Piercings



I lost a bead from my Body Circle earring last Thursday night, and so Friday I dropped into a body piercing shop on Broadway to get another one. As I explained what I needed, I pushed back my hair and indicated the bead-less earring with my finger.
“No, no,” the girl behind the counter cried, “while you’re in the shop, don’t touch your piercings.”
I’ve seen signs to this effect in various piercing places - I’m told it's about cross-contamination. You know, touch yourself, touch the counter, leave icky germs on the counter. What I don’t really get – given all those studies about how many people don’t wash their hands after they use the bathroom - is why they think telling you not to touch your jewelry means your hands will be clean.
And I thought to myself, wow, I bet you really wouldn’t approve of what I did with the piercings I did last night. Thursday night in my dungeon, to be exact - I stuck Roman’s chest full of needles and pounded on them so hard they bent. I used a riding crop at first, but then I used just my hand. Slapping needles has to be done carefully, lest one catch one’s fingers on the sharp end of the business. But it can be done, even when one’s target is writhing around and roaring curses at you. The tricky part is that the needles, when impacted, want to start working themselves out. And when the tip is under the skin and you hit it – oh, it gets really noisy. And the skin gets very bruised. Oh darn.
Roman and I refer to this type of play as “making paper clips”, although I don’t think it would be embraced by the paper-clip manufacturers any more readily that professional body-piercers. However, we did not concern ourselves in the least with either office-product design or biological cross-contamination, and we had a marvelous time.


Obligatory Disclaimer: Piercing is not a 100% safe activity. If you are not experienced, you should not do anything like this without the supervision of people who have already done it and know what they are doing. Be sure to use only fresh, sterile needles, and use rubbing alcohol to clean the area before and after you do the piercings. Wear latex (or nitrile) gloves, and change them if you play for a long period or touch unclean stuff during the scene. Use needles once, on one person, then dispose of them in a bio-hazardous waste receptacle (sharps container). Even if it’s done correctly, you may bleed, bruise, get an infection or possibly even scar from this activity. You’ve been warned, proceed at your own risk.

This week's column - hopefully the last one that won't be entirely run in the paper....

And, in a sort of stunning example of kink working it's way into the mainstream, Ms. Claire Adams, a lovely lady with whom I have the pleasure of being acquainted, rigged actor Peter Sarsgaard into a rope-bondage suspension for this month's Vanity Fair magazine. (Here's a link to some other images, also.) I mean, wow - fucking Vanity Fair! Amazing. Good for her, and good for all of us, I think.

Pick and Choose

Today on a local escort-review board, a new escort was apologizing for not being able to answer all of the hundreds of emails and many dozens of phone calls she’d been besieged with every day since she began offering her services. She was so overwhelmed, she said, she was considering quitting.

I’m not surprised she got that reaction. Her pictures show a pretty young blond girl, and ladies like that always get a huge response, especially when they first appear on the escort scene. And it can be really overwhelming. As a pro domme, I do not get the same enormous volume of calls and email that a lot of escorts do. But I remember what that was like, and I still get quite a lot even now. I don’t know this young woman, and I tend not to proffer unasked-for advice. But if I were a friend of hers, here’s what I’d say:

Darlin’, you really don’t need to answer every single phone call and every single email you get. Yes, in a perfect world, you’d at least give everyone the courtesy of a, “No thank you,” and if you have time to do that, go ahead. But the truth is you could spend hours on the phone and the keyboard only doing that, and it’s not a profitable use of your time. What you need to do is categorize them into “Yes, Answer ASAP”, “Maybe” and “No”.

The No category will be big. I have mentored a few sex workers and I usually tell them they should be turning down at least half of the new clients who contact them, and sometimes more. There are just that many not-right guys out there.

Here’s who goes into the No category. Anyone who isn’t polite and appropriate when communicating with you. Anyone who says anything about sex. Anyone who flips you shit for not answering email instantly. Anyone who sends you a one-line email that says something like, “hey sxy wHen RU availbe?” Anyone who claims to be a pimp. Anyone who mentions drugs. Anyone who pressures you. Anyone who sounds like he’s drunk and/or calling from a bar. Anyone who says he wants to pay you with an iPod or a computer or a diamond ring. Anyone who acts like you should jump when he snaps his fingers. Anyone who calls and you hear a lot of other voices in the background. Anyone who elicits the response, “I don’t think I like this guy,” after listening to his message or reading his email. Boom, straight to the curb. Don’t return the call, don’t answer the email.

Does that sound mean? Hey, baby, it’s a survival skill. A lot of the unsuitable guys will take it as a challenge if you call/email back to say no, and they’ll keep coming back, trying and trying to change your mind. You don’t need that.

Besides, if you don’t get a good vibe from the guy, don’t take his money, because you won’t be able to give him a good experience if you don’t like him. If he’s a genuinely okay guy, he’ll move on and meet someone else who’s a better fit for him and have a better experience with her anyway, so you’re doing him a favor in the long run. And if he’s not a genuinely okay guy - well, then…

The Maybe list is composed of guys who you had a mixed reaction to. First-time clients are often nervous and can sometimes come off badly when in fact, they’d be fine if they just relaxed a little. I suggest stringing out the screening process with guys like this. Get a few additional calls/emails from them and see how your response to them evolves. Don’t be afraid to say, “You know, I’m new at this and I get a little nervous sometimes. Would you might just chatting with me on the phone for a few minutes so I can kinda get to know you a little bit?” And then ask him where he’s from, what he does for fun – just make innocuous conversation for five minutes, it’ll tell you a lot about him. If he reacts to this like you’re being hugely unreasonable, then he’s a No.

Also on this list: anyone who says he wants something you don’t provide: incall or outcall, or overnight dates, or half-hour dates, whatever it is you’d generally prefer not to do. If they seem okay in other ways, it’s worth trying to steer them towards your preferred method, but be prepared to let it go.

The Yes men are guys you’ve seen before and liked, and guys who you liked in the initial communication and who’ve gone through whatever screening method you’ve chosen: references, personal info, gut instinct, whatever. Answer them as soon as you can, but I don’t consider a few hours to be an unreasonable length of time before returning voicemail/email. I often take longer even with guys I really like, just because I’m so busy. Fortunately they’re all pretty patient with me.

I recommend you don’t use instant messaging or text messages to process appointment inquiries. Calls and emails are enough to keep track of.

Now gentlemen, I know how sensitive you all are, but I don’t want you to get your feelings hurt by anything I've said here. If you’re a nice, honest guy who treats ladies fairly, then you shouldn’t take any of this as a slight to you. And just to keep things in balance, I will be writing a follow-up piece for the gentlemen about how to choose an escort who will provide a safe and satisfying experience, because I know that it’s challenging for the guys to find reputable and un-flaky ladies as well. All the more reason for me to give a little guidance to the professional women who you’d like to stay in the game.

A number of people have asked me to comment on issue of Travis Frey and his wife's "slave contract". But frankly, I don’t have a whole lot to say. I’m aware of it, yes, and I do see that some people seem to think that BDSM folks should be all over this, either supporting the guy’s ‘right’ to create a sex contract for his wife, or verbally tar-and-feathering him for making all us right-thinking kinksters look bad.

But unlike some people, I have a hard time getting terribly worked up about it either way. Do I think the contract as it’s written is rather petty, adolescent and trite? Yes, but that’s probably because contracts aren’t my kink. I think clear communication about one’s expectations is a good thing. To me, though, slave contracts in this style seem about as erotic as a tax form.

However, do I know people who’ve happily signed rather similar documents? Not in my immediate circle, but yes, I’ve met folks who had and enjoyed this kind of arrangement with their partners, and I get people writing to me all the time asking me to create not-very-different contracts with them. It’s not uncommon.

Are they legally binding? Not for a minute. There’s been a lot of back-and-forth on Metafilter and elsewhere about whether the wife actually signed a copy of this or not. We don't know if she ever did consent to these rules, but it doesn’t matter one little bit. Even if she thought this contract was the sexiest thing in the world on a Tuesday and signed it in her blood, she could change her mind Wednesday morning, and she has the absolute right to do so. You cannot sign away your right to withdraw consent, ever.

