Mistress Matisse's Journal

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 00:30:02 PST

A new Stranger column about types of tops.

Now I'm off to have some early-birthday festivities with Armani... bye!

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 21:22:35 PST

I’m working on a Stranger column about my overall experiences of shooting with the Kink.com site, EverythingButt.com. But today I’ll just answer some of the questions that people have emailed me about it.

Why EverythingButt.com? Because the director, Lochai, is a pal of mine from the BDSM scene. I ran into him at Folsom Street Fair, and he asked me to come model. And I actually do a lot of ass play, so it seemed like a good fit, if you’ll pardon the expression.

What exactly did you do in the shoot? There’s some spanking, and a lot of really pretty ass-fucking. I think it’s a very sexy shoot that will appeal to people who like sensual dominance, and even people who may not think of themselves as having a specific fetish for anal play, but who like to see beautiful women having kinky sex.

Did you know the submissive? No, I had never met Bobbi Starr. I’d seen pictures, so I knew she was quite lovely, but I had no idea what to really expect from her, and from the overall scene. I did not know what the theme of the shoot was going to be until that morning. That’s how it usually works in porn. But it was a type of scene I like, and Bobbi was great.

Will you have pictures/video from the shoot? Yes, I’ll have some images. I don’t think I get video clips, although kink.com always has free trailers.

Are you going to model for of the other Kink.com sites? I don’t know. I haven’t been invited to. If one of the other directors asks me – or if Lochai asks me back - then I suppose I’ll decide when it comes up.

Are you going to model for any other BDSM porn sites? I might, if someone asked me, and I had a good feeling about the company, and the concept of the shoot. I’d be hesitant to do a BDSM porn shoot where I didn’t know any of the people involved in the production. So I don’t say “I would never…” But I’d have to be quite sure we were all on the same page about things.

I want to be a porn model! How much did you get paid? How much I got paid is between me and the IRS. But Kink.com posts their general pay rates here.

Did you see lots of other hot and kinky things happening while you were there? Nope. I saw a few other models walking around in the halls and such, but nothing kinky. It’s not like being at a play party.

One random thing I noticed: porn people seem very, very concerned about santorum. Like, very. I myself have been playing with people's asses for a long time, and I am a little casual about it. No, I am not into scat. Yes, if you want me to play with your ass, you should definitely clean it up. (I cannot tell you how many boys I have seen over the years who did not even wipe themselves properly. I’m serious. I think little boys do not get trained about wiping themselves as much as little girls do, or something.

Here’s how you do it, gentlemen. While you are still sitting, wipe, and then look at the toilet paper. Is it dirty? Drop it, get a fresh handful and wipe again. Repeat this until the paper shows no smudges. Is that clear? The while you’re sitting part is important because it means your ass is more spread open and thus easier to clean.)

So we’ll assume that the outside of your ass is clean. If you just want a few fingers or a smallish buttplug, not too much deep, serious fucking, then cleaning the inside is pretty simple. One of those disposable enemas is probably fine. They’re in the drugstore, usually less than a dollar. They have some chemicals in them, and some people don’t like that, so if you don’t, dump out the fluid and refill it with lukewarm water. Do this at least an hour or so before you want to play, because sometimes small amounts of water don’t come out right away. So if you do the anal-douche and then immediately fuck, that water will come out on your partner. Not the end of the world, but not what you planned.

For more advanced fucking, more advanced cleaning techniques are required, but that’s beyond the scope of today’s post.

But Ms. Bobbi Starr clearly knows those techniques, because her ass was as clean as a whistle throughout a four-hour shoot - and some very large toys. I would not have been surprised or upset by a little bit of schmutz. Shit happens, you know? It's not the goal, but it’s sometimes the price of admission. You do want to be aware, because shit can be gritty and make anal fucking uncomfortable, but otherwise – that’s what black towels are for. Change your gloves, change the condom, wipe it up, whatever – and keep fucking.

(And yes, wash up carefully afterwards. But you should be doing that anyway.)

So that’s my philosophy. But not in porn, no no. Every time a toy came out my co-star’s ass, there was a whole little flutter with the director and the camera crew about "Is it clean? It's not dirty, is it?"

