himself at all, he doesn't believe that I like what I do, and after the session is over I can feel him trying to psychologically distance himself from what he's just done as fast as he can. Usually he'll do that by making disparaging remarks about what freaky weirdoes my other clients must be. The subtext clearly being "I'm not one of those people". It's the kind of energy that makes me close the door behind someone and say to myself, "Thank you God that's over."
I'm always amazed when Mr. Defensives call me back for another session, because it's so clear to me that it's just not working. But they usually do. The urge is all the stronger for them trying to forbid it to themselves.
Ultimate Mr. Defensive moment: there was a client I'd been seeing for a year or so. He was so extremely defensive that it was impossible to have any kind of connection with him. (It was only barely possible to have a conversation with him.) But he kept calling, and I kept doggedly trying to create a scene with him that I, at least, could feel good about. I'm rather stubborn that way – too much so, really.
So I'd been working extra hard, trying to find the button to push in this guy that would let him have the experience he seemed to saying he wanted. I tried every toy, every type of sensation, every role play I could think of – and that's a lot. It never worked, and every time he left I swore I wouldn't book with him again. But a few weeks would go by, and he'd call, and I'd mentally vacillate for a minute and give in. He's not a bad guy – maybe he just needs more time to trust me before he can really let go. I'll give him another chance. Soft-hearted? Maybe – but I also just hate to lose, and admitting I couldn't really get this man to embrace the experience I felt he wanted felt like losing.
I was about three-fourths of the way through a session with the Mr. Defensive in question. I had him tied down to my bondage table on his back, and I was preparing to do some electrical play with him. He looked up at me and said, "Can I ask you a question?" This was a common ploy of this guy – he would try to try to regain some sense of control by asking me questions like, "Why do you think you like doing this?" It was his way of sabotaging the mood and the flow of the scene, and an attempt to put me on the defensive by making me explain myself. Usually I would say, "Let's talk about it later," and just go on with what I was doing.
But that day he said, "So, why do you think you hate men so much?"
I stood there and stared at him for a moment, and then I turned around and walked out of the room. I was so angry that for a moment, I could hardly see. Why do you hate men so much? This, when I've been knocking myself out trying to make something happen for this asshole, this is what he gives back to me? I pour my positive energy into these sessions with him, try to give him an experience that's good for him even though he's resisting it all the way, and he has the nerve to tell me I hate men? How dare he? How dare he! Fuck, I should show him what a scene with someone who hates men would look like. It was the only time in my career when I was really tempted, just for a second, to hurt someone in a non-consensual way.
I sat on the couch in my reception room and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Don't let him get to you, I told myself. Don't let him dump his shit on you. Get your boundaries up, girl. What he says, what he thinks – it's got nothing to do with you, and you know it. It's all about the bullshit in his head. Breathe, and let it go.
Through the curtains into the playroom, I could hear him breathing and stirring restlessly on the table. "Mistress?" he called out.
"Don't talk."
Now, the question was: untie him and kick him out immediately – or finish the session? My first impulse was to throw him out, pronto. Then I thought, But then he wins. He's trying to get control by making me lose my cool. He's trying to make himself feel powerful by emotionally manipulating me. I'm not going to let him make me react like that.
A few more deep breaths, and I walked back into the dungeon. "The Mistress has decided she doesn't like you talking," I announced. "So we'll just fix that right now." I took a large gag and put it into his mouth, and then I went on with the rest of the session I'd planned. I got him out the door without any conversation afterwards. And the next time he called, I refused to book with him.
Monday, June 07, 2004
Ultra-brief car update: After a day spent getting the 1st choice vehicle vetted by a mechanic, (and doing some brangling with the dealer about price) survey says: it looks good. I haven't actually signed the contract yet, but unless something unforseen happens, tomorrow I will be the new owner of a sweet Saab 9-5. Zoom.
I'm off to the gym...
I'm off to the gym...
I haven't forgotten you...a longer post will come later, but I'm totally taken up with car shopping, social occasions, and poly negotiations...
But before I go - a big Happy Happy Birthday to to my darling friend Jae, who turns twenty-five (or something reasonably close to that) today!
~dashing off...
But before I go - a big Happy Happy Birthday to to my darling friend Jae, who turns twenty-five (or something reasonably close to that) today!
~dashing off...
Saturday, June 05, 2004
Dinner with Miss K…
"So, I saw a guy the other day who said he'd seen you," she said.
This happens more often that you'd think. Guys who have had a good experience with one type of sex work are more likely to consider experimenting with other avenues. Thus, if someone I know well is curious about call girls, I'll tell him about friends of mine. (I do not make recommendations to guys I don't know, however, so don't call me up and ask.) And my friends are likely to nudge guys my way, if they seem right for me. Call it professional cross-pollination.
"Oh yeah? Who was that?" I asked.
"John," she says blandly.
I give her a look.
"What, you don't know immediately who I mean?" She's giving me a hard time. "You know, John, in his forties, five-ten, medium build, brown hair and brown eyes. That John." She looks at me all innocent-like.
"You think you're funny," I tell her. "But you're not." This description would fit at least one-third of all our clients – and of course, whenever someone calls who claims to know us, he'll invariably try to jog our memory by describing himself just like this. It drives us mad. If you've six foot five, or you have tattoos over 3/4s of your body, or you have eyes of two different colors, then sure, a physical description will help us remember who you are. Otherwise, save it for the DMV.
Both Miss K and I are much more apt to recall snippets of conversations, so it's better to say things like, "I'm from Florida, and we talked about how you grew up there, and how we used to go pick oranges off the trees, and now it feels strange to buy them in stores." That's the type of little detail that will probably help. What also doesn't help, by the way, is telling me something like, "We did some bondage and some spanking, and then you gave me a golden shower." Dear man, I do that several times a week. Unless I tell you, "Wow, I've never done that before!" assume it's SOP for me and thus will not be a useful mnemonic.
"Okay, okay…Yeah, John, in his forties – really! – kinda slim, he's from Oregon and comes up here on business, he's got straight black hair he combs to one side, kind of a nervous manner, and he never, ever makes eye contact with you. Ever."
"Oh, right! John!" I know exactly who she means. "Yeah, he is kind of the nervous type. I thought it might just be with me, though. So he's the same with you?"
"Yeah, and it drove me nuts. He was really quiet and still, and he wouldn't look me in the eye, and I couldn't tell if he was having a good time or not."
"Yeah, he is very…inward, with his energy. But I thought he was sort of sweet, I liked him."
She shrugs. "I'm not saying I wouldn't see him again. But if he comes back he's gonna have to loosen up some."
"Honey, he's Norwegian. I don't think he gets a lot more emotive than that. Remember Bill the Norwegian? He was the same way."
"Oh, right. Norwegians – oy." She shrugs, abandoning the idea of loosening up men from chilly climates.
"What's he like as a straight date?"
"Aside from the quiet thing and the no-eye-contact thing?" She considers. "Fine. Takes his weight on his elbows, and makes sure the condom is still on before he pulls out afterwards."
"What more can a girl ask for?"
"So, I saw a guy the other day who said he'd seen you," she said.
This happens more often that you'd think. Guys who have had a good experience with one type of sex work are more likely to consider experimenting with other avenues. Thus, if someone I know well is curious about call girls, I'll tell him about friends of mine. (I do not make recommendations to guys I don't know, however, so don't call me up and ask.) And my friends are likely to nudge guys my way, if they seem right for me. Call it professional cross-pollination.
"Oh yeah? Who was that?" I asked.
"John," she says blandly.
I give her a look.
"What, you don't know immediately who I mean?" She's giving me a hard time. "You know, John, in his forties, five-ten, medium build, brown hair and brown eyes. That John." She looks at me all innocent-like.
"You think you're funny," I tell her. "But you're not." This description would fit at least one-third of all our clients – and of course, whenever someone calls who claims to know us, he'll invariably try to jog our memory by describing himself just like this. It drives us mad. If you've six foot five, or you have tattoos over 3/4s of your body, or you have eyes of two different colors, then sure, a physical description will help us remember who you are. Otherwise, save it for the DMV.