Let’s remember, too, that the guy hasn’t actually been convicted of any of the charges yet - it’s still all he-said/she-said at this point. So while it’s quite possible he’s a criminally abusive rapist asshole, it’s also possible that he’s just a juvenile twit with bad relationship skills. This document reads to me like the guy would be happiest having a relationship with a blow-up doll, but that’s just my bias and doesn’t prove a thing. There’s the always-icky child porn charge, but that’s unrelated to the “slave contract” issue.

To some degree, the imagery, culture, and vocabulary of BDSM has become part of mainstream consciousness. Bad people are going to use it to create a frame and a justification for doing bad things, just as they’ve used other cultural institutions. If I, as a kinkster, start taking every instance of that really personally, I’m not going to get much sleep at night.

So I celebrated Presidents Day by spending a thousand damn dollars on a new washing machine and dryer, and I have to say, I’m a little flipped out by the experience. I’m not sure why – I’m all poised to buy a couch that’s going to run me nearly that much, as soon as I can make time to get back to Ikea.

But somehow slapping down a credit card at Sears for all that white porcelain seems so terrifyingly homeowner-ish, especially when I don’t know diddly about major appliances. Yeek. Max, as usual with this kind of thing, sort of steered me through it. He’s done it before, and plus, he’s just so generally clever about such things. (Even though he confided to me, as we were standing at the cash register, that just having testicles does not mean you automatically know everything about everything. I was aware of that, really. But Max often knows things I don’t, which is, of course, one of the reasons why I love him. Yay, smart people.)

But the appliance-buying is done with now, thank god, and I’d much rather think about the evil things I’d like to do to, say, Roman. I’m definitely feeling like being evil, evil, evil lately. More than usual, I mean - I have no idea why. And since I don’t get to be terrible to Max, well, the burden falls to Roman, poor man.

Plus, Roman and I have a new bed that we have yet to have a date on, because we were both too insanely busy last week. Hopefully that situation will be rectified soon. It seems like I’ve been spending a lot of time in various department stores with my two partners lately, and not enough time in less public surroundings. I think that needs fixing.

So, I had a really good time this weekend at BodyBound. Max and I drove down Friday afternoon and arrived in time to catch Midori's opening talk about sort of the myths and the realities of Japanese bondage. She's a very entertaining speaker. Max and I chatted with her for a few minutes after the class, but she was only at BB Friday night, as she had the Bang For The Buck party here in Seattle to host. Amusingly enough, she and her partner actually stayed here at our house this weekend, even though we were down in Portland. She’s a great houseguest and she’s stayed here lots of times, so we were fine just handing her the keys to our house and asking her to feed my cat. I’m sure the Bang For The Buck party was cool, and I’m sorry I missed it. Hopefully some of the women who went will blog about it.

But BB was fun. Max’s class went very well. I know I’m biased, but he is such a good instructor, and I'm so proud of him when we teaches. We did see some other good classes, though, and we also got to see and catch up with people we don’t see all the time, like James Mogul, and Claire Adams, and Eddie T. and his wife. I enjoyed that.

Monk was there, of course, and sold a ton of rope - there was such a crowd of eager people around his booth all weekend that I swear, I hardly got to talk to him and Tambo, but I'm glad they did so well.

Saturday night at the play party, I was entertained to note that a lot of the women present – and two of the men – were attired in the Imp Of Satan’s clothes. I, of course, was one of them. A PVC catsuit is a boon to the traveling girl, as it’s a complete outfit in itself and it packs down to about the size of a hardback novel. Easy.

I did not get to go to Powells, which is sad for me. But we’ll be back in Portland next month for Kinkfest, so I’ll definitely go then.

Aside from my other pals, I saw two different individuals this weekend that I’d really like to top. (Separately, not together. They aren’t a couple or anything.) There were moments this weekend when I looked at them, and thought about what I’d like to do to them, and I felt a little electric shock run up my spine.

I’ve wanted both of them for awhile now. Trouble is, I don’t think either one of them would go there, for different reasons. I haven't ever strongly pursued either of them, so I don't really know for sure, it's just a feeling. I've known them both for some time, and I have nice social relationships with them both, and most of the time it seems better not to jeopardize that.

But sometimes, oh, sometimes when I think about it, I feel my hands flex slightly, and I feel my lips draw back from my teeth in what would probably not ever be mistaken for a friendly smile. I swear I can almost feel my fangs lengthening. It would not be slap-and-tickle, the things I’d like to do to them.

(I'm not talking about a relationship, you understand. I'm just talking about us spending several hours in an alternate universe where deep respect and friendly affection are expressed in rather different ways than they are here on Earth. Like, with needles, and canes, and rope, and certain types of electrical devices.)

It's not likely I'll ever get the chance. But then again, you never know. Sometimes you have to wait for things. Patience isn’t my strong suit in day-to-day life, but for some things I can wait, if waiting is what’s needed. I once carefully wooed someone for ten years before I got them to bottom to me. Yeah, that’s right, I said ten years. It’s a good thing they held out all that time, too, because the raw novice top that I was when I first met them would never have been able to deliver the experience that I successfully created for them a decade later.

And I do feel quite certain I could create something fiendishly good for these two people as well. So while I think the answer would probably be a polite, no thank you, it does seem like a shame not to ask at all. So perhaps I’ll just drop a tiny whisper of possibility into certain ears sometime and see what happens.

A few notes as I gear up to leave for Portland for the BodyBound event…

So, the column for this week is actually…the same column from last week: the "kimono boys" piece. I’m very pleased that it wound up getting printed in the paper copy of The Stranger after all. However, it means that I don’t have a link to a new column for you. I’m not exactly sure why it turned out this way. Sometimes The Stranger moves in mysterious ways, it’s wonders to behold.

And yesterday I did a podcast interview with GrayDancer, about the whole “kimono boys” thing. Gray's podcast is called "Rope Weekly" and it's all about erotic rope bondage. (If you didn't already figure that out.) I haven't met Gray in person, but both Max and Roman have, and they say he's a cool guy. I certainly had a good experience with him. I like people with an active sense of humor, and Gray has a comic persona named “NawaMarquishiDeSade" who, as he says, is “a parody of precisely that brand of self-importance," which I was writing about. That’s who interviewed me, so it was all very tongue-in-cheek - although I think the essential message of "Dudes, don't take yourself quite so seriously," was underneath. In any case, I hope it’ll be funny to listen to. Not sure when it'll be available to listen to, but I imagine it'll go up here.

Midori took time out from her insanely busy schedule – I swear, she makes my life look uneventful – to comment here, and there has actually been a fresh round of comments on the original post last Friday, so scroll down and read over those if you haven’t lately.

Meanwhile, I'm off to Portland to help teach people how to be pervy rope tops. Have a good weekend...

Nice Problem To Have, But...

So I had a conversation yesterday with one of my several friends who’s a call girl. She asked me to pass a message along to all the otherwise-cool clients out there: please, please - don’t leave presents on a professional lady’s doorstep.

Yes, it’s very sweet that you want to give a girl you’re fond of a Valentines gift. No one doubts that your heart is in the right place. But it’s an issue of discretion. Because what if you tiptoe up to the door of her incall, bend down to put your bundle of flowers or your box of Godiva’s on her step, and just as you do, another gentleman opens the door to leave? There you both are, staring at each other, terribly embarrassed, everyone’s privacy totally comprised.

Think how you’d feel if you were the guy on his way out. How long has this weirdo been bent over with his ear at the door? you’d think, and justifiably so.

You could just as easily spook a guy who's on his way in to a scheduled appointment. Many people are a bit nervous when coming to visit an escort, and encountering a strange man hanging around the door (as they would see it) of her place would make a lot of people very uncomfortable.

And while many ladies – like me - don’t live where they work, some do, and that creates the potential for even more issues. What if the door opens and it’s her mother who had just dropped by for a visit? What are you going to say? How she is going to explain you?