I was like, “No, it looks fine, but hey, it’s no big deal.” However, my view was clearly the minority. I briefly wondered if it was a legal issue of some kind. I know there are some elements in porn that, theoretically, make prosecutors more likely to tag you with an obscenity charge.

But that seems unlikely. I was left with the assumption that kink.com – and porn people in general - know what their viewers like, and they know what the viewers get turned off if they see. And seeing anything brown was clearly a no-no.

Which would explain why the bathroom in the Armory has shelves and shelves full of disposable enema kits – both the pre-filled kind and empty single-use bottles – for free use by the performers. Art does not imitate life when it comes to anal sex in porn.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 23:26:35 PST

Last Night
I want you to imagine an enormous warehouse. Huge. Big enough to comfortably house, say, a DC-9. It might be even bigger, but the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling only dimly illuminate the raw and rather dirty walls and concrete floor, so the furthest corners simply fade into unmeasurable blackness.

There’s some detritus here and there – pallets, tarps, boxes – but it’s mostly empty, except for four cars parked in the center of the room, and in one far corner, an RV. A gallery runs around the perimeter of the room, at second-floor height. The lights don’t reach it, so it’s impossible to see what – or who – is up there.

And in one corner of this vast, chilly room, there’s a hot tub. And in that hot tub, quite alone, and naked, is me – lounging against the jets and smiling to myself at the oddity of it. Here I am, in what is arguably the kinkiest place in town, and I am engaged in that most vanilla of all the pseudo-sexy experiences, hot-tubbing. Alone. Edgy, huh? Not so much.

I am choosing to ignore the fact that there is a security camera nearby, and there is a security guard sitting, with a bank of screens in front of him, just a few hundred feet away from me. He’s around a corner, out of sight, but there is no door between us. But what the hell - if the camera is on, and he sees me - well then, he sees me. It seems silly to cavil, when after tomorrow, he’ll be able to very easily buy much better quality images of me. (However, he has been strictly polite and professional to me, not so much as a flicker of anything else, even when we had to go exploring together to find this hot tub. He himself was unaware that it here, and while his English seems fluent enough, he literally did not know the meaning of the phrase “hot tub”. He seemed a little confused even when I pulled off the cover and showed it to him, splashing my hand in the water. But he shrugged and left me to it.)

Soon I will get out, dry myself, and go up the stairs and down the long hallway to the little dormitory-style room I was assigned and go to bed. My shoot doesn’t begin too early, but I have a feeling the building will come to life tomorrow morning and be a very different place than the silent, echoing place it is now.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 00:01:01 PST

Okay, I know, it's totally teenage-girl to blog about my horoscope. I might as well go buy a Twilight t-shirt, right? (Not that I don't know some grown women who have one.... Ahem. Not naming any names or anything. And I have nothing whatsoever against fluffy fiction. But god, those books are boring fluffy fiction. I'm just saying.)

But Rob Brezney is so cool. And I'm convinced that sometimes, he lives under my bed and takes notes. This is what he says for Scorpio for the next seven days.

A 13-year-old girl shocked everyone by winning a plowing contest in England. Driving a 12,000-pound tractor and pulling a five-furrow plow, Elly Deacon did a better job than all of the middle-aged male farmers she was competing against. What's more remarkable is that she was a newcomer, having had less than a week's experience in the fine art of tilling the soil with a giant machine. She's your role model for the coming week, Scorpio. Like her, you have the potential to perform wonders, even if you're a rookie, as you prepare a circumscribed area for future growth.

Glad to know I can look forward to winning the plowing contest I have coming up. Heh.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 02:43:34 PST

Fashion Thoughts

I have no idea what to wear for this shoot on Monday. I am awaiting information about the overall theme of the shoot, but I don’t think there’s a role-play - like teacher/boss/evil cheerleader, etc - that requires role-specific costuming. I think it’s just a straight-up kinky scene, which is perfect.

So I can probably wear more or less whatever I want. (Kink.com does have their own costumes you can borrow. But no thank you, I prefer to wear my own clothes.)