Both Miss K and I are much more apt to recall snippets of conversations, so it's better to say things like, "I'm from Florida, and we talked about how you grew up there, and how we used to go pick oranges off the trees, and now it feels strange to buy them in stores." That's the type of little detail that will probably help. What also doesn't help, by the way, is telling me something like, "We did some bondage and some spanking, and then you gave me a golden shower." Dear man, I do that several times a week. Unless I tell you, "Wow, I've never done that before!" assume it's SOP for me and thus will not be a useful mnemonic.
"Okay, okay…Yeah, John, in his forties – really! – kinda slim, he's from Oregon and comes up here on business, he's got straight black hair he combs to one side, kind of a nervous manner, and he never, ever makes eye contact with you. Ever."
"Oh, right! John!" I know exactly who she means. "Yeah, he is kind of the nervous type. I thought it might just be with me, though. So he's the same with you?"
"Yeah, and it drove me nuts. He was really quiet and still, and he wouldn't look me in the eye, and I couldn't tell if he was having a good time or not."
"Yeah, he is very…inward, with his energy. But I thought he was sort of sweet, I liked him."
She shrugs. "I'm not saying I wouldn't see him again. But if he comes back he's gonna have to loosen up some."
"Honey, he's Norwegian. I don't think he gets a lot more emotive than that. Remember Bill the Norwegian? He was the same way."
"Oh, right. Norwegians – oy." She shrugs, abandoning the idea of loosening up men from chilly climates.
"What's he like as a straight date?"
"Aside from the quiet thing and the no-eye-contact thing?" She considers. "Fine. Takes his weight on his elbows, and makes sure the condom is still on before he pulls out afterwards."
"What more can a girl ask for?"
Friday, June 04, 2004
And This Would Be My Problem Why?
Ring ring!
Me: hello?
Caller: Is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes…
Caller: Uh, hi, I have a question I was wondering if you could help me with?
Me: Okay – what is it?
Caller: It's sort of a problem, really.
Me: O-kay, what is it?
Caller: I don't really know if you're going to be able to help me at all.
Me: Well, my psychic powers don't seem to be working today, so we'll never know unless you actually tell me what it is.
Caller: Oh, right, okay. So, uh – I've been seeing this Mistress, right? I saw her a couple of times, and it was okay – I mean, not great, but she told me she was right about to get a really cool dungeon, with a lot more equipment, except she was in kind of a money bind, right?
Oh, I'm hating this story already. I bet I could tell him the rest of this sad little tale, and probably more succinctly.
Caller: So she asked if I would pre-pay for the next couple of sessions, and I said okay, and I gave her the money. But when I called her again, her phone number had been disconnected.
Me: Mm-hmm. Have you tried emailing her?
Caller: Yes, but it bounced.
Me: Okay, so what is it that you want from me?
Caller: Well, I was wondering if you could tell her to call me. Her name is Mistress FlimFlam.
Me: What? Honey, how would I tell her anything? I don't know this person.
Caller: She said she knew you.
Me: Well, she lied. I've never heard of her.
Caller: But she said she knew you!
Me: (heavy sigh) Look, I have no idea who this person you're talking about is, but it's entirely possible that she has been in the same room with me at some fetish event. It's even barely possible that she's been introduced to me by a different name. It's a small town for kinky people. However, she's no friend of mine, and I certainly don't have any information about her whereabouts.
Caller: But she's got my money! I pre-paid for three sessions – five hundred dollars!
Five hundred for three sessions? Apparently one of your cut-rate dominatrixes. Why am I not surprised?
Me: Well, you have my sympathy, but I think you're just out of luck.
Caller: But- but- can't you do something? Like, ask around or something?
He's taking an unattractively whiny tone here, and I don't like it.
Me: Honey, I'm a pro dom, not a private detective. No.
Caller: I thought, you know, you'd want to take care of this, since you're, like, a big deal around here and stuff.
Me: Uh - no. No, I can't say I have the slightest urge to "take care of this".
Caller: Because it will make you other pro doms look bad, you know. I thought you'd have some kind of code of honor about it.
Oh great, whiny and manipulative - my favorite. And this notion that pro doms would somehow be self-policing sounds like his wank fantasy. I can see the porn DVD box now - "Teaching The Bad Mistress A Lesson" or "Pro-Dom Gang-Bangers Enforce Discipline".
Me: No, it's your problem - you shouldn't have given her the money. Consider it an expensive lesson learned, and next time go see an established Mistress instead of some fly-by-night wanna-be.
Caller: But it costs too much money!
Click.
I hang up.
Ring ring!
Me: hello?
Caller: Is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes…
Caller: Uh, hi, I have a question I was wondering if you could help me with?
Me: Okay – what is it?
Caller: It's sort of a problem, really.
Me: O-kay, what is it?
Caller: I don't really know if you're going to be able to help me at all.
Me: Well, my psychic powers don't seem to be working today, so we'll never know unless you actually tell me what it is.
Caller: Oh, right, okay. So, uh – I've been seeing this Mistress, right? I saw her a couple of times, and it was okay – I mean, not great, but she told me she was right about to get a really cool dungeon, with a lot more equipment, except she was in kind of a money bind, right?
Oh, I'm hating this story already. I bet I could tell him the rest of this sad little tale, and probably more succinctly.
Caller: So she asked if I would pre-pay for the next couple of sessions, and I said okay, and I gave her the money. But when I called her again, her phone number had been disconnected.
Me: Mm-hmm. Have you tried emailing her?
Caller: Yes, but it bounced.
Me: Okay, so what is it that you want from me?
Caller: Well, I was wondering if you could tell her to call me. Her name is Mistress FlimFlam.
Me: What? Honey, how would I tell her anything? I don't know this person.
Caller: She said she knew you.
Me: Well, she lied. I've never heard of her.
Caller: But she said she knew you!
Me: (heavy sigh) Look, I have no idea who this person you're talking about is, but it's entirely possible that she has been in the same room with me at some fetish event. It's even barely possible that she's been introduced to me by a different name. It's a small town for kinky people. However, she's no friend of mine, and I certainly don't have any information about her whereabouts.
Caller: But she's got my money! I pre-paid for three sessions – five hundred dollars!
Five hundred for three sessions? Apparently one of your cut-rate dominatrixes. Why am I not surprised?
Me: Well, you have my sympathy, but I think you're just out of luck.
Caller: But- but- can't you do something? Like, ask around or something?
He's taking an unattractively whiny tone here, and I don't like it.
Me: Honey, I'm a pro dom, not a private detective. No.
Caller: I thought, you know, you'd want to take care of this, since you're, like, a big deal around here and stuff.
Me: Uh - no. No, I can't say I have the slightest urge to "take care of this".
Caller: Because it will make you other pro doms look bad, you know. I thought you'd have some kind of code of honor about it.
Oh great, whiny and manipulative - my favorite. And this notion that pro doms would somehow be self-policing sounds like his wank fantasy. I can see the porn DVD box now - "Teaching The Bad Mistress A Lesson" or "Pro-Dom Gang-Bangers Enforce Discipline".
Me: No, it's your problem - you shouldn't have given her the money. Consider it an expensive lesson learned, and next time go see an established Mistress instead of some fly-by-night wanna-be.
Caller: But it costs too much money!
Click.
I hang up.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Things I Do When Max Is Away Overnight
1) Come home and leave my stuff in a trail all over the house – my shoes, clothes, various bags I was carrying, my opened mail, my unopened mail; everything just gets flung down wherever I happen to be.
2) Turn up the heat, because he's always hot, and I'm always cold. Yes, even in June.
3) Play music he doesn't especially like very loud.
4) Sing along with music he doesn't especially like very loud.
5) Do a few of my old favorite stripper moves in front of the mirror to see if I still remember how.
6) Talk to my cat.
7) Eat ice cream out of the container.
8) Pet my bunny.
9) Hog all the pillows and covers.
1) Come home and leave my stuff in a trail all over the house – my shoes, clothes, various bags I was carrying, my opened mail, my unopened mail; everything just gets flung down wherever I happen to be.
2) Turn up the heat, because he's always hot, and I'm always cold. Yes, even in June.
3) Play music he doesn't especially like very loud.
4) Sing along with music he doesn't especially like very loud.
5) Do a few of my old favorite stripper moves in front of the mirror to see if I still remember how.
6) Talk to my cat.
7) Eat ice cream out of the container.
8) Pet my bunny.