Even if you don’t get caught outright, your gift could still create complications if the wrong person sees it on her doorstep. “Oh, look, someone left you a Valentine! Do you have a boyfriend? You didn’t tell us! Who is he, when do we get to meet him?” Yeah. Definitely a problem.

I’ve gotten some very sweet and generous gifts over the years and I appreciate the guys who’ve given them to me. But I'm glad to say I haven't had to deal with very many instances of the surprise-gift-drop. However, I'm also considerably more out about my life than many sex workers, so while I definitely don't encourage it, I would not completely freak out if it happened. (Although I am quite zealous about protecting my client's privacy, so that part certainly applies.)

So my friend is quite right in saying that the best way to present gifts is in person. I don't think any woman I know would be ungracious about you simply waiting and giving her the gift when next you meet, even if it's not on the actual holiday.

Or, if she gives you permission, you could mail them. (Or FedEx them, or UPS, or whatever.) But only if she's okay with that, because often the name she gives you is not the same name by which she recieves mail, and getting a package addressed to her nom de negligee could be awkward if the wrong person sees it. (If it gets delivered properly at all.)

If you really can't wait to give her something - call and ask if it's okay to drop off a gift, so she can make sure the coast is clear.

But the surprise-personal-delivery method? Don't go there. It's way too fraught with perilous possibilities.

Cool toy! I want one of these...

This is sort of disturbing to me, although I don't know why exactly. I certainly support free enterprise, although I always thought most hair-fetishists liked it still attached to people's heads. (And while human-hair wigs are quite expensive, prices in the $700-1100 range definitely suggest "fetish" to me, not wigmaker.)

Amusing: Several people have sent me this bit of viral video. Definitely not work safe. But funny.

Edit: Oh, and happy day of over-hyped, anxiety-fueled, corporate-dictated “love” that somehow got tagged with a Christian martyr’s name, in spite of the fact that his death had nothing whatsoever to do with romantic love.

Notable Events of Late

A client I’ve only met once before told I seemed “driven”. He meant it nicely, and I took it so. But it stuck in my head for some reason. Driven? Am I? What does that mean? I do say of myself that I’m like a shark – for me, to stop swimming is to die. Maybe that’s what being driven is. It's an interesting way of thinking about myself.

********************************

Roman and I went and bought a new bed together. We both have beds at our respective homes, of course, that we share with our primary partners. But the good thing about me having a dungeon of my own is that it provides a space for us to be when we spend time together. So this bed will live in a special room at my place, to be used on our dates. (I did have a bed already, but it was getting rather old and it's been due to be retired, so to speak.)

I’ve never bought a bed from a department store. Being a bargain-conscious girl, I’ve always gone the warehouse-store route when I was bed shopping. But Roman has had good dealings with Macy’s, so off we went. We lay on all the beds, and I giggled a lot. I think we were both sort of oddly nervous. Neither of us have ever done something like this – meaning, buy a piece of furniture – with a secondary partner.

Observation on bed-shopping number one: Having a creepy-looking salesman stare down at you while you roll around on a bed is, well...creepy. We kept trying to shoo him off, but he’d just stand there, staring at us with this gaze that somehow managed to combine bovine sloth with a serial-killer-like blankness.

Observation number two: It’s amazing how intimate I am with Roman in some ways, and yet there’s still so much to learn about him. Watching someone move through a business transaction – and a fairly large financial expenditure – you just see a whole different side of them than you do at say, The Wet Spot or when you’re alone together. It’s interesting.

After we’d made a choice and were making arrangements for delivery, I thought to myself: Great, now Creepy Salesguy knows my name and address, too.

Then Creepy Salesguy wanted to sell us the extended warranty. “So you know, if you’re having a romantic evening and you spill red wine on the mattress, we’ll either come clean it or give you a new one free.”

I did not like this guy looking at me as I rolled around on a bed, and definitely didn’t like him looking at me and speculating about my romantic evenings. Ew. I considered saying, “You know, on our bed, it’s more likely to be blood. Your warranty cover that?” But I decided I didn’t want to get into it.

So, god willing and the creek don’t rise, the bed will be delivered Wednesday. Another poly landmark that Roman and I – with the support of Mrs. Roman and Max – have successfully negotiated.

An unexpected editorial decision on The Stranger’s part means my column-that’s-going-to-piss-people-off is actually up on the website now, instead of next week, as originally scheduled.

(The downside to that is it means this particular column will never see ink, which is a bummer. I’m told that in two weeks I should be reliably back in the print version, so keep your fingers crossed about that.)

So I will now prepare to be flamed in absentia on rope-bondage lists and boards nationwide. Good thing I wasn’t planning on attending Shibaricon anyway, they'd probably lynch me.

Also: What you can see in this week's Stranger is a picture of Miss Candy, who’s deservedly been named one of Seattle’s Sexiest People. The website photo is badly overexposed and doesn’t nearly do her yumminess justice, though. The pic in the print version is better, albeit black-and-white. And really, real life is the only way to truly experience her.

Interesting website for those involved in - or thinking of entering - the sex industry. It's a Canadian site, and so some of the customs are a little different here. But certainly worth a read.

And I think this little gadget looks like fun. Of course, I wouldn't put it on people who were sleeping... But that's just me.

Don’t Steal This Picture

Apparently I have both modeled for and taken one of the more popular fetish-art images floating around on the web, and at the time, I had no idea I’d done it.





It was several years ago, and I was deep in a self-portrait phase with my photography. I often said that I was my own best model – I worked for free, I was always available when I wanted to shoot, and I always understood the look I was going for. And having modeled for other people a fair amount, I understood how to hold my body for the best effect. The camera I was using back then didn’t have a remote release, so I was forced to use the ten-second timer. Ten seconds is not a lot of time to get from in back of a camera to in front of the lens and into a pose, but I did wind up getting some good images. (And while I really like film, the nice thing about digital is that you just delete the ones that suck.) It took some effort to get good shots, but it was a very educational process for me.

And thus one night, I was shooting in our dining room, which has wood floors and these cool pocket doors, and I thought I’d try some single-light techniques with them. I did a bunch of different poses, but this is the keeper from that session.

Now, I used to call this the “here come the aliens!” picture. Or else, “the X-files shot”. I suppose one might even read a religious undertone to this, someone “seeing the light”, or something like that. Doors and windows are a constant theme in a lot of my images. But I actually didn’t take it intending to suggest a submissive woman. If I’d wanted that, I would have used a second model, say, opening the doors or something. And I would have posed in a more traditionally submissive way - hands behind the back, and head down.

I have never posted it on any BDSM site. It originally went up for artistic and technical critique (without the red text) on Photo.net, a very serious photography site where I used to hang around. But apparently I wasn't the only kinkster there, and it must read like a female-submissive image to everyone but me, because I swear, not a week goes by that I don’t get an email from some kind and honorable person telling me they saw this image on someone else’s fetish-oriented website.

I will usually go scold the person in question and quote copyright law to them, and try to badger them into taking my picture down, because, hey, that’s my art, and that’s my body, and you didn’t ask me for permission. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. Short of hiring a lawyer to send them a cease-and-desist letter, there's little I can really do.

It’s especially annoying when some woman is using the image in such a way that strongly suggests it’s a picture of her – like in a personal ad. Hey lady, you get to the gym three times a week and run five miles and then you take a picture of your own naked butt, okay? I earned that behind and I don't like having other people use it to troll for dates.

Lately I haven’t had time to follow up on all the image-thief sightings, although rest assured, I appreciate the information, and it does annoy me when people steal images. I just wish I had a dollar for every perve who’s using this picture without permission. I had no idea what a monster I was creating.

No, I haven't forgotten you, but you know the drill: I'm quite busy. I'm still unpacking and settling into my new dungeon, my cat needs to go to the vet, and my car needs to go to the shop. The mundane world threatens to swamp me.

But on the creative side, I've been invited to submit a short story to an interesting-sounding new publication. I've created a plot in my head, and I think it'll work very well for what they want. Of course, that means I have to actually sit down and write it.

I'm currently in the middle of writing a column that will be extremely unpopular with a certain segment of the BDSM community. Should be fun. I can't be nice and diplomatic all the time...