I was gifted with these two extremely fabulous little numbers from Nancy Meyer, and they are the strong contenders. The black, or the creme.

I also don’t yet know if I’m starting off in street clothes, and then proceeding to something scantier. (And from thence to: nothing! Or at least, nothing of any substance. But I already have that outfit.) Or if I am just walking on in the one scanty outfit right from the get-go.

One thing I do know is what I am not going to wear: A rubber dress, a corset, and thigh-high boots. Nope. I understand fetish-fashion classics, and that is indeed a classic look. Which is fine. Lord knows I have worn that precise outfit – and yes, been photographed in it – many, many times. Many. Did I mention many?

But I am bored breathless by it. So bored. It is not transgressive, that outfit. There was a time when it was, but now they dress models up like that for beer commercials. It does not get a lot more mainstream than that.

So, it’s not edgy. It’s definitely not comfortable, either, but that’s not the point. Fashion is not supposed to be comfortable. The point is that I don’t think that just because I’m a dominant, that means I must wear a very traditional “Mistress” outfit. Because what is the earthly use in being a sexually non-traditional person if we all have to dress alike?

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 00:12:28 PST

I have blogged before about how I am not one to be chatty with strangers. I can be a trifle reserved even in places where “the roof constitutes an introduction”, but with random strangers in public places, I am generally very aloof. Most of the time, that’s simply because I am preoccupied with my own thoughts. Or I'm just not in the mood to be social, and I am pretending I'm invisible. So I try not be out-and-out rude, but any attempts to strike up a conversation with me in a grocery store line or on a street corner will not flourish. It’s just…how I am.

Max is the opposite. (So are several other people I know, like Traveler.) He’s naturally friendly and prone to chatting with anyone who crosses his path. Usually I just shrug and dismiss it as a matter of personal style. Occasionally, though, I think: Huh, he seems to enjoy those conversations, so maybe I’m missing out on something here.

But I should know better, because somehow that talking-to-strangers thing just never works out well for me.

Latest example: The other day I had an errand to run in Nordstrom Medical Tower. It’s a tall building, and it can be a long elevator ride from the lobby to the upper floors. Two women got on the elevator with me. And for some reason, I consciously decided that I would emulate Max and be friendly to these two strangers.

(You’d think I’d know better. I have had several notably bad – if amusing in retrospect – encounters with people on elevators. But no, I never learn.)

Thus, I said, “Good morning.” For me, that is a wildly effusive thing to say in this situation.

One of them, an older lady who reminded me a bit of my own grandmother, smiled and said good morning back, and observed that the sky looked as if it might rain later. I agreed that it was indeed rather cloudy.

My other elevator companion was a stocky, thirty-something woman, wearing glasses with thick, dark frames, and a white lab coat over office attire. Her black hair was straggling out of a haphazard-looking bun, and she had a tangle of three or four ID badges on brightly-colored lanyards around her neck. She was carrying a thick stack of file folders in one arm. She murmured a response to my greeting and began fiddling with her folders.

My social duty done, I pulled out my Blackberry and started scrolling through Twitter posts. The older lady got off the elevator, leaving me alone with the lab-coated woman.

The doors closed. Then I heard her make an impatient sort of huffing noise. I looked up and met her black-framed gaze inquiringly. Is one not supposed to be text-messaging in elevators now?

“Oh,” she said in an explanatory way, “I just had a very bad encounter with someone.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, rather automatically. What, the old lady? Me? No, she’s talking about something else.

“People can be such assholes, can’t they? Goddamn it.”

Whoa, swearing. Is that a conventional response to someone in an elevator saying good morning? Seems like we’re upping the conversational stakes here. Not in a good way.

I made some noncommittal noise, nodded sympathetically, and turned my face down towards my phone again. We’re done talking now, all right? The numbered buttons next to the door lit up and then went dark, one by one, as we ascended. Not very quickly, though.

“I mean, it’s the end result that matters, right? What’s best for the people involved?”

Unwillingly, I looked up at her. She was shifting from one sensibly-shod foot to the other, and clawing ineffectually at the locks of hair that were hanging around her face. She made the huffing noise again, pressing her lips together and blowing air out her nose in irritable little bursts.