9) Hog all the pillows and covers.
So, anyone else see the freaky sky flash late last night? I was sitting in my office working on some writing stuff. There's a large window all along the wall to my left, and suddenly I saw the whole sky just light up. It was very weird. I thought we were being attacked or something, or that a large plane had crashed. Then I heard a few distant bangs - a bit like far-away fireworks on the 4th of July. I opened the window and sat there staring out for a while to see if it happened again or if I heard anything, but there was nothing else.
Apparently it was a small meteor...At least that's what CNN says. I'm sure conspiracy theorists in the area are already having a field day.
Apparently it was a small meteor...At least that's what CNN says. I'm sure conspiracy theorists in the area are already having a field day.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Brief car update:
The Camry-Solara - forget it, way too big.
The Passat - Way too soccer-momish! (Sorry, Lil!)
The Volvo - Ditto
The Acura - Cute. But they don't make the 200hp one in an automatic, and I won't drive a stick. The 160hp one was just a shade too wimpy. Goes into the "...but-no-cigar" category.
I didn't make it over to the Subaru place, but I intend to.
But I went and drove the Eclipe GTS. Oooh, it's fun. The instrument cluster is a bit plastic-y. But it really zooooms.
I looked at - but did not drive - some cute used Saab 9-3s and 9-5s. I may go back and drive one.
I am also going to go look at some more used cars: a Lexus SE 400 and a few others. Maybe even a BMW if I can find some in my comfortable price range...
And I must also say : I do really appreciate everyone being so sweet and helpful and supportive in the comments.(You like me, you really like me!) Thanks for being so chatty about such an un-sexy topic...
The Camry-Solara - forget it, way too big.
The Passat - Way too soccer-momish! (Sorry, Lil!)
The Volvo - Ditto
The Acura - Cute. But they don't make the 200hp one in an automatic, and I won't drive a stick. The 160hp one was just a shade too wimpy. Goes into the "...but-no-cigar" category.
I didn't make it over to the Subaru place, but I intend to.
But I went and drove the Eclipe GTS. Oooh, it's fun. The instrument cluster is a bit plastic-y. But it really zooooms.
I looked at - but did not drive - some cute used Saab 9-3s and 9-5s. I may go back and drive one.
I am also going to go look at some more used cars: a Lexus SE 400 and a few others. Maybe even a BMW if I can find some in my comfortable price range...
And I must also say : I do really appreciate everyone being so sweet and helpful and supportive in the comments.(You like me, you really like me!) Thanks for being so chatty about such an un-sexy topic...
More car venting, skip it if you're looking for the dirty bits…
The car search rolls on, and I tell you, I'm feeling mighty petulant about it. I'm taking it as a personal affront to me that the damn Honda people built the Accord in a manner unsuited to my taste. What were they thinking? Don't they know how much they're inconveniencing me? I hate car shopping.
So, having rejected the Accord, I'm back to square one. I have no idea what I'm going to wind up buying, and it unsettles me when I have major decisions hanging. Thank god, I have Vermont coming to see me on Thursday, and I can take out my frustrations very firmly on his sweet behind. He'll like that, and so will I.
What I want is a coupe with automatic transmission and a leather seats. And it's got to be kicky, because slo-o-o-ow cars are just not where I'm at. Today I'm going to look at: A Toyota Camry-Solara, A VW Passat, a Subaru Impreza, an Acura RSX, and a Volvo S40.
Some of these cars are 4-door, and my general position on that has been, if I'm driving a 4-door car, well, I might as well just go ahead and have three kids and move to the suburbs and start voting Republican. (Note: I'm being facetious, in case you couldn't tell. Why, some of my best friends drive…et cetera.) But 4-door cars are like surrendering to practicality over style, and while I do actually do that in some parts of my life, I don't want necessarily want to be confronted by that fact every time I walk into the garage.
However, I perceive that my options in this matter aren't wide in the price range I've set for myself, so…okay, I'm going to go look at some 4-doors. Sigh. Wish me luck…
The car search rolls on, and I tell you, I'm feeling mighty petulant about it. I'm taking it as a personal affront to me that the damn Honda people built the Accord in a manner unsuited to my taste. What were they thinking? Don't they know how much they're inconveniencing me? I hate car shopping.
So, having rejected the Accord, I'm back to square one. I have no idea what I'm going to wind up buying, and it unsettles me when I have major decisions hanging. Thank god, I have Vermont coming to see me on Thursday, and I can take out my frustrations very firmly on his sweet behind. He'll like that, and so will I.
What I want is a coupe with automatic transmission and a leather seats. And it's got to be kicky, because slo-o-o-ow cars are just not where I'm at. Today I'm going to look at: A Toyota Camry-Solara, A VW Passat, a Subaru Impreza, an Acura RSX, and a Volvo S40.
Some of these cars are 4-door, and my general position on that has been, if I'm driving a 4-door car, well, I might as well just go ahead and have three kids and move to the suburbs and start voting Republican. (Note: I'm being facetious, in case you couldn't tell. Why, some of my best friends drive…et cetera.) But 4-door cars are like surrendering to practicality over style, and while I do actually do that in some parts of my life, I don't want necessarily want to be confronted by that fact every time I walk into the garage.
However, I perceive that my options in this matter aren't wide in the price range I've set for myself, so…okay, I'm going to go look at some 4-doors. Sigh. Wish me luck…
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Monday, May 31, 2004
I got a second-hand compliment while I was having dinner with a friend last night.
"Remember my ex-boyfriend Bob? You met him at that barbeque we had?" she asked me.
"Yes, I remember him," I said.
"So, I wanted to tell you - he just thought you were the prettiest thing. He was really smitten with you."
I smiled. "That's very flattering. He was a nice guy."
"The funny thing is, though…Well, you know he's not kinky, right?"
"Right."
"So he just really did not want to believe that you were. I mean, I told him – but he was kinda like 'oh, she's probably not really heavy into it'."
I laughed. "Does he know I'm a pro?"
"Yes – I mean, we all tried to tell him, but he just thought you were so sweet and nice that you must just be into the light stuff."
I laughed harder. "Oh, yeah - that's me. Just into the light stuff. I should ask him if he'd like to play with me sometime."
I've gotten this "But you look so sweet!" reaction before. It doesn't bother me. It just means I can lull people into a false sense of security…heh heh heh.
But people's ability to deny what they don't want to be true is sort of amazing. Yes, Bob, I'm sweet and pleasant and I can comport myself properly at a family barbeque. I am, also, a serious and deeply-dyed pervert. This juxtaposition of facts may cause the Bobs of the world a little cognitive dissonance, but I think they should consider it a shot across the bow. There are many, many unsuitable mates floating around who are far less forthright about their little idiosyncrasies than I am.
"Remember my ex-boyfriend Bob? You met him at that barbeque we had?" she asked me.
"Yes, I remember him," I said.
"So, I wanted to tell you - he just thought you were the prettiest thing. He was really smitten with you."
I smiled. "That's very flattering. He was a nice guy."
"The funny thing is, though…Well, you know he's not kinky, right?"
"Right."
"So he just really did not want to believe that you were. I mean, I told him – but he was kinda like 'oh, she's probably not really heavy into it'."
I laughed. "Does he know I'm a pro?"
"Yes – I mean, we all tried to tell him, but he just thought you were so sweet and nice that you must just be into the light stuff."
I laughed harder. "Oh, yeah - that's me. Just into the light stuff. I should ask him if he'd like to play with me sometime."
I've gotten this "But you look so sweet!" reaction before. It doesn't bother me. It just means I can lull people into a false sense of security…heh heh heh.
But people's ability to deny what they don't want to be true is sort of amazing. Yes, Bob, I'm sweet and pleasant and I can comport myself properly at a family barbeque. I am, also, a serious and deeply-dyed pervert. This juxtaposition of facts may cause the Bobs of the world a little cognitive dissonance, but I think they should consider it a shot across the bow. There are many, many unsuitable mates floating around who are far less forthright about their little idiosyncrasies than I am.
Sunday, May 30, 2004
Some thought-provoking quotes on BDSM...
"These things don't come from our childhood; they come from our historic
past. They are the seductive and terrifying symbols of cruelties that were routine right up through the eighteenth century."