All of you who enjoy the "weird phone calls" will like the new column...

And ooooh, I can't wait to see this. I've never worshipped Bettie Page the way some kinksters do, but I think she's cool and she was, without ever setting out to be, an early icon in the fetish world.

And the guy who talks to her in the trailer about how she must want to punish men? I have so talked to that guy. Hundreds of times. Things don't change much in some ways.

Old And New

Over the last week I have thrown away, given away, and sold a whole bunch of stuff that I had left in the old house, because it was time for the Mistress to do a purge. Most of it wasn’t really kinky – random bits of clothing, housewares, unneeded furniture. Some of it was a trifle odd, I suppose, like the animal skulls give me by a flirtatious taxidermist, the statue of a nude woman in chains brought to me by a client, and the antique barber’s chair that looked really cool but weighed a freakin’ ton. Lots of people wanted the barber chair, but I had begun to think I’d never find anyone who’d actually be willing to come and take it away. (I did, finally.) I’ve still got the antique block and tackle (Max’s impulse purchase from a garage sale) that needs to go away, but I’ve thought of someone who would like it, so I’m planning to present it to him as a gift.

So the old house is almost finally empty. But there are two slightly kinky items left sitting on the porch, waiting to be adopted by someone. This, which has been sat on exactly twice, by me, and not a whole lot exciting happened. And this, which would surely fit in with someone's roleplaying fantasy. Want them? Drop me a note in the next 24 hours and I’ll give you the address. After that, I call the junk-man.

What I really need now is: A kink-friendly upholsterer. You see, I have this special fabulous bondage table, with two removable inserts, and the vinyl is cracking. That’s not okay. It needs to be recovered. And because of the insert pieces, it’s not a matter of just putting a sheet of vinyl over it and tacking down the edges. I need someone with the skills and the equipment to make a pattern and sew heavy-duty, marine-grade vinyl. (The original upholsterer is unavailable.)

The kink-friendly part is non-negotiable. I will not going to deal with a vanilla person around this, because there is no conceivable way it could be passed off as anything except exactly what it is, a table designed to facilitate bondage and torment. No way at all.

So I'm using my "second" bondage table for now, which is interesting because it has wheels, being a surgical table, but it's not as cool. I want my good table back.

Anyone have a suggestion?

Okay, the all-new dungeon is officially up and running. Still some decorating and arranging to do – and some more serious shopping, too. But it’s taking shape and looking pretty damn good, if I do say so. I should take some photos once it’s all done and show ya’ll.

And it's just in time for me to switch my focus and accompany Max to the Traveling Erotic Art Show Thursday and then help with the Partial Suspension Bondage class Sunday. Should be a fun weekend.

All Dominatrixes, All The Time

I'm not sure how I feel about this court decision and this ad for the MiniCooper. (Be sure and follow the links to see all the images.)

On the one hand, I don't think the Mistress murdered the guy, and if they can't prove she cut up his body and tried to hide it, well, then - she deserves to get off. But Jesus, I hope she doesn't get back in the business. It's the kinda thing that makes clients nervous.

I actually have had one client, an older guy who's not in the best of health, tell me that if he keels over, I shouldn't call 911 because his wife would find out where he was. He wants me to call a pal of his (whose phone number is in his shirt pocket) who will apparently come and discreetly take him (in whatever state he's in) away.

I've told him forget it, if he strokes out, I'm calling the paramedics and he can just deal with whatever fallout there is. I'm not setting myself up to get sued by his irate family for negligence!

The Mini ad - well, it's sort of cute, I guess. I like the catsuit. And in some ways, any mainstreaming of kink is a good thing. Although that model has no earthly idea how to throw a long whip. It's a miracle she didn't lash herself in the face.

But it goes past cute into cutesy. And superficial. It's the kind of thing that makes women without the slightest notion of what BDSM really is decide, "Oooh, that's a sexy outfit she has on. I should become a professional dominatrix so I can look cool like that and guys will give me money." I know, I know - it's advertising, so of course it's going to be cutesy and superficial. But it doesn't make me want to buy a Mini - so there, Madison Avenue.

I love my new house. I love it so much. I love it because it’s warm. I love my garage. I love my pretty new carpet. I love my decks. (Even when it’s raining.) I love my three bathrooms. I love love love my house. Thanks to Roman for providing me with (im)moral support for the big day on Friday, and thanks to Steven and Jerry and Roman and Max for the dungeon-furniture-assembly project Sunday.

But there are other things to talk of besides my beautiful house. I don’t wish to become too tedious, although like anyone with a new love object, I am obsessed. But I still have my other obsessions, too. There are new books on the bedside table, for example. I've just begun the Gabaldon one, and the others have yet to be opened, but I'm looking forward to them all.

A Breath of Snow and Ashes: A Novel by Diana Gabaldon

The Girl in the Glass: A Novel by Jeffrey Ford

Self-Made Man : One Woman's Journey into Manhood and Back by Norah Vincent

The Big Book of Noir by Lee Server; Martin H. Greenberg; Ed Gorman

Dark Crimes 2: Modern Masters of Noir by Ed Gorman (Editor)

Grifter's Game by Lawrence Block

The Big Con : The Story of the Confidence Man by David Maurer

Something from the Nightside, by Simon R. Green

Moving Day!

But you don't have to do any heavy lifting. Read this instead....

New House
The thick, soft new carpet is (finally) all in place, and it looks and feels great. The walls are freshly painted. Two more days of packing, and then Friday- the big day.
I'm very excited! (And very tired, too. But mainly excited.)

Fair warning: blogging will be light this week. The movers come Friday morning and I'm in the final push to get everything packed and ready. But I can't wait to be in my new place!

So talk amongst yourselves. Here's a topic: this month's Rolling Stone features an article about famed film-maker Larry (or perhaps I should say Laurenca*) Wachowski and his/her relationship with former pro domme Ilsa Strix. Roman called it to my attention, and his opinion is that it's unflattering to the BDSM community, pro dommes, and transexuals. Me? Well, I can't speak for the trans-folks, but frankly, in the current social climate, I think any mainstream media coverage that doesn't directly connect the BDSM community with dead bodies in oil drums is a win. Yes, it's gossipy and rather leering, but, hey, it's Rolling Stone. You want serious, weighty articles, read The Economist.
Discuss.


*For the record, I'd be happy to refer to L. Wachowski by whatever name and pronoun he/she wishes. Until a preference is publicly stated, however, I am left to flounder with clumsy parenthesis and cumbersome slashes. Not that I think any of the principles in this story are losing sleep over my writerly distress.

A sample of my complex and amusing social calendar... Recently my friend Rossi, who enjoys watching beautiful naked women, decided to organize a “girl’s night out at the strip club” for all the usual suspects. She got a dozen eager takers right away, which, in my crowd of friends, surprises me not at all. They were all set to go for last Friday.

Now, many strip clubs won’t allow women to come in unless they're with a man. I used to think this was a anti-lesbian bias, but then I realized: they’re trying to keep out prostitutes. Think about it - if you were a prostitute on the prowl, what better place to pass out cards than a strip club full of horny guys? Talk about fish in a barrel.

So Rossi needed a male escort for her party. Who did she turn to? Max, of course. “So, Max, there’s a dozen girls who want to go to Rick’s, will you go with us?”

Can’t you just see his face? “Oh, gee, that’s a tough one. Escort a bunch of cute girl pals of mine to a strip club full of pretty, barely-dressed women and watch them all writhe around on each other? Well, shucks, I guess I could suffer through an evening of that.”

They invited me, but frankly, I spent enough time working at Rick’s that going back there recreationally would not be a pleasure for me. I really don’t like Seattle strip clubs. Clubs in other cities are much more fun, but it’s way too tense here for my liking. Thus, I declined.

Mrs. Roman, on the other hand, was one of the ladies who accepted. So Roman said, “Well, since Max is taking my wife to the strip club, how about you and I have a date? I have a great idea, we could…” He leaned forward and whispered in my ear.

“Ohhh, wow, could we? I'd love that.” I said. “Let me just check with Max.”