“Really,” she said, speaking more quickly, “it doesn’t matter is everyone else thinks you’re crazy, right? If it’s for the best? Even if everyone else thinks you’re absolutely fucking insane?”

Um, yeah – it actually might matter if everyone else thinks you’re crazy. Because, you know, you might be. And here I am, in the damn elevator with you. I just hope one of those badges around your neck doesn’t say License To Kill on it.

When I choose to engage in it, I am rarely at a loss for polite social chitchat, but being in an elevator with an angry, swearing stranger who is proposing that insane ends justify insane means – well, that stumped me.

Just then, the elevator emitted a ping! sound. Saved by the bell. I said something like, “hope that works out okay,” slipped sideways through the doors as they were still opening, and made my escape down the hall.

You see, this is what happens to me when I say good morning to people.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 02:15:20 PST

Goodness, I really blew off blogging this week, didn't I? Ah well. We'll resume our regularly scheduled rants and observations next week.

Meanwhile, there is a fresh Stranger column up.

I also have a publicly-available piece up on FilthyGorgeousThings.com, about BDSM euphoria.

And Monk has some video footage of a show he did at Columbia City Cabaret recently.

So there, be entertained by that!

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 23:31:16 PST

Complete and Unedited Email! Plus, remarks on kinky coffee...

SUBJECT: Rashead from Bangladesh

Hello,
What is your Father's name do you know?
If yes, I will become your HUSBAND. Right?
Rashead.

Um, no. No, I don’t know my father’s name. Nope. No idea whatsoever. I'm an orphan. Of two orphan parents. What a shame.

(Actually, I think this email is a game. Meaning I don’t really think this is from a guy named Rashead who thinks he could marry me. It’s too weird, and yet not weird enough. The sentence structure is too good for someone whose grasp of reality is so loose. But hey, I’m not one to pass up good blog fodder when it’s served right to me.)

***

So, about this coffee shop thing: I keep getting email from people telling me about a coffee shop in San Francisco called Wicked Grounds. It’s described as “San Francisco’s first and only kink café and boutique.”

It's sweet of people to think of me and send me notes about things. That's just fine and dandy, I like that. And yes, I do know about the café. I didn’t get around to dropping by when I was down for Folsom, but Max did. It sounds like an absolutely charming place. I think it’s lovely that SF has a kinky café, and I wish them much success.

However, the idea of a kinky coffee shop is not really a novel one to me - or to anyone who's been in the Seattle kink scene for a while. Here in Seattle, we had our first one open in 1995: Beyond the Edge Café. It was open for about five years, and then the owner of that café, Allena Gabosch, went on to help create The Wet Spot, now known as The Center For Sex Positive Culture.

Here's a Stranger article from 2000 that mentions the cafe, in context of the greater Seattle fetish scene. It's interesting reading. (And no, not just because it mentions me.)

Now we have The Little Red Bistro, which is not a BDSM café exactly, but more of a generally sex-positive and kink-friendly space. With really good food.

So I’d definitely visit Wicked Grounds when you’re in San Francisco, but don’t think we don’t have options right here in Seattle!

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 01:51:37 PDT

Max's class: Rope Bondage 201

This Sunday, 11/1/09 2:30 - 5:30 at the CSPC

This workshop helps you get beyond the fundamentals by combining knotwork and positions with some of the softer elements of a rope scene - things like rhythm, pacing, connection and style. No prior experience is required, so this is a great starting point for your bondage education, even if you missed the last Fundamentals of Rope Bondage workshop.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 01:45:52 PST

I am so insanely busy for the next few days that thoughtful, intelligent blogging - well, that's right out the window. I can keep up with Twittering. But otherwise: lower your expectations, people.

And you know the old saying - "If you can't say anything nice, then make fun of other people." So I will. Here, for example, is the complete and unedited text of a recent email.

i was wanting to know iu tape ur sessions if so can u do 1 on webcam

Fail. Number one: typos, which we all make, me included. But come on, it's one lousy line, you can proofread that!