--Anne Rice
"After all, sexual fantasy and the things that thrill us are often dark and dirty, though we usually don't like to admit that out loud."
--Susan Wright
"Spanking is also a show. It's street theater or lyric opera depending on the circumstances. Some fear discovery; others revel in spectacle."
--Jean-Pierre Enard
"Leather is thicker than blood."
--Gayle Rubin
"To whip is also to caress."
--Valerie Steele
"There are really two kinds of submissives in the world: those who believe they don't deserve any better…and those who believe they don't deserve any less."
--Author Unknown
"It's your body; play with it."
--Fakir Musafar
"Bottoms are alchemists who magically transform pain into sex."
--Dossie Easton and Catherine A. Liszt
"Sadomasochism enjoys all the forms of religious piety--kneeling, praying, worshipping, sacrificing, invoking, and punishing."
--Terence Sellers
"The body is both a pleasure palace and a torture chamber."
--Charles Levin
"The best way of enlarging and multiplying one's desires is to try to limit them."
--The Marquis de Sade
"A fetish is a story masquerading as an object."
--Robert Stoller
"You can read a hundred books and cruise a thousand websites and chatrooms,
but it will not equal one hour of real-time BDSM experience."
--Sensuous Sadie
"Ultimately, the purpose of a flogging is to inflict pleasure."
--Mitch Kessler
"You are no one’s slave, dog, slut, or sub until you give them that right. Only you can give it. No one can take or assume it without your permission."
--Jack Rinella
"These things don't come from our childhood; they come from our historic
past. They are the seductive and terrifying symbols of cruelties that were routine right up through the eighteenth century."
--Anne Rice
"After all, sexual fantasy and the things that thrill us are often dark and dirty, though we usually don't like to admit that out loud."
--Susan Wright
"Spanking is also a show. It's street theater or lyric opera depending on the circumstances. Some fear discovery; others revel in spectacle."
--Jean-Pierre Enard
"Leather is thicker than blood."
--Gayle Rubin
"To whip is also to caress."
--Valerie Steele
"There are really two kinds of submissives in the world: those who believe they don't deserve any better…and those who believe they don't deserve any less."
--Author Unknown
"It's your body; play with it."
--Fakir Musafar
"Bottoms are alchemists who magically transform pain into sex."
--Dossie Easton and Catherine A. Liszt
"Sadomasochism enjoys all the forms of religious piety--kneeling, praying, worshipping, sacrificing, invoking, and punishing."
--Terence Sellers
"The body is both a pleasure palace and a torture chamber."
--Charles Levin
"The best way of enlarging and multiplying one's desires is to try to limit them."
--The Marquis de Sade
"A fetish is a story masquerading as an object."
--Robert Stoller
"You can read a hundred books and cruise a thousand websites and chatrooms,
but it will not equal one hour of real-time BDSM experience."
--Sensuous Sadie
"Ultimately, the purpose of a flogging is to inflict pleasure."
--Mitch Kessler
"You are no one’s slave, dog, slut, or sub until you give them that right. Only you can give it. No one can take or assume it without your permission."
--Jack Rinella
Saturday, May 29, 2004
Not So Much Annoying As Just Somewhat Puzzling
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes it is.
Caller: Great. I've been looking at your website. I'm going to be in Seattle in about a month on a business trip, and I want to make an appointment with you.
Me: Ah. So, were you wanting to do that now?
Caller: No, no - I don't really know my schedule. I don't really even know the exact dates.
Me: Okay – do you have any questions I can answer for you?
Caller: No, your website's very informative. I just wanted to tell you I'll be calling you.
Me: Okay, that sounds fine.
Caller: Great. Bye!
Click.
It's not that I mind, really…But one does wonder what, precisely, the purpose of this call was. He called me to tell me he'll be calling me? O-kay, I'll certainly be waiting for that – except, of course, that I don't know what his name is, or what days he'll be here, or what he's looking for in a session, or even if he's someone I would want to see. But aside from all that, I'll certainly be looking for his call.
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, is this Mistress Matisse?
Me: Yes it is.
Caller: Great. I've been looking at your website. I'm going to be in Seattle in about a month on a business trip, and I want to make an appointment with you.
Me: Ah. So, were you wanting to do that now?
Caller: No, no - I don't really know my schedule. I don't really even know the exact dates.
Me: Okay – do you have any questions I can answer for you?
Caller: No, your website's very informative. I just wanted to tell you I'll be calling you.
Me: Okay, that sounds fine.
Caller: Great. Bye!
Click.
It's not that I mind, really…But one does wonder what, precisely, the purpose of this call was. He called me to tell me he'll be calling me? O-kay, I'll certainly be waiting for that – except, of course, that I don't know what his name is, or what days he'll be here, or what he's looking for in a session, or even if he's someone I would want to see. But aside from all that, I'll certainly be looking for his call.
Friday, May 28, 2004
Annoying Phone Call #4,122,893
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, I'm calling about your ad.
Me: Yes, that's right – what would you like to know?
I always ask this because I have no idea what information this person already has about me. There's no point to my launching into a spiel about fees, hours of availability, et cetera, if the caller already knows all that.
Caller: Could you describe yourself, please?
Oh, shit. I hate it when they say this. Now that we all have websites with photos, I don't get this question very often, thank god. Because what this guy wants me to do is describe the way I look in minute detail – my exact height, weight, age, measurements, including bra size, hair length, blah blah blah.
It's not that I don't think the guy's entitled to know what I look like. That's why I have pictures on the damn website. But the verbal run-down thing - well, I can't speak for everyone, but every sex worker I know personally really hates this. We all think it feels degrading to be asked to describe the way we look as if our attributes were the features on a used car. I've worked in places where the women all stood in a lineup for clients to choose from, and that didn't bother me at all. But this bothers me. So I won't do it.
Me: Did you see an ad of mine – is that how you got this number?
Caller: Yes.
Me: Okay, well, that’s a picture of me in the ad.
Caller: It's kind of a small picture. Would you say you were a C-cup or a D-cup?
I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.
Me: I also have an extensive website with a lot of photos of me, and I do ask that everyone read over it before booking a session with me.
Caller: Oh, uh…I mean, I can't afford internet access.
The Thirty-Seconds rule strikes again! Thirty seconds on the phone, and you'll know if there's a chance in the world. And let me tell you, if this guy can't afford internet access, then he definitely can't afford me. In fact, he can't even afford to hear me talk about myself.
Me: Oh, too bad. Well, I understand. Thanks a lot, buh-bye.
Click.
I hang up quickly before he can say another word. If you want to hear a girl talk about her tits, I think, you'll have to call somewhere else.
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, I'm calling about your ad.
Me: Yes, that's right – what would you like to know?
I always ask this because I have no idea what information this person already has about me. There's no point to my launching into a spiel about fees, hours of availability, et cetera, if the caller already knows all that.
Caller: Could you describe yourself, please?
Oh, shit. I hate it when they say this. Now that we all have websites with photos, I don't get this question very often, thank god. Because what this guy wants me to do is describe the way I look in minute detail – my exact height, weight, age, measurements, including bra size, hair length, blah blah blah.
It's not that I don't think the guy's entitled to know what I look like. That's why I have pictures on the damn website. But the verbal run-down thing - well, I can't speak for everyone, but every sex worker I know personally really hates this. We all think it feels degrading to be asked to describe the way we look as if our attributes were the features on a used car. I've worked in places where the women all stood in a lineup for clients to choose from, and that didn't bother me at all. But this bothers me. So I won't do it.
Me: Did you see an ad of mine – is that how you got this number?
Caller: Yes.
Me: Okay, well, that’s a picture of me in the ad.
Caller: It's kind of a small picture. Would you say you were a C-cup or a D-cup?
I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.
Me: I also have an extensive website with a lot of photos of me, and I do ask that everyone read over it before booking a session with me.
Caller: Oh, uh…I mean, I can't afford internet access.
The Thirty-Seconds rule strikes again! Thirty seconds on the phone, and you'll know if there's a chance in the world. And let me tell you, if this guy can't afford internet access, then he definitely can't afford me. In fact, he can't even afford to hear me talk about myself.
Me: Oh, too bad. Well, I understand. Thanks a lot, buh-bye.
Click.