I went to Max and asked him. “Sure,” he said, “that’s fine. What were you two thinking about doing? Dinner? A movie?”

“Well, we were talking about something different…” Then I told him what Roman and I had discussed. “I just want to make sure you feel okay about us doing that.”

Max looked at me. “Let me get this straight. I’m going out with the girls to Rick’s, and you and Roman are going...to Ikea?”

“Yes, if that’s okay with you. I know you and I had talked about going sometime, so if you’d rather I didn’t…”

“Oh, no – that’s fine, really. Really. I can honestly say I have no issues whatsoever about Roman taking you to Ikea.” He kissed me affectionately and then as he turned slightly away, made a tiny fist-pull gesture in the air and whispered, “Yes!” under his breath.

“Honey! Did you not want to go furniture-shopping with me?” I said, half-laughing and half-exasperated.

He kissed me again. “Sweetie, I’d be happy to go anywhere with you. But if you’re asking me if I really enjoy traipsing through Ikea, well…”

So there you have it. Max and Roman’s wife and a dozen other girls went to Rick’s and had strippers climb all over them. Roman and I went to Ikea and climbed on all the couches and beds. (We liked the round one especially.) I decided I will probably buy this couch, and Roman admitted a fondness for those little net canopies that you put over beds. I got totally lost in all the twists and turns, and had to let Roman lead me around - he claims playing video games have given him super navigational powers in maze-like environments. We talked about all manner of interior decorating and had a lovely time. Then we went to Stellars and had yummy pizza.

Just after we got back to my place, Max and six women arrived. (The other ladies had gone home.) Max had offered to make late-night breakfast for them all, something he’s good at. They were full of stripper stories – apparently a good time was had by all. Then Roman went home to hear his wife’s stories first hand and get some sleep. A very satisfying night for everyone, I think…

Happy Friday, everyone.... For your reading pleasure, the new column and calendar.
And, a Stranger staffer's view on using spanking as a cure for Seasonal Affect Disorder. (It's the last segment.) I had a lot of fun warming up Mr. Kiley's cute little butt, especially after he told me he was the office prude. Not any more, Brendan!

I love my life.

Furniture Lust, Continued…

I haven’t got time to do any real-time shopping for a new furniture yet, so I’m still poking around online to satisfy my desires. Couches are the big thing right now, as my current one is old and it’s really starting to sink.

I think black leather is the way to go. Yes, I know it seems sort of obvious – dominatrix, black leather, yeah yeah yeah… But really, leather is easy to keep clean, and if you get decent quality it stays looking nice a long while. And black goes with everything.

So this one looks nice. It’s basic, but it’s got nice clean lines.

(These little side tables are cute, too. The tops lift off for storage inside.)

Then I saw this one. I liked this shape more, but in chartreuse? Oh, I so don’t think so.

On a whole other site: I like this shape, too. A lot of the stuff on this site seems cool. But it’s suspiciously cheap, and I’m reluctant to buy something this big from a mail-order company, especially since I don’t know anyone who’s dealt with them, and I’ve never seen any of their products in real life.

Now, I was resisting looking for a couch at Ikea because – well, because it’s Ikea. Don’t get me wrong, I think Ikea is great - for some things. God knows my office walls are lined with those inexpensive particle-board bookcases. And they have cute funky accessories. But I wouldn’t tend to shop there for stuff like couches and beds and so forth.

However, I have to admit, this is a cool looking couch. Perhaps I'll have to make a run past the Swedish Disneyland to take a little look-see at it...

A client asked me the other day, “How often do people come to see you?” I think he was feeling a little self-conscious about the fact that he came in twice in a month. But that’s not really unusual, especially at the beginning. If you’ve been fantasizing about something for years and you finally get an outlet, you’re probably going to binge a little, it’s natural.

So it’s common for me to see someone once, and then have them call a week later and schedule again for few days out. Unless they’re in from out of town and only have a small window, booking more than once in a two-week period is a bit unusual. It does happen sometimes, though, and I certainly don’t mind.

After the initial rush, if there is one, has died down, it seems to break down into a couple of different groupings. First, there are the once-a-month guys. Obviously, I get to know these boys very well, since many of them have been seeing me for years.

Then there’s a group that seems to call about every three months. Again, I’ve been seeing lots of these guys for years, and I know a lot of them well, too. A number of them came to see me oftener when they could, but job or lifestyle changes have reduced their opportunities. They’re still very good regular visitors.

After that, I have a bunch of guys I know who call me about twice a year. It’s sort of interesting playing with these guys, because I get some of the effect of a known quantity, which I like, but since I don’t see them very often, there’s still a lot of unexplored territory, too. With six months in between visits, they often need to jog my memory a little about just which “Sam” or “Mike” I’m talking to when they call. Sometimes it’s harder than others, but usually, they’ll come up with some bit of trivia – “I’m the guy who works for the IRS,” or “Last time I saw you I brought you a catnip toy for your cat” – that makes me say, “Oh, right - THAT Mike! Hey, how you doing, honey? Long time no see.” But even with long gaps, after a certain number of visits, I’ll recognize their voices when they call.

Every now and then I’ll see someone once and then they vanish. Which is fine – but it’s unusual. And you can’t ever assume you'll never see a client again. Just today someone called and said. “So I saw you once three years ago...Can I make another appointment?” Three years? He must be on the extra-long kink cycle…

Well, I had a good time at Wicked Women, although I was really only around for one day. But my workshop seemed to go well. I was amused to see any number of women attending who I know perfectly well have no intention of ever becoming pro dommes. Apparently they just wanted to hear me rant. Hey, that’s fine, I’m always happy to entertain my friends.

And I had a good time schmoozing and socializing with a lot of women I haven’t seen in a while. I didn’t go to any of the other workshops, though. I’m bad about that, especially at local events. There were a couple of classes on techniques I do want a refresher on – branding and saline inflation – but I know all I have to do is call up one of my advanced pervert pals, and I can go over to their house for a private demo. It spoils me.

I had a perfectly delightful time at the dungeon party with Jae. I suspended her, beat her, attached vicious spring clamps to her nipples and labia, and electrified her girly parts at such length and intensity that it’s a good thing she doesn’t plan on having children. Then after the scene was (sort of) over, I left the long metal electrode buried in her pink parts and made her walk around the party with me as I socialized. I took great delight in pushing the remote control button and zapping her every little while. Jae has a marvelously expressive face, and her reaction to the electricity charmed me. I think at one point she claimed I was cauterizing her cervix. I told her that was nonsense, I didn’t smell any burning flesh. And then the next day, what does she do but volunteer to help with the Branding class? See how she is?

But seriously, she’s great fun, and just to prove what a sport she is, this week she’s going to help me do a decorative faux finish to the reception room of my new dungeon. (It’ll hopefully look something like this, although a slightly different color. More like this, although this is a Venetian Plaster finish, whatever the heck that is. We're just doing a glaze.)

Normally, you understand, I do not paint and such myself. It’s not something I’m naturally good at. As far as I’m concerned, home improvement is something one does with a checkbook. However, Jae is quite talented at such things and she's done a lot of decorating. She swears glazing is easy, so I’m going to give it a try. But just in case this project turned out to be a case of Jae's Revenge On The Mistress, I went by the Bellevue Home Show yesterday (Thanks for the tickets, Liss!) and picked up a card for a professional faux finisher. Always good to have expert backup when you have no idea what the hell you're doing.

The newest column and Kink Calendar. Enjoy, and I'll see you Monday, perhaps with a tale about my weekend adventures at the Wicked Womyn conference...

Weird sex work jobs I have known: I once worked for a stripper telegram service. You know, the more-or-less legit ones, where you show up at someone’s office and pretend to be a delivery person or a job applicant or something, and then you surprise the person by taking your clothes off.

I wasn’t crazy about it. I didn’t mind if someone knew it was coming, but the sneak-attack ones didn’t sit well with me. It’s that consent thing. Often the surprised recipient – or should I say victim? - seemed uncomfortable with the whole thing. I’m fine with doing some sexy entertainment for someone, but I didn’t like feeling like a tool for his friends to embarrass him with, for their entertainment.