Number two: netspeak, which I hate. I am especially annoyed by the bastardization of "u" for you and "ur" for your. Those abbreviations are appropriate in one, and only one, type of communication. That is: a letter that's wrapped around a rock, and which will be delivered by throwing it through a window.

Okay, maybe one more - they are acceptable for a ransom note that's composed of cut-out letters from a newspaper. Otherwise - wrong, wrong, wrong.

Number three, and the real crux of it: I have no idea what he's asking me. Is he asking me if I will tape a session with another guy and let him watch? (No.) Or is he asking me if I'll do a session with him, via webcam? (No.)

Now... I am trying to think of a cute ending line for this post - and I'm failing. Perhaps it's a sign that I should not be so hard on other people's writing. Or perhaps it means that sometimes, I'm a better disciplinarian than a writer. Luckily I can live with that.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 23:14:03 PDT

Occasionally people tell me they miss the "stupid phone calls" posts. They were easy to write, god knows. But I don't miss actually having to answer those phone calls.

But here's an oldie-goldie from the vaults. Faithful long-term readers may remember the one and only Ryker Blackstar! Wonder how that House of Blackstar thing worked out?

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 15:31:42 PDT

I'm behind on my blogging... But this family visit has offered little free time, and even less privacy, until today. I’m sitting on the porch at my father’s place, feeling the seabreeze on my cheeks. My hair is curling into tendrils around my face because of the humidity, but the mid-seventies temperature is actually perfect.

My crazy schedule doesn’t end anytime soon. I’m home late Wednesday the 28th, and then a few days after that, I leave again for another visit to Las Vegas, this time with my dear Traveler. So I’m gone November 3rd to November 6th.

A little over a week later, I'm back to San Francisco. The details are still being worked out, but it looks like I’m flying down on November 15th to do a shoot with Kink.com. (I’ll talk more about that in another post.) As it stands, I am only intending to stay one night in San Francisco. If any of my intimate friends wanted to do a rendezvous there, I’d stay another night. Drop me a note and let me know.

Now I’m going to go wade in the ocean. It’s a little cool for swimming, and it’s been cloudy today as well. But still, it’s warm enough to dip my toes in the water.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 00:48:47 PDT

I'm off to Atlanta today on a family visit. I'm flying home next Weds, so between now and then, I'll get to email as best I can - but don't expect lighting-fast replies.

Meanwhile: the new Stranger column.

Bye!

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 02:48:15 PDT

Whenever I have no writing inspiration, it is a comfort to me that I can reach in the mail file and find something to talk about...

I got a letter from a reader who said nice things and observed all the I-know-you're-really-busy amenities, and because she did that, I will answer for her some questions that she might have been able to answer for herself, if she'd done a bit more searching of the archives. This blog needs a design overhaul anyway, and one of things it needs is the Top Ten Most Asked Questions List. "How To Be A Pro Domme" would be high on that list.

What's a fair range of prices to ask for an hour long session? How do you determine what your time's worth, how much to ad for extras outside my norm(if I decide to do so). Do you have any tips for how I could determine that of my time? And last but far from least, when you were just starting, how did you protect yourself? I'm well read, fairly involved in my (sparse) local scene and I broke my teeth in on the larger London clubs and parties like Torture Garden, but nowhere I've looked has helped me figure out how to price or organize this.

Okay, here's my standard advice: First, go here, enter this blog's URL and search for "sex work" and "pro domme" and read all the tons of advice I've given about that in the last five years. Some of it will apply directly to you and some won't, but it's all information worth having.

Read this. And then read this book, in it's entirety.

Then read this one, too. ("But I'm not going to be an escort, I'm going to be a pro domme!" For the vast majority of your purposes, the difference is immaterial. Read it. Information is never a waste.)

Because the writer mentions London, I suspect she might be in the UK. Or maybe not, I don't know. But if she is, I am badly positioned to give her much more advice, because both the legal and the social system around sex work is entirely different there. She'd need to talk to a pro domme in the same country.

But perhaps she's in the US. Even if she isn't, someone else will want to know the answers to those questions anyway. So let me just step all of you through this as simply as I can.