I hang up quickly before he can say another word. If you want to hear a girl talk about her tits, I think, you'll have to call somewhere else.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
No nasty stories today, sorry. I'm still deep in car-shopping-mode. The update is on that is: I went to the Honda dealership yesterday and drove one of the new Accords, and…I wasn't really impressed. The doors and the dash are too high, even with the seat raised I felt like I was sitting in the bottom of a bucket.
This totally bummed me out, because I just want to do this and be done with it, but I'm not going to buy a car I don't like, even though it's technically the right car for me.
So the Accord is like the guy I know I should marry, because he's so nice and reliable and dependable and all. But we didn't have much chemistry.
And my mind keeps wandering to that sexy guy over there at the Mitsubishi dealership, the Eclipse. (Not the Spyder, you understand – owning a convertible here in the land of liquid sunshine has always struck me not so much as optimism as willful denial.)
Mr. Eclipse – well, his reviews are not as four-star as the Accord. Nothing one can pin down to a specific problem – but he's just not as bulletproof as Mr. Accord. I can't be sure how he'd handle a long-term relationship. But, ooooohhh, he's fast and smooth and fun…
Then there's the dark horse, Mr. Toyota Celica. I think he might be a little…young for me. I see him most often in the company of boys between 18-25, and frankly, he's usually a bit overdressed for my taste. But if I spent some time getting to know him, I might see that he's a great guy underneath it all.
I am firmly resolved to not think about this guy, because he's out of my league. But damn he's fine.
This totally bummed me out, because I just want to do this and be done with it, but I'm not going to buy a car I don't like, even though it's technically the right car for me.
So the Accord is like the guy I know I should marry, because he's so nice and reliable and dependable and all. But we didn't have much chemistry.
And my mind keeps wandering to that sexy guy over there at the Mitsubishi dealership, the Eclipse. (Not the Spyder, you understand – owning a convertible here in the land of liquid sunshine has always struck me not so much as optimism as willful denial.)
Mr. Eclipse – well, his reviews are not as four-star as the Accord. Nothing one can pin down to a specific problem – but he's just not as bulletproof as Mr. Accord. I can't be sure how he'd handle a long-term relationship. But, ooooohhh, he's fast and smooth and fun…
Then there's the dark horse, Mr. Toyota Celica. I think he might be a little…young for me. I see him most often in the company of boys between 18-25, and frankly, he's usually a bit overdressed for my taste. But if I spent some time getting to know him, I might see that he's a great guy underneath it all.
I am firmly resolved to not think about this guy, because he's out of my league. But damn he's fine.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
I am poised on the brink of buying a new car, and I have a feeling that process is going to command a lot of my spare time for the next few days, as I gather price quotes via email, visit dealerships, and get sales-pitched relentlessly by determined guys with silk neckties and Michael Douglas-esque hair.
But I know exactly what I want - a Honda Accord coupe - so it's just a matter of beating them down to a reasonable price. (One of my old lovers was a car salesperson and she gave me all the dirt on how this works.)
I'm armed with my Consumer Reports invoice quotes, a competitive bid from CarsDirect.com, and a cool assurance that I don't have to buy this car today, or any day, until I get my price. Listen for the sound of salesmen gnashing their teeth and tearing their hair in frustration. Mwah ha ha ha haaaa....
But I know exactly what I want - a Honda Accord coupe - so it's just a matter of beating them down to a reasonable price. (One of my old lovers was a car salesperson and she gave me all the dirt on how this works.)
I'm armed with my Consumer Reports invoice quotes, a competitive bid from CarsDirect.com, and a cool assurance that I don't have to buy this car today, or any day, until I get my price. Listen for the sound of salesmen gnashing their teeth and tearing their hair in frustration. Mwah ha ha ha haaaa....
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
BDSM Word-of-the-Day: Domme. Noun. Pronunciation: 'däm
Domme is a made-up word, the faux-frenchified and feminized offspring of the abbreviation, "dom", which of course means "dominant". Both dom and domme are used as nouns: "he's a dom," or "she's a domme". But be aware that both words are pronounced exactly the same way: they rhyme with the name "Tom". "Domme" is absolutely not pronounced "dom-may" or "dom-mey".
Even aside from some people's cringe-inducing tendency to mispronounce this word, it isn't one of my favorite terms - it just seems clunky and affected. When I came out into the scene, people used the words "top" and "bottom" as flexible generic terms to indicate someone's dominant or submissive role or behavior, and I still use those terms a lot, even though they've fallen out of vogue. I was taught to use "Master" and "Mistress" mostly as terms of specific address, and only occasionally as descriptive terms.
And another thing: a "sub" is either an underwater boat or a sandwich. Using the word "sub" - as either a noun or a verb - to refer to either a person or activity in BDSM is extremely gauche. And I really feel that there is no punishment too strong for people who say or write "subbie" as a pseudo-cutesy way of saying "submissive".
One last word rant: Dom-i-nant, when used in this context, is a noun. If you are a person who likes to be in control, you're a d-o-m-i-n-a-n-t. When you are playing with your partner, you dom-i-nate them. That's a verb. As you can see, they're spelled differently, and that's because they're two different fucking words. If I see one more personal ad or profile saying "I'm a dominate Master.." I'm going to give someone an enema with a pureed Webster's dictionary.
Language is a beautiful thing. Words are very important. So don't fuck with them or the Mistress will kick your ass.
Domme is a made-up word, the faux-frenchified and feminized offspring of the abbreviation, "dom", which of course means "dominant". Both dom and domme are used as nouns: "he's a dom," or "she's a domme". But be aware that both words are pronounced exactly the same way: they rhyme with the name "Tom". "Domme" is absolutely not pronounced "dom-may" or "dom-mey".
Even aside from some people's cringe-inducing tendency to mispronounce this word, it isn't one of my favorite terms - it just seems clunky and affected. When I came out into the scene, people used the words "top" and "bottom" as flexible generic terms to indicate someone's dominant or submissive role or behavior, and I still use those terms a lot, even though they've fallen out of vogue. I was taught to use "Master" and "Mistress" mostly as terms of specific address, and only occasionally as descriptive terms.
And another thing: a "sub" is either an underwater boat or a sandwich. Using the word "sub" - as either a noun or a verb - to refer to either a person or activity in BDSM is extremely gauche. And I really feel that there is no punishment too strong for people who say or write "subbie" as a pseudo-cutesy way of saying "submissive".
One last word rant: Dom-i-nant, when used in this context, is a noun. If you are a person who likes to be in control, you're a d-o-m-i-n-a-n-t. When you are playing with your partner, you dom-i-nate them. That's a verb. As you can see, they're spelled differently, and that's because they're two different fucking words. If I see one more personal ad or profile saying "I'm a dominate Master.." I'm going to give someone an enema with a pureed Webster's dictionary.
Language is a beautiful thing. Words are very important. So don't fuck with them or the Mistress will kick your ass.
Monday, May 24, 2004
My friend Jae and I did a double together the other day. (Confused? A double = two sex workers, one client.) I'm taking a small risk in admitting to this here, because officially, I don't do doubles at all. Check my website, it says right there: I don't do doubles.
Except – very occasionally I do. If I know you well and I like you, and if I think you'll like Jae, and if the moon and stars are all aligned properly on the day you ask me oh-so-politely if such a thing is possible, then yeah, maybe I'll agree to arrange that.
And while I usually enjoy my sessions alone, there's no deny that having Jae around does make it more fun for me - although she has a terrible habit of making me break up laughing with her remarks. Hard to maintain the Mistress persona with that happening. Not that my guys really expect or want the stone-faced serious thing from me, but still, there are time when I am quite…intent, on what I'm doing, and having Jae crack wise and make me laugh is distracting. She's a total imp. In another place and time she'd have been the perfect court jester, dancing around in her cap and bells…
And the reason Jae is my only doubles partner is that she knows me so extremely well that it's easy. I've done a few doubles with other people, long ago, and while they weren't terrible, they were just a lot of work, because I had to orchestrate two people instead of one. Or, in the case of another Mistress, I had to try to give her the proper amount of airtime, while still subtly directing the progress of the session. (Of course, they were all my clients. I suppose if I was the guest star with someone else's client, it would be rather different.)