I refused to do the ones in restaurants and bars and such. No way. Even if it was only a down-to-my-lingerie gig, I wasn’t up for that. Offices were about as public as I’d get, and even that was iffy.

The bachelor parties presented a different set of challenges. The service I worked for was one of the mainstream, franchised outfits, that also had clowns and magicians and other non-sexy performers featured prominently in the Yellow Pages ad, and they did make the point to the customers that nothing illegal was allowed to happen at these shindigs. But still, anytime you’ve got a bunch of guys, drinking, and two or maybe three girls, you need to manage the situation carefully.

Balanced against that was one’s willingness to perhaps let a guy’s hands wander a bit, if the right financial incentive were offered. But you also had to weigh the possibility that if you did that, one of the other girls might rat you out to management and get you into trouble. Unless, of course, she did it too. (Although I have known of instances where both girls broke the rules and then one tattled on the other anyway. So much for honor among thieves.)

I wasn’t making a big living off it, but it was some extra cash. (I honestly cannot recall what my main income stream was at the time.) But the job took a strange turn one night when I was told I'd been booked for a boy’s high school graduation party. By his mother.

O-kay, I thought. She’s the cool-mom type, very relaxed about her son’s sexuality. Or, she’s got no personal boundaries whatsoever.

And when I got there, it wasn’t the boy and a bunch of his adolescent friends, as I’d thought. No, it was a family party. So there’s his parents, and his aunts and uncles, and his four-year-old little sister, and his grandmother. Yeah, I said his grandma. I’m supposed to do a striptease for this kid in front of his whole damn family. Jesus Christ.

His mom took me aside to pay me and I said, “Are you sure you want me to do this? In front of everyone?”

She kinda looked at me like she couldn’t understand why I’d ask. “Yes, I’ve been telling everyone you were coming.” And then she starts introducing me to everyone, like I’m some long-lost cousin or something. “This is Marcella, she’s going to do a little show for us.” Now I know: this woman has no personal boundaries.

Then I met the graduate. It was immediately clear to me that he didn’t have a sex life for his mom to be relaxed about. There was no girlfriend present at the party, and he was not – to be blunt – terribly attractive. I imagined he would be nice-looking when he grew up a bit, but I pegged him as still a virgin.

Now imagine this nervous, obviously uncomfortable teenage boy sitting on a chair in his living room, with all his relatives ranged in a semi-circle around him, waiting to watch him try not to pop a woody when some sexy girl puts her cleavage in his face. The poor kid. I felt so sorry for him.

I was pretty uncomfortable with it myself. But dedicated professional that I was, I put my music on and took a position in front of him. Under the cover of the Prince tune, I leaned forward and whispered to him, “Kinda bizarre doing this with all these people here, huh?”

He rolled his eyes slightly. “Yeah - way.”

“Yeah, I feel a little strange too. But don’t worry, we’ll be cool.”

It was one of the longer five minutes of my life, and I’m guessing he felt the same way. I was definitely doing the PG version of my show, but even without putting my ass right in his lap, I could see that he wasn’t completely in control his teenage-boy hormones. The look on his face, however, would have been more appropriate to someone suffering from a deep gastro-intestinal disorder.

I did try to minimize the erotic effect by not making much eye contact with him, which was tricky, because I was also trying to not look at anyone else in the room. Not everyone was so inhibited. In my peripheral vision, I could see Uncle Al, over to my left, turning pink and sweating slightly as he bobbed his head to the music, an odd little smile on his lips. The kid’s father was also watching me very closely, apparently unaware that his wife was watching him watch me and looking none too pleased about it. (Hello, lady, did you not think of that when you booked me?)

Grandma was saying in a quavering voice, “Goodness, I think the ladies should have left the room for this. This is for gentlemen only.”

And the four-year-old girl had to be restrained from coming right up to me to dance along with me. I’m sure that would caused her brother’s head to implode.

So we got through it. When the song ended, I scooped up my clothes and retreated into the bathroom to get dressed and try to compose myself. When I came out, the boy had vanished into his room, for which I did not blame him one bit. The mother suddenly seemed quite ready for me to leave, but as I walked towards the door, the little girl attached herself to my leg and announced that she wanted to dance just like me when she grew up.

Boom, that’s it, my weirdness meter just went into the red. I am so quitting this job.

A few links for your enjoyment...

A cool new-ish blog by a local poly and kinky guy…

Is this for real? I wish some Aussie person would tell me if this is a gag site or not. If it’s real, well, all I can say is: Context is everything, apparently. (Caution: Annoying sound file when you open the link.)

Interesting article about the sex industry – and the debate about decriminalization – in Europe.

Upcoming event: On Thursday, February 2nd, Max will be doing bondage performance art at the Traveling Erotic Art Show in Seattle's Pioneer Square. Come watch him tie up cute girls and check out the cool art.

Well, we had a busy weekend – so busy I didn’t even get to post yesterday. Max’s pal Tom (and his girlfriend) came up from California to co-present the Exotic Bondage Gear class. When Tom arrived on Saturday afternoon, he opened up his bags and started stacking all the gear up on the kitchen table. I seriously wondered if it might buckle under the weight by time he was finished unloading.

And the TSA had a field day with Tom’s suitcases - note the forms saying, "We opened your bag."

Yeah, I bet they opened them up. This isn't even all the stuff. Not shown in this shot, for example, are the two Secretary-style neck-and-wrist stocks. Those had to have looked pretty wild on the X-ray. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall when they unpacked Tom’s stuff and looked at it. He's convinced they just did it out of curiosity, as opposed to really thinking he might be dangerous. (Although, now that I say it that way: Tom, you are dangerous. Cute, but dangerous.)

This week in the New House department: the painters come! (Hopefully they’ll clean up after themselves, though.)
And next week: new carpet. Yes, did get the 8-pound pad and all nylon fibers. Thanks for the tips, kids.

I’m taking time off from house stuff to teach my class at Wicked Women, and then to thrash the living daylights out of Jae on Saturday night. That should be delightful. I have some general ideas for the scene – especially after talking to a pal of mine who’s an electrical engineer - but I’m still soliciting really, really vile and terrible suggestions, if anyone’s got any. She’s tough, that girl, and I’ve been playing with her for a number of years, so it’s a challenging to keep topping myself, so to speak. But I have some schemes.

Note: yes, I got bumped out of the paper edition of The Stranger this past week. That happens to most of us at one time or another, if the paper is running thin. But no fear, I’ll be back as usual this coming week.

The weekly column and calendar... Enjoy! See you all at the Bondage Class Sunday...

So, I’m preparing for the class I’m teaching at the Wicked Women conference in ten days: “Pro Domme 101”. Which might also be entitled, “Everything You Always Thought You Knew About Becoming A Professional Dominatrix, Debunked.”

Seriously, I am going to try to touch at least briefly on every aspect that I can think of regarding starting up a business as a pro domme. It’s only 90 minutes, so this will be the Cliff notes version, but hopefully I can make it a learning experience. (If you have questions or suggestions about things you think should be covered in such a class, BTW, you’re welcome to send them in. I don’t promise to answer you all personally, but I’ll consider your input for the class.)

Someone asked me, “I’d love to attend that class, but I’m not going to WW. How come you don’t teach a class like this at Babeland or somewhere?” My response: A.) Why the hell not? And B.) Because I don't want to.

It's an issue of who I want to spend my time teaching. Understand, I definitely don't make big money teaching classes - often, as with WW, I get nothing at all but a comp to the event. So if I teach a class, it's just for the pleasure of passing on my knowledge. And I do feel a certain moral obligation to teach the next generation of perverts, seeing as how lots of patient people shared their information with me when I was just a pup.

But I reserve the right to be picky about who I give my time to. There are a lot of not-particularly-kinky women around who are taken with the idea of being a pro domme because they think it would be easy money. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what I think about that. If I taught a class where anyone on the street with twenty bucks could walk in, I’d get a lot of “show me the money” girls, and they would annoy the fool out of me.

