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…