But Jae knows me, she knows my dungeon, she knows my equipment, she knows what kinds of things I use for what. When I say, "Get me the leather head-thingie with all the straps," she knows which one I mean. (She should: she's had it on.) She knows if I pick up a box of needles, I'm also going to need alcohol wipes, rubber gloves, and a sharps container, so she gets them. Easy.
The other thing about doubles that makes it challenging is that, as far as the interaction between Jae and I goes, they can be a sometimes challenging blend of a real scene and performance art. A lot of the clients we've seen together want to watch us play some, and it's certainly never hard for Jae and I to slip right into a scene. But it would be rude to get so very into our interaction that we ignore him, so we both have to stay conscious of keeping the energy balanced. It's easy enough for me – I'm the Mistress. But not everyone would be able to slide from bottom-space to performance mode as fluidly as Jae does. That's why she's always my first choice if I have to teach a class, put on a show, or – do a double.
Except – very occasionally I do. If I know you well and I like you, and if I think you'll like Jae, and if the moon and stars are all aligned properly on the day you ask me oh-so-politely if such a thing is possible, then yeah, maybe I'll agree to arrange that.
And while I usually enjoy my sessions alone, there's no deny that having Jae around does make it more fun for me - although she has a terrible habit of making me break up laughing with her remarks. Hard to maintain the Mistress persona with that happening. Not that my guys really expect or want the stone-faced serious thing from me, but still, there are time when I am quite…intent, on what I'm doing, and having Jae crack wise and make me laugh is distracting. She's a total imp. In another place and time she'd have been the perfect court jester, dancing around in her cap and bells…
And the reason Jae is my only doubles partner is that she knows me so extremely well that it's easy. I've done a few doubles with other people, long ago, and while they weren't terrible, they were just a lot of work, because I had to orchestrate two people instead of one. Or, in the case of another Mistress, I had to try to give her the proper amount of airtime, while still subtly directing the progress of the session. (Of course, they were all my clients. I suppose if I was the guest star with someone else's client, it would be rather different.)
But Jae knows me, she knows my dungeon, she knows my equipment, she knows what kinds of things I use for what. When I say, "Get me the leather head-thingie with all the straps," she knows which one I mean. (She should: she's had it on.) She knows if I pick up a box of needles, I'm also going to need alcohol wipes, rubber gloves, and a sharps container, so she gets them. Easy.
The other thing about doubles that makes it challenging is that, as far as the interaction between Jae and I goes, they can be a sometimes challenging blend of a real scene and performance art. A lot of the clients we've seen together want to watch us play some, and it's certainly never hard for Jae and I to slip right into a scene. But it would be rude to get so very into our interaction that we ignore him, so we both have to stay conscious of keeping the energy balanced. It's easy enough for me – I'm the Mistress. But not everyone would be able to slide from bottom-space to performance mode as fluidly as Jae does. That's why she's always my first choice if I have to teach a class, put on a show, or – do a double.
Sunday, May 23, 2004
Quick note: I am teaching a BDSM skills-building workshop tonight at Seattle sex-toy store Toys In Babeland from 7:30-9:30.
I don't know if tickets are still available, but you can find out by calling the store at 206.328.2914
Maybe I'll see some of ya'll there...
Later: Don't click on the "Cunning Linguists" link right now, their URL has apparently been hijacked by some asshole porn sites, and if you go there, your browser will be spun around in endless cycle of tackiness. If it is not fixed soon, I'll have to delete the link...
I don't know if tickets are still available, but you can find out by calling the store at 206.328.2914
Maybe I'll see some of ya'll there...
Later: Don't click on the "Cunning Linguists" link right now, their URL has apparently been hijacked by some asshole porn sites, and if you go there, your browser will be spun around in endless cycle of tackiness. If it is not fixed soon, I'll have to delete the link...
Friday, May 21, 2004
Conversation with my friend R, who is a call girl, while driving in the car…
"So I'm sending some guys to you," she said, "because I like being kinky but they're really wanting a level of dominance that I'm not comfortable with."
"Well, what do they want?"
"Oh, like peeing and stuff." She makes a shoo-ing gesture with her hands, as if to ward off even the mere idea of anyone peeing on her designer sheets. R takes her bed-linens very seriously.
I, on the other hand, play on a vinyl-covered table that gets wiped down after every session with an industrial disinfectant so powerful that the mere fumes of it are probably killing computer viruses on the PC in my office. Pee does not scare me – especially when I'm the one doing the peeing.
"Sounds fine to me," I said. "Have you been busy?"
"Yeah, and that's cool. Except there's this one guy who keeps calling me back lately and I don't want to see him again."
"Why not?"
She sighs and twists restlessly. "He can't come. I don't know what his problem is, he's not an old guy or anything. He's got a weird dick, it's sort of V-shaped."
I look at her. "V-shaped? You mean it's got a bend in it?"
"No, I mean, it's small at the tip, and then it gets wider and wider, and it's pretty wide at the base."
I think about this. "Oh, okay."
"There should really be a coffee-table book of photos of weird-shaped dicks, because there are some really weird-looking ones." R is wandering off on a tangent now, as she often does. I pull her back into the conversational stream.
"So the guy with the V-shaped dick can't get off?"
"No, and it's a pain in the ass when they don't come. You don't get closure."
I laugh, but I know what she means. "Well, if they're okay with it, I'm okay with it. But if they're all anxious and frustrated, then that's a bad note to finish a session on."
"Oh! I hate it! I mean, I feel sorry for him and stuff, but god, come on!" She's laughing a little as well – but still, R is still very passionate about her insistence on other people's orgasms. "It's like, I feel like a bad lay, it's terrible. And I know I'm not a bad lay, so what's the problem?"
"Well, I've fucked you and I think you're a good lay," I say. She grins at me. "And if he's calling you back he must think you're a good lay, too. So it's nothing to do with you - he's probably just got some kind of medical issue."
"I know. But I hate it when I feel like I haven't done my job well. It's like seeing them come is being Employee of the Month or something."
"You must be Employee of the Month a whole fucking lot then," I say, laughing.
She laughs too. "Yeah, my months go by pretty quick. Every time you turn around…"
"So I'm sending some guys to you," she said, "because I like being kinky but they're really wanting a level of dominance that I'm not comfortable with."
"Well, what do they want?"
"Oh, like peeing and stuff." She makes a shoo-ing gesture with her hands, as if to ward off even the mere idea of anyone peeing on her designer sheets. R takes her bed-linens very seriously.
I, on the other hand, play on a vinyl-covered table that gets wiped down after every session with an industrial disinfectant so powerful that the mere fumes of it are probably killing computer viruses on the PC in my office. Pee does not scare me – especially when I'm the one doing the peeing.
"Sounds fine to me," I said. "Have you been busy?"
"Yeah, and that's cool. Except there's this one guy who keeps calling me back lately and I don't want to see him again."
"Why not?"
She sighs and twists restlessly. "He can't come. I don't know what his problem is, he's not an old guy or anything. He's got a weird dick, it's sort of V-shaped."
I look at her. "V-shaped? You mean it's got a bend in it?"
"No, I mean, it's small at the tip, and then it gets wider and wider, and it's pretty wide at the base."
I think about this. "Oh, okay."
"There should really be a coffee-table book of photos of weird-shaped dicks, because there are some really weird-looking ones." R is wandering off on a tangent now, as she often does. I pull her back into the conversational stream.
"So the guy with the V-shaped dick can't get off?"
"No, and it's a pain in the ass when they don't come. You don't get closure."
I laugh, but I know what she means. "Well, if they're okay with it, I'm okay with it. But if they're all anxious and frustrated, then that's a bad note to finish a session on."
"Oh! I hate it! I mean, I feel sorry for him and stuff, but god, come on!" She's laughing a little as well – but still, R is still very passionate about her insistence on other people's orgasms. "It's like, I feel like a bad lay, it's terrible. And I know I'm not a bad lay, so what's the problem?"
"Well, I've fucked you and I think you're a good lay," I say. She grins at me. "And if he's calling you back he must think you're a good lay, too. So it's nothing to do with you - he's probably just got some kind of medical issue."
"I know. But I hate it when I feel like I haven't done my job well. It's like seeing them come is being Employee of the Month or something."
"You must be Employee of the Month a whole fucking lot then," I say, laughing.