But it’s different at a leather conference. You see, when you teach at a leather conference, you know something about the attendees before you ever stand up and start talking. And what you know is: they’ve made a certain level of commitment to the theory and practice of being a kinky person. They shelled out a not-insubstantial number of dollars to attend the conference, and a lot of them spent time and money traveling to get to it, too. To me that means that they’re willing to self-identify as a kinkster, and they’re willing to mix and mingle with a whole bunch of other people who also identify as such.

Not everyone will do that, and it signifies something to me. It’s not that I have an issue with bedroom-only perves. Hey, however you want to get your freak on is okay with me. Mazel tov.

But if you want to take it into the business realm – well, now I have some ideas about where the bar should be placed for you. You could call it professional rigor, although there’s almost something religious about it for me. Anyone can worship in the church, but if you want to get into the pulpit and start passing the collection plate? Oh, my dear, you got to have the true religion to do that.

So before I start teaching you how to be a pro domme, I need to know that you’ve got faith. One of the ways you can demonstrate an adherence to what I consider to be the basic principles of good kinksmanship (kinkswomanship?) is by going to a BDSM conference. It’s not the only way - far from it. And god knows there are few dangerous assholes (that I know of) who go to conventions. But since I can’t personally interview everyone who attends my class, it’s a good shorthand method of determining whether I am sowing my seeds of my knowledge and experience on fertile ground.

A clarification, because someone asked: I am not "closed for business" right now. I'll be seeing people as usual in my current space until my new space is ready, and then, towards the end of this month I'll move, most likely over a weekend when I normally wouldn't be seeing people anyway. I may take a Friday or Monday off, I suppose, but no more than that. Otherwise, for you, my dear clients, the transition should be fairly seamless.

Consumer porn of the day: Really beautiful couch. Gorgeous.

You should all brace yourself for a wave of non-kinky consumer porn around here, because there's going to be a lot of shopping-for-the-house in the next few weeks. Roman is trying to warn me against going to the Seattle Home Show next month, as he swears that the predatory vendors there can smell new homeowners - and their money - a mile away. But what can I say, it's a fetish. I'm obsessed with my new toy.

Like my gas stove. Now, I have a wood-burning fireplace in the living room, and that's nice, but in the playroom-to-be, there's a freestanding gas stove, which looks more or less like this:



I hate it. I mean, it does kick out the heat, and that's great, but christ, it's so old-fashioned looking. It is un-sexy, to the nth degree. I am thinking about just tearing it out completely, but it seems like a shame somehow, as it's fairly new.

And I did some looking around, but all gas stoves seemed to be similarly ugly... Until I found this one. This is pretty. Of course, it's also hideously expensive. The top one on this page is cute, too, and I'm guessing it's also pricey. My bad luck, to have champange tastes.

Okay, enough house stuff. On a much sexier note: Check out Miss Candy's kinky personal training. It's a niche service, but she's a great trainer, and I'm betting there are some pervy, paunchy boys who'd love her to beat them into shape. Yowza!

Happy New Year, everyone. I had a good 2005, but I’m looking forward to 2006, too. And I had fun bringing in the new year with an intimate little gathering of friends. Big parties are fun, but I just wasn’t up for a seventy-plus-people event after the madness of the last six weeks, so we just had a few close pals. Thus, there are no cage-stuffing pictures this year. (More blasts from the past here.)

We did get a few shots of other fun activities, however. (Note: Pics are not work-safe.)

Here’s a cute boy with a big smile.

And while I can’t see her face, Rossi was probably smiling, since she usually is when you play with her. It's a wicked smile, too.

I myself did not play, preferring to follow my once-a-year tradition of drinking champagne until I am...slightly uninhibited. It’s rare for me to drink alcohol at all, but I allow myself this indulgence on NYE. Still, I was very good this year. I did not forcibly disrobe and spank my attorney, nor did I piss on anyone nonconsensually. Roman and I did sing some show tunes, but you know, I can sort of stay on key if someone sings in my ear. Sort of.

Someone who drank less than I did has decided that my memorable line for the evening was, “Mommy needs some more champagne!” You may have to know me to realize just how lit I must have been if I actually referred to myself as Mommy. And while I don't usually have much of an accent, apparently I dropped back into my Georgia drawl last night, too. Lordy.

So, now that the debauched festivities are over, I’m preparing to plunge into The New House, Phase Two. I’ve got appointments with people to give me bids on new interior paint and new carpet. (The paint guy is someone Max has used before and liked, but if anyone local has a recommendation on a good carpet supplier/installer, I’d be interested.)

Less Fun: I also need to start packing and/or getting rid of everything at the current dungeon. I’ll be moving a lot of stuff, naturally, but there’s a ton of stuff I just need to get rid of. I have a feeling Craig’s List: Free Stuff will be seeing something of me in the next few weeks.

And I’m thinking about having a kinky rummage sale. Seriously. I have all kinds of various weird stuff that I don’t use – in some cases, have never used – and I should just get rid of it. I don’t want to bother with Ebay. I’d probably just make big piles and say, “Everything in this pile is a dollar, everything in that pile is five dollars”… ect. I just want to get it gone.

My next big social events: the bondage party this Sunday. Max’s good friend Tom is coming up to co-present the Exotic Bondage Equipment class, and then there’s party afterwards. The weekend after that: The Wicked Womyn conference, where I’ll be teaching "Pro Domme 101". And I have date to thrash Jae at that event, too - always a pleasure. My life doesn’t slow down much, does it?

While I amuse my family, please amuse yourself with the new column and calendar.

The webpage tackles the question of the ages: How many condoms can you wear at once?
I believe them that you shouldn't try this with a real penis, although I can think of some guys who find tremendous pressure on their cocks to be fun. But I doubt they'd care for the removal process pictured here.

Having my family here visiting really, really distracts me. It's not a bad thing, per se, but you know you're really scattered when you pick up a can of deodorant and spray it on your hair. Thank god I haven't tried to brush my teeth with with my eye cream.

So if you're one of the people from whom I'm being distracted: sorry. I'll be normal again on Saturday.

So, Mom is here, my older brother and his girlfriend are arriving later today, it'll be the whole family fiesta. And they're all very impressed with my new house. Of course, they have no idea what debauched and evil deeds I'm going to be committing in it, heh. They think I'm going to rent it out.

My brother, alone of all my family members, has some slight notion of my alternate persona, because he lived here in Seattle for awhile. Basically, he knows about the column in The Stranger. He carefully cultivated ignorance about the rest of the sticky details.

But then, my whole family does that, which is quite fine with me. I've had people close to me be outed to their families about being kinky or poly or whatever, but if you tried to tell my family any juicy details about my sex life, they'd probably stick their fingers in their ears and go, "La-La-La-La-La-La-Laaaaaa, I can't hear you..." It's a convenient attitude. In fact, years ago, in the midst of our spectacularly unpleasant break up, my ex-husband actually did out me to my mom about being poly. She asked me about it, and we discussed it calmly for about five minutes. And then she sort of sighed, and we started talking about something else. The topic did not arise again until I brought it up three years later.

But all that aside, I thought I was doing a pretty good job of, shall we say, maintaining the boundaries between my lives. But my confidence about that has wavered slightly, because Christmas day, my mother told me that my brother's girlfriend was somewhat intimidated about meeting me.
"About meeting me? Why on earth would she be?"
My mother shrugged. "I don't know, he's told her some stories about you, or something."

Now my brother likes to make a good story out of things - he's an actor and a writer, it's an occupational hazard. But still, that surprised me. I mean: me? I'm a pussycat. I'm sugar and spice and everything nice. Aren't I? Damn, I thought I was. Unless, of course, we agree that it's going to be otherwise, but you know, with my brother's sweetie, that's just not a situation that's going to arise. (Yes, I do know that for sure. Some lines you do not cross.)

So I do wonder exactly what kinds of stories my dearest brother has told his sweet little girlfriend that she's scared of me. It's not the kind of thing you can ask outright, either. "So, did my brother tell you I'm a professional dominatrix?" At least, you don't say that kind of thing in my family. "Don't Ask/Don't Tell" cuts both ways.

While I'm off signing my life away: the new column and calendar...