Say we want to sell something - something we know is of value. In this case, it's our time and attention, but it could be anything at all. How do we determine it's value? We go and find other people who are selling the same thing and see what they are charging! Aside from a few stints waitressing, I have never had a job that didn't involve someone getting naked. But surely this is how you non-sex-workers determine what's a fair wage for your labor, or a fair price for your product? It's no different for us.

It is my policy that I do not tell other people how much money they should charge for their time. And since this reader didn't tell me where she lived, I can't do her Googling for her. But she - and anyone else - can type mistress, pro domme, dominatrix + the name of her city, and Bob's your uncle. Look at the sites, see what the existing ladies are charging, charge the same.

One point: I don't recommend having a menu of fees. Decide what you will and won't do, set an hourly rate for your time that assumes all those activities, and that's it. I think it's unseemly to mess around with the nickel-and-dime add-ons. Per-activity rates also suggest that you could be wheedled down in price. "How much if I just want a spanking, with no nipple clamps?"

Also, in the US, extra fees are legally risky. Ask a lawyer why.

Protection: This kind of question about protection always makes me roll my eyes a bit. The myth that sex workers live in a state of constant peril was created by people who want to control what we do with our bodies. Certainly some sex workers get assaulted. Women get assaulted by their husbands and boyfriends, too - and by their friends, their co-workers, members of their family, and total strangers. That seemingly common-sense notion that nice girls aren't assaulted as often as bad girls is just a tool to keep you nice girls scared and in line. The idea that there's a way that sex workers have to make themselves safe that other women don't is fallacious.

So, how have you protected yourself in your life so far? Whatever you've done, ask yourself: has my way of doing that worked out well? Or do I need to get better at it?

There's a lot of stuff about safety in the archived entries here about sex work, so read them. And read The Gift Of Fear, too, it's the best handbook I know on assessing and dealing with dangerous people.

But I can't say, "Okay, here's the ONE rule that will always prevent you from assault." There are a hundred thousand rules. Some of them you'll need and some you won't, and just based on this letter, I can't tell you what you need to feel safe.

You will have to decide. Remove the money aspect from it and think: what would I do if I was just meeting a guy for fun? How would I protect myself in that situation? And do that.

Certain kinds of sex work questions there are right/wrong answers to. But if you want to operate your own business - any business - you need to be able to look at a problem, reason it out, and make a judgment call by yourself. The best advice I can give you is: Get used to thinking like that.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 18:29:55 PDT

“My mother always told me, 'Someday, you’ll be good at something.' I don’t think she coulda guessed that something would be zombie-killing.”

Oh, the many futures our mothers did not predict for us...

***

Last week, I had the pleasure of co-topping Traveler with two other female dominants. Yes, I know, I just mentioned doing 3-against-1 scenes with him a few weeks ago at Folsom. Our dear Traveler is a man of vast physical capacity.

And a good thing, too, because Swan and our guest Mistress Yin were extremely mean to him. Like, extremely. I do not say that lightly. It was quite beautiful to behold.

Apart from being sadistically pleasurable, it was also just fascinating to watch because they were being mean in manner that is very different than the way I’m mean. The woman I co-top with most often these days is Puck. Now, Puck and I certainly have some differences in our topping style. But what’s true is that her style has been greatly influenced by Max, and to some degree, by me and the rest of our Seattle social circle. So while I enjoy watching her, what she does rarely makes me think: oh wow, I didn’t expect that.

Swan and Yin are different flavors of dominance than I, and while I was playing with them, part of me thought, "Huh. I wonder - should I try to be more like that?" Although I don't think I could even define exactly what that is.

So I was pondering the idea, and the next day, I saw Zombieland. In it, Woody Harrelson plays a redneck zombie slayer named Tallahassee, who is described by another character as “a professional ass-kicker”, and I realized: in a lot of ways, I am Tallahassee in a Herve Leger dress.

I can do playful, sensual scenes, and I like that. A bit of bondage, a little teasing, a tug of the hair, a pinch here and there, a light smack on the ass. That's charming.