She laughs too. "Yeah, my months go by pretty quick. Every time you turn around…"
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Note: This is just a rough draft of some thoughts I've had...I don't usually post unfinished stuff, but frankly, I'm too busy to write anything else!
Random and Disjointed Reflections On Being A Pretty Girl
The other day I parked in a pay lot downtown and went into a store that validates for that lot. I did my shopping, but when I left the store and was about to present my ticket to the lot attendant, I realized I had forgotten to get it stamped. Damn, I thought, I don't want to go all the way back in there now. So I fluffed out my hair a little and smiled winningly at the attendant and explained how silly I'd been, could he please let me slide this one time?
I felt his eyes flick over me, and he smiled back, almost ruefully. "Yeah, all right, go ahead", he said. We both knew - it was a Pretty Girl Moment.
Before we go any further, let me make a few things clear. I can't even try to codify the difference between words like "pretty", and "beautiful", and all the other terms used to describe the physical manifestation of feminine charm. And it's definitely not within my power to define exactly what any of those words encompass. Prettiness has been defined a thousand different ways ever since people first began putting words to their own particular feminine ideal. I know that if you asked any two random people to describe me, one of them would say I have the face that launched a thousand ships and the body of a goddess. And one of them would shrug and say, "Matisse? Yeah, she's nice-looking, I guess." You cannot measure what's in the eye of the beholder.
But the majority opinion seems to be that through both a lucky spin on the genetic roulette wheel, and a lot of diligent care and maintenance, I am a Pretty Girl. And as I move through the everyday world, that's made my life easier on thousands of different occasions. University administrators, traffic cops, doormen, job interviewers and employers, apartment managers, auto mechanics, waiters, taxi drivers, hotel clerks – these are just a few of the types of men who've overlooked small transgressions, given me extra perks, or somehow gone out of their way for me because I'm a Pretty Girl.
I'm not talking about my career as a sex worker, you understand. I gave those men nothing except my smile and wow-you-are-such-a-great-guy gratitude. And most of the time I was perfectly sincere – if someone gives me a break, especially when I know I don't necessarily deserve it, I am grateful to them. So I show them a picture of themselves in my eyes, surrounded by a rosy glow of Great-Guyness.
Pretty-Girl mojo doesn't always work, of course, even when you really try. Being a Pretty Girl is sometimes like having been given a gift card without knowing precisely how much credit has been loaded onto it. It gets you things, but you know that at any moment, the store clerk could shake their head at you and tell you that you've reached your limit and you're out of luck.
And there are times when being a Pretty Girl is a pain in the ass. When I'm pumping gas into my car at 2 am, for example, and a car full of drunken teenage guys pulls into the gas station, it's a serious inconvenience. There have been many moments in life when I really wished I was invisible, because the way I looked was drawing me attention I didn't want.
But I know that someday, I will become invisible, because I'll get old. Perhaps I'll find that I have Cool-Old-Lady mojo then, but I don't know. I do know I'm going to delay the whole process as long as I can, though. I was at the gym recently, running on the treadmill, and I saw former sex-symbol Raquel Welch being interviewed on TV. She's sixty-two, and damn, she still looks pretty good. If she can do it, I can do it, I thought, kicking up the speed another notch.
I wonder a lot if other pretty girls are as aware of their Pretty Girl-ness and what it means, as I am. But it's hard to talk about this without feeling like you're coming off as some kind of Stepford Wife. So I've really only talked about with a few other women, close friends, who know that I really don't believe that my only value as a person is the way I look.
But I look at other women sometimes – women who, to be blunt about it, aren't pretty at all – and I feel slightly guilty. It's same kind of guilt I occasionally feel about being white, or coming from an upper-middle-class family, who could afford to send me to private schools and buy me a pony. I got something you didn't get.
And it doesn't seem like an easily rectifiable imbalance. I believe in self-improvement, but some things can't be changed - short of auditioning for shows like Extreme Makeover. What can they do but just live with it?
I also wonder exactly how my life would be different if I were exactly the same person on the inside, but I wasn't pretty on the outside. But I wouldn't be the same person, really, because who I am has been influenced by how people treat me, and how people treat me is influenced by how I look.
I think the bottom line is: I'm fascinated by power dynamics in general, and I think that the power of personal attractiveness is one of the most basic and undeniable examples of power dynamics I know.
Random and Disjointed Reflections On Being A Pretty Girl
The other day I parked in a pay lot downtown and went into a store that validates for that lot. I did my shopping, but when I left the store and was about to present my ticket to the lot attendant, I realized I had forgotten to get it stamped. Damn, I thought, I don't want to go all the way back in there now. So I fluffed out my hair a little and smiled winningly at the attendant and explained how silly I'd been, could he please let me slide this one time?
I felt his eyes flick over me, and he smiled back, almost ruefully. "Yeah, all right, go ahead", he said. We both knew - it was a Pretty Girl Moment.
Before we go any further, let me make a few things clear. I can't even try to codify the difference between words like "pretty", and "beautiful", and all the other terms used to describe the physical manifestation of feminine charm. And it's definitely not within my power to define exactly what any of those words encompass. Prettiness has been defined a thousand different ways ever since people first began putting words to their own particular feminine ideal. I know that if you asked any two random people to describe me, one of them would say I have the face that launched a thousand ships and the body of a goddess. And one of them would shrug and say, "Matisse? Yeah, she's nice-looking, I guess." You cannot measure what's in the eye of the beholder.
But the majority opinion seems to be that through both a lucky spin on the genetic roulette wheel, and a lot of diligent care and maintenance, I am a Pretty Girl. And as I move through the everyday world, that's made my life easier on thousands of different occasions. University administrators, traffic cops, doormen, job interviewers and employers, apartment managers, auto mechanics, waiters, taxi drivers, hotel clerks – these are just a few of the types of men who've overlooked small transgressions, given me extra perks, or somehow gone out of their way for me because I'm a Pretty Girl.
I'm not talking about my career as a sex worker, you understand. I gave those men nothing except my smile and wow-you-are-such-a-great-guy gratitude. And most of the time I was perfectly sincere – if someone gives me a break, especially when I know I don't necessarily deserve it, I am grateful to them. So I show them a picture of themselves in my eyes, surrounded by a rosy glow of Great-Guyness.
Pretty-Girl mojo doesn't always work, of course, even when you really try. Being a Pretty Girl is sometimes like having been given a gift card without knowing precisely how much credit has been loaded onto it. It gets you things, but you know that at any moment, the store clerk could shake their head at you and tell you that you've reached your limit and you're out of luck.
And there are times when being a Pretty Girl is a pain in the ass. When I'm pumping gas into my car at 2 am, for example, and a car full of drunken teenage guys pulls into the gas station, it's a serious inconvenience. There have been many moments in life when I really wished I was invisible, because the way I looked was drawing me attention I didn't want.
But I know that someday, I will become invisible, because I'll get old. Perhaps I'll find that I have Cool-Old-Lady mojo then, but I don't know. I do know I'm going to delay the whole process as long as I can, though. I was at the gym recently, running on the treadmill, and I saw former sex-symbol Raquel Welch being interviewed on TV. She's sixty-two, and damn, she still looks pretty good. If she can do it, I can do it, I thought, kicking up the speed another notch.
I wonder a lot if other pretty girls are as aware of their Pretty Girl-ness and what it means, as I am. But it's hard to talk about this without feeling like you're coming off as some kind of Stepford Wife. So I've really only talked about with a few other women, close friends, who know that I really don't believe that my only value as a person is the way I look.
But I look at other women sometimes – women who, to be blunt about it, aren't pretty at all – and I feel slightly guilty. It's same kind of guilt I occasionally feel about being white, or coming from an upper-middle-class family, who could afford to send me to private schools and buy me a pony. I got something you didn't get.
And it doesn't seem like an easily rectifiable imbalance. I believe in self-improvement, but some things can't be changed - short of auditioning for shows like Extreme Makeover. What can they do but just live with it?
I also wonder exactly how my life would be different if I were exactly the same person on the inside, but I wasn't pretty on the outside. But I wouldn't be the same person, really, because who I am has been influenced by how people treat me, and how people treat me is influenced by how I look.