Okay, I finally feel sure enough about this to reveal what all the mystery and busyness has been about lately: I’m closing on a house on Friday morning.

The act of actually buying a house for the first time feels strange. It’s such a grown-up, mainstream thing to do. And frankly, it's made me uneasy. I have strutted naked on stages in front of a crowd, I have made personal revelations to hostile audiences, I have done deeply intimate things with people whose names I didn’t know, I have looked into a stranger’s eyes and made a split second decision about whether or not I could trust them with my safety. None of those things make me particularly nervous.

Sitting across a desk from a mortgage broker made me nervous. That's why I've been unwilling to blog about the whole house-buying adventure step-by-step, because of my feeling that the mortgage process might very well go sideways at any moment. Max reassured me, and so did Roman. "These people want to give you a mortgage, really they do," they both told me. "When you get a mortgage, they make money." Well, that's a motivation I can certainly understand.

But still...I am not the kind of person banks like to lend money to. Don’t get me wrong, I pay my taxes and my bills. But my life simply does not fit into those little boxes on their forms. Dealing with banks makes me feel like Supergirl confronted with Kryptonite. The powers that serve me very well in most of my life do not work in the offices of financial institutions.

Except one – my ability to generate and save (reasonably) large chunks of money. Banks like that. Hence the recent hectic schedule.

I was on track to buy a house anyway – but I was thinking, oh, March of next year. Then in late October my landlord called and said “We want to sell the house – how soon do you think you could move out?” So my plans had to be fast-forwarded. I can do fast-forward, though, if I have to. So I did.

Of course, I had help. A lot of my guys were extra-generous during this period. But one particular guy - even more so than all my other really fabulous boys - was my angel in this matter, and for that, he merits special mention. He knows who he is so, thank you to him!

The other thank you goes to my terrific real estate agent, Ted Allison. I am not your average home-buyer, to put it mildly, but when I told Ted what I wanted, he listened without raising an eyebrow and got right into the spirit of it. He never tried to push me when I said, “It’s nice…but it’s not quite right”. And he worked really hard to get the deal I wanted on the house I wanted. He’s just been great, and I’d recommend him to anyone.

A point of clarification for my friends: I’m not moving out of Max’s house. The house that I’m buying will serve as the headquarters and private dungeon of Mistress Matisse, Inc. Note my use of the first person singular pronoun - I have always felt that in the same sense that good fences make good neighbors, having some separate financial investments makes for good relationships.

Now I have a new place for my dungeon, which I am looking forward to. And now I have to pack up the dungeon and move it, which I am not looking forward to. My new place isn’t far at all from where I am now, so those of you who know the way won’t have to learn a whole new route. Just go about half a mile further south, is all.

So now you know. I’ve always been something of a capitalist. But Friday, Mistress Matisse becomes part of the land-owning bourgeois.

Resistance Was Futile

Okay, okay, I give up. Everyone else has already read them, I’m way behind the cutting edge on this. (In fact, I think they've now become un-cool.) But lately I did at last succumb to the genre-novel pleasures of the early Laurel K. Hamilton “Anita Blake” books.

Notice I said the early ones. Because I’ve now read all of them, and my verdict is that the later ones? Are not so good. I think after book seven, Laurel’s agent came to her and said “Laurel, honey? Put in a lot more sex. Actually – put in a lot more kinky sex. We’ll make more money.” And Laurel did, and I’m sure they have made more money, but the books are not nearly as entertaining anymore.

You’d think I’d like kinky sex in novels, wouldn’t you? But you know, when you are kinky, it’s hard not to be really picky about the details. For me, it’s kinda like watching porn – since I’m a part of the sex industry, I cannot suspend my disbelief enough to not notice the shadow of the boom mike in the money shot. I don’t know if Ms Hamilton is a member of the BDSM community or not, but the way she writes about it – well, it just doesn’t feel like something she knows intimately. Maybe she does, and she’s just distancing herself from it a bit to keep from alienating the more squeamish readers. But it sure doesn’t get me wet. I usually find myself skimming quickly through the long (way too long) sex scenes, because they don’t ring any bells in my head.

Then there's the character herself. In the beginning, Anita Blake, as a zombie-raiser and vampire hunter, was a charming twist on the Dashiel Hammett hard-boiled detective type. She was tough, she got pissed easily and mouthed off to people a lot, and if they fucked with her, she killed them. Whoo-hoo, big fun.

Then she started fucking the vampires, and werewolves, too. Which is fine with me, but she’s so damn angsty about it that she comes across as whiny. I mean, a little angst about sleeping with monsters for one book, maybe two – okay, fine, it’s a growth opportunity. But my personal stance is: you can complain about something once or twice, and I’ll give you sympathy. After that, I’m going to ask you what you’re doing to change the situation, and if your answer is “nothing”, then I’m pretty much out of sympathy for you. This applies to fictional characters as well as real life. So Anita, face it: you’re kinky. And since you have practically a whole stable of male lovers, you’re poly, too. And you really need to get over all the whinging about it, because I’m tired of listening to it. It’s a good thing you’re not bi, because I’m sure we’d never hear the end of that.

All that aside: yes, they’re fun to read, and I’ve turned Roman onto them too. I’ve been so busy lately that light stuff I can pick up and put down has been just the thing. Ms. Blake has got two more Anita books coming out in 2006, and I’m still game to give her a chance on them. Better late than never.

I'm busy today, so just a PSA for now about the women's BDSM conference coming up here in Seattle next month... I'm a presenter, by the way, as are a number of my pervy friends. The conference is January 13-16, 2006.

From the press release:

The Wicked Womyn 2006 Conference is just around the corner and is expected to be a fantastic event. The mail-in registration deadline has ended but you can still register online between December 16, 2005 and January 7, 2006 and pay via PayPal. Go tohttp://wickedwomyn.com to register on-line.

After January 7th you can register at the door for $130.00.

Out of towners, take note: The host hotel, LaQuinta Inn, is almost sold out. So make your reservations soon, before the rooms are all gone.

Well, I had a busy but fun weekend. Saturday night I went to the last hurrah at The Catwalk, a bar that’s been open and hosting sexy events since I was just a pup in this town. It’s kinda sad to know that it's closing down. But the final event was good - Max and I got to see Miss Candy shaking her tail-feathers in some of Imp Of Satan’s newest creations, Nerdygirl do her best carnival barker impersonation, and Silver demonstrating her equestrian training skills. Charming. And we didn’t reek of cigarette smoke afterwards, what a nice change. Want to see a few pictures from Malixe? Go here.

I wore my black latex pants to this event, and when I got them out earlier that evening, I paused and realized that while they aren’t quite as old as The Catwalk, I have indeed had them a number of years. They’ve held up very well. There’s no label in them, but I’m pretty sure I got them from latex designer Naughty Nancy, back when she was here in Seattle. It’s a shame she went back to Canada, I always liked her stuff.

But still, perhaps it’s time for a new pair. Oh, look, Syren seems to be having a sale – how convenient. I think a bit of shopping is in order.

The other latex thing I want is one of these: a vacuum bed. Yes, I think I’m going to have to see about one of these quite soon. I have tried them, and they’re quite intense. I'd have to have one custom made, though, as I would want certain special features.

And now it’s Monday, the closing week of pre-Christmas insanity. My mother and brother get here Christmas day, so in addition to everything else that’s happening – and that’s a lot – I have that to prepare for.

But I’m looking forward to the next two weeks. Lots of big changes and events. My life is many things, but dull is simply not one of them.

Silly story I stole from the AP.

It's Not the Pipes, It's a Naked Man in Your Basement
SPOKANE, Wash. (AP) - A plumbing problem at a Spokane home turned out to be a naked man. Police say a woman who thought she was having a problem with water pipes beneath the floor called the Water Department. Employees found the basement barricaded, and when they determined there was someone behind the door, they called police.

Police broke through the door, found the naked man and took him into custody. They searched the basement but found no clothing for the man. They also found that a pipe had been broken and repaired.

The 36-year-old was booked into jail for investigation of burglary.

Hey, at least it wasn't a dead rat.