But if I pick out the theme from Deliverance on a banjo, and you come running - well, that's different. When that happens, something in my lower body stirs to life. Something clicks in the back of my brain - the old, reptile part. A little electricity runs up my spine, down my arms, and into my hands. My vision changes – the outside edges get dim and blurry, but whatever I’m focused on gets very sharp. My voice changes too, sliding back into a bit of a Georgia twang. I walk differently - bouncing a little on the balls of my feet - because the adrenaline that’s singing in my blood lifts me up off the ground slightly.

When I feel like that, I am not going to bother much with weaving subtle threads together, or going for a long build-up of psychological tension in my play partner. I admire that sort of thing, but in that space, my elegant sophistication and my carefully-learned feminine graces fall away from me like unzipped clothing, and I am a roughneck with a pretty face. I’m going to pick up something that’ll hurt you and just start hitting you with it. If I lack a tool, I’ll use my hands, or my feet, or my teeth, or any other part of my body I think would be effective. I’ll try to ramp it up at a speed you can handle, but try is the best I can promise, because there is something in me that wants to come out, and it wants out right nownowNOW.

I am not cool and calm about it, either. I take a great deal of sadistic glee in what I’m doing. There is a certain way I laugh when I’m really being mean – I don’t laugh that way at any other time. At particularly satisfying moments, I also tend to do what my friends call “the happy sadist dance” which involves wiggling my hips, clapping my hands, and sometimes hopping from foot to foot. I’m sure I look like a six-year-old at a birthday party.

Then I’ll shift moods, and growl and snarl – and often, bite – and punctuate whatever I’m doing with profane, threatening endearments. The words I’m saying don’t always make perfect sense or come out in exactly the right order, but I always make my meaning quite clear. If you’re confused, I’ll keep hurting you until you get the point.

I clean up well. But underneath my coiffed and manicured exterior, I am a straightforward, single-minded, unconflicted ass-kicker. Like Tallahassee, I have a fondness for junk food, and like him, I go after what I want, and I don’t worry too much about what other people think of me for that. It's just - what I am. So I’m going to keep on doing what I do best, and enjoying the little things.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 22:55:04 PDT

Dear Mistress Matisse,

I've been reading your blog for several years now, and I always enjoy your columns. I've been curious about something: do you see transmen as clients? I know you take a hard line about not seeing women as clients, but I also know that your understanding of queers and the queer community is rather nuanced (and you were once married to a transman, no?).

Point of clarification before I go on: transman means someone who started out female and transitioned to male. I know we can get into a discussion about whether transmen were ever truly female, I’m not questioning anyone’s feelings on that. Let us say: they were assigned the female gender when they were born.

Now then...

Some letters that I get, I think “I don’t know how to answer this without sounding like a twit.”

Well, in a way I can answer this. I don’t have any female-to-male transexual clients. In fact, I’ve never had anyone who told me he was transexual even ask me for a professional session. And since I see 99% of my clients naked, yes, I’d know if one of my guys was trans. The surgery for female-to-male transexuals is not nearly as advanced as it is for male-to-female people.

So, the issue has not arisen.

I’m not sure what I would say if a transman did ask me, though. Because the situation is, as you say, nuanced.

Yes, I was queer-identified for most of my twenties. My lovers were female and I socialized in mainly queer spaces. And then I did indeed marry (and subsequently divorce) a transman. (Not Max or Monk. This was way before them. )

In my experience, a woman who is lovers with a transman occupies a very curious social space between queer and straight. But my former husband looked very, very male indeed. He used to resemble a shorter Mike Ditka, in fact. Looking the way he felt - male - was precisely what he wanted, although on occasion it complicated matters. Like the day I took him to the hospital for his scheduled hysterectomy.

He was understandably a bit anxious about having this major surgery. And it seem like when you’re waiting for surgery, every yahoo with a lab coat just wanders by at random, picks up your chart, and reads it. Picture Mike Ditka in a hospital bed. And his chart says he's having a hysterectomy. The possibility of having a gender “Who’s On First?” sort of exchange was strong.