I think the bottom line is: I'm fascinated by power dynamics in general, and I think that the power of personal attractiveness is one of the most basic and undeniable examples of power dynamics I know.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
It's weird how business comes in cycles. During the last week of April and the first week of May, business was dead, dead, dead. My phone was so quiet I occasionally called it myself to make sure it was working properly. It was mildly annoying, but I've been doing this for too long to panic over a slow spell, so I just occupied myself writing, hanging out with Max, puttering around the house, et cetera.
Talk about the calm before the storm…I don't know whether every kinky guy in Seattle is on the same lust-cycle or what, but for the last two weeks, the phone will NOT stop ringing, I'm booked to the max for a week in advance – it's crazy, I tell ya.
My regular guys are pretty philosophical about not being able to get me on the phone, not being able to get an appointment easily. They've been through it before.
(And BTW, Frequent Flyers, if you've called me, and I haven't called you back – this is why. Hang in there.)
But new guys sometimes get ornery. This is one of the four hundred and sixteen phone calls I got today - when I wasn't in session, that is.
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, I'd like to get an appointment.
Now this isn't rude or anything – but it's really not my favorite way for people to begin this conversation. I like it when people say, "Hi, my name's Bill, I was calling about your service." Or, "to get some information." The persnickety bitch in me – and she's a well-developed presence – is put off a bit by the presumption that I'd make an appointment with just anyone. There's a little dance to be done here, boys, so don't go jumping the gun. (I am such a high-maintenance girl, aren't I?)
Me: Okay – have we met before?
Caller: No, I'm from out of town.
Me: I see. What's your name?
Caller: (noticeable pause) John.
Me: Well, John, I would be happy to talk about a session with you, but you should know that my first available appointment would be late next week some time.
Caller: Next week?
Me: Yes.
Caller: That's not going to work for me, I'm only in town for a few days.
Where the hell were you three weeks ago, I think, but the point is moot now.
Me: Oh, too bad. Well, if you get back to Seattle some other time you can give me a call.
Caller: You don't have any time at all until next week? I was really looking for something tonight or tomorrow.
Me: No, I'm sorry. I have a very good regular clientele here in Seattle and I do stay quite busy.
Caller: Boy, I don't know how you're going to do much business if you're that busy.
This is such a moronic statement that I remain silent for about ten seconds, letting the stupidity of what he just said hang in the air.
Caller: I mean, much new business.
Me: (with a conspicuously patient sigh) As I said, John, why don't you call me some other time when you're in Seattle.
Caller: (ungraciously) Yeah, okay, bye.
Click.
Wow, I am so bummed I didn't get to meet that guy.
Talk about the calm before the storm…I don't know whether every kinky guy in Seattle is on the same lust-cycle or what, but for the last two weeks, the phone will NOT stop ringing, I'm booked to the max for a week in advance – it's crazy, I tell ya.
My regular guys are pretty philosophical about not being able to get me on the phone, not being able to get an appointment easily. They've been through it before.
(And BTW, Frequent Flyers, if you've called me, and I haven't called you back – this is why. Hang in there.)
But new guys sometimes get ornery. This is one of the four hundred and sixteen phone calls I got today - when I wasn't in session, that is.
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hi, I'd like to get an appointment.
Now this isn't rude or anything – but it's really not my favorite way for people to begin this conversation. I like it when people say, "Hi, my name's Bill, I was calling about your service." Or, "to get some information." The persnickety bitch in me – and she's a well-developed presence – is put off a bit by the presumption that I'd make an appointment with just anyone. There's a little dance to be done here, boys, so don't go jumping the gun. (I am such a high-maintenance girl, aren't I?)
Me: Okay – have we met before?
Caller: No, I'm from out of town.
Me: I see. What's your name?
Caller: (noticeable pause) John.
Me: Well, John, I would be happy to talk about a session with you, but you should know that my first available appointment would be late next week some time.
Caller: Next week?
Me: Yes.
Caller: That's not going to work for me, I'm only in town for a few days.
Where the hell were you three weeks ago, I think, but the point is moot now.
Me: Oh, too bad. Well, if you get back to Seattle some other time you can give me a call.
Caller: You don't have any time at all until next week? I was really looking for something tonight or tomorrow.
Me: No, I'm sorry. I have a very good regular clientele here in Seattle and I do stay quite busy.
Caller: Boy, I don't know how you're going to do much business if you're that busy.
This is such a moronic statement that I remain silent for about ten seconds, letting the stupidity of what he just said hang in the air.
Caller: I mean, much new business.
Me: (with a conspicuously patient sigh) As I said, John, why don't you call me some other time when you're in Seattle.
Caller: (ungraciously) Yeah, okay, bye.
Click.
Wow, I am so bummed I didn't get to meet that guy.
Monday, May 17, 2004
Odd Phone Call Of The Day
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: (who sounds very much like a young black man) Are you guys hiring?
Now, I'll refrain from the tirade about bad phone manners – even though you'd think that someone who's looking for a job would be a little more conscious of the basic rules of civilization, like saying "hello" to someone when they answer the phone, rather than just snapping out a question.
And I'll refrain from sighing about the typical American poverty of language that makes this caller address a solitary female as if she were both plural and male.
But I'm not going to rant about any of that. Really.
I actually get a fair number of phone calls from people apparently looking for work. Usually, though, they're from women, not men. I think most of these callers are just working their way through every single number in the adult section of the papers, because I definitely don't have a "help wanted" ad anywhere. So I just say no, and they hang up. It's usually a quick process, if not precisely a genteel one.
As opposed to the carpet-bomb school of job-seekers, there are a handful of people who specifically want to work for me, Mistress Matisse. But those callers generally try to present themselves and their credentials more persuasively - so much so that it's sometimes hard to get them to accept my "No" without speaking a bit more loudly than I'd prefer. But I am quite firm on this point, because I once managed a small "sensual massage" business, and since then my feelings about managing other people in a sex work environment can be summed up in exactly two words: Never. Again.
I'm really not sure exactly what position this particular caller thinks I might be willing to hire him for. The blunt manner of his inquiry suggests that he thinks he doesn't need to explain himself, which is interesting. I do see ads for escort services looking for "drivers", so perhaps that's what he's imagining.
Of course, there are plenty of independent male escorts, and I'm sure there are also male-escort services, although I don't personally know of any locally. But I can't imagine why someone would call me looking for a job as a male escort.
I'm momentarily tempted to ask him precisely what type of job he's looking for, but I decide I'd probably regret getting into that conversation.
Me: No.
Click. He's gone. A small mystery destined to remain unsolved.
Ring ring!
Me: Hello?
Caller: (who sounds very much like a young black man) Are you guys hiring?
Now, I'll refrain from the tirade about bad phone manners – even though you'd think that someone who's looking for a job would be a little more conscious of the basic rules of civilization, like saying "hello" to someone when they answer the phone, rather than just snapping out a question.
And I'll refrain from sighing about the typical American poverty of language that makes this caller address a solitary female as if she were both plural and male.
But I'm not going to rant about any of that. Really.
I actually get a fair number of phone calls from people apparently looking for work. Usually, though, they're from women, not men. I think most of these callers are just working their way through every single number in the adult section of the papers, because I definitely don't have a "help wanted" ad anywhere. So I just say no, and they hang up. It's usually a quick process, if not precisely a genteel one.
As opposed to the carpet-bomb school of job-seekers, there are a handful of people who specifically want to work for me, Mistress Matisse. But those callers generally try to present themselves and their credentials more persuasively - so much so that it's sometimes hard to get them to accept my "No" without speaking a bit more loudly than I'd prefer. But I am quite firm on this point, because I once managed a small "sensual massage" business, and since then my feelings about managing other people in a sex work environment can be summed up in exactly two words: Never. Again.
I'm really not sure exactly what position this particular caller thinks I might be willing to hire him for. The blunt manner of his inquiry suggests that he thinks he doesn't need to explain himself, which is interesting. I do see ads for escort services looking for "drivers", so perhaps that's what he's imagining.
Of course, there are plenty of independent male escorts, and I'm sure there are also male-escort services, although I don't personally know of any locally. But I can't imagine why someone would call me looking for a job as a male escort.
I'm momentarily tempted to ask him precisely what type of job he's looking for, but I decide I'd probably regret getting into that conversation.
Me: No.
Click. He's gone. A small mystery destined to remain unsolved.
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