I was not going allow that to happen. I stood at his bedside poised like a jaguar, ready to spring at the throat of any clueless medical staff who looked at him, and then looked at his chart, and then said something stupid. There were several moments when various people looked like they were trembling on the brink of a throat-tearing remark, but - they refrained. Perhaps it was the I-will-kill-you look I was giving them.

This is all my way of explaining that I am aware of the incredible complexities and challenges transmen have to deal with. *

But that’s a lot of complexities to deal with in just sixty minutes, in a dungeon. With a not-a-transexual man, I have a head-start. I can safely assume a lot about where he’s coming from, culturally, and what the some of his hot buttons and wet dreams and taboo fantasies are likely to be. I know how to do the traditional male-female dance, and I know how to twist it sideways, lube it up, and jam it into someone’s sweet pink ass.

My experience of transmen in intimate situations is that they are emotionally vulnerable in a way that I can validate and sympathize with, and they are just tremendously complex. The social/psychological dynamic is all over the map. He’s a man, which in a patriarchal world means he has social power - but he’s a transman, which means that power is actually as fragile and as permeable as a tissue.

Often he has lived for part of his life being seen as female, so he knows what that’s like. But straight transmen don’t usually want to relate to women as someone-who-used-to-be-female, they just want to be a guy. So there’s this knowingness there - but one mustn’t make too much of the fact that this guy knows exactly what menstrual cramps feel like.

Transmen’s relationships with their bodies is tricky, too. I have never had any uneasiness about interacting - in a BDSM context, or sexually - with a transman's body. I’m good with bodies. I don't care whether your body looks exactly like other men's bodies, I just want to know how you work. If I can look at you and touch you, I can figure out your body pretty quickly.

But, understandably, a lot of transmen are not super-confident about their body. They are not always comfortable being seen and being touched. Stripped naked, their vulnerability is often, to me, heart-wrenchingly intense. One can learn how each individual transman wants to be looked at and touched, and teach them to trust you, but that takes time.

And one hour simply isn’t enough, in my opinion. It's completely different from dating a transman, where you go as slow as you need to. For me as a professional – wow, I’m daunted by the idea of trying to create a scene for a transman that I’d feel really good about in that short of a time. Since I have some personal history there, I’d feel extra-frustrated by doing a scene I didn’t think was as good as it should be.

What’s also true is that my professional time is not cheap, and most of the transmen I have met were not rich. I suppose if I met a transman who was wealthy, and he wanted to see me a lot and develop that type of BDSM relationship with me, and I felt we were well-suited as play-partners – well, I’d do that.

I would bet that’s a decision I will not have to make, though.

*Of course, everything I say is a broad generalization that only reflects my view from the outside. Every transexual person has his/her/hir own different and utterly valid experience.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 02:25:07 PDT

I wasn’t going to upload this last podcast. But Monk says I’m being silly. And lord knows, I need the blog-content, I've been way too busy to write much lately.

So, I am ignoring a voice in the back of my head that says it is slightly undignified. Unladylike, in fact.

Yes, I know – I don’t feel the slightest qualm about posting photos of myself sticking needles in people. That's perfectly dignified. It's kinky, but it's not undignified.

But I do feel that it is a trifle undignified to post slightly-tipsy rants about one of my pet topics: Crazy People And Sex Work.

Just to be clear – thank you, President Obama – I am not disclaiming the basic opinions I express here. I just wish I had voiced them a little less profanely and a little less… stridently. Whoops.

There's also a whole side conversation about fisting, in which I make an ill-advised personal disclosure.

Thus, I bring to a close the era of cocktails while podcasting. So enjoy us in all our ranty, TMI glory, the next round will be far more calm, sober and public-radio-esque. (Well, I will be, at least. I cannot speak for Monk.)

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 03:11:07 PDT

Notes From A Party

I was at a lovely party over the weekend, with a lot of my usual kinky friends and also, a bunch of people I am not so acquainted with. Many interesting things happened.

At one point in the evening, I was standing in a hallway, talking to various people. If I looked to the left, I could see some strangers fucking in a dimly-lit bedroom. If I looked right, I could see Monk doing a suspension-bondage scene in the living room. It was a nice location.

Observation connected to that experience and a lot of others just like it: if you mix swingers and kinky people at a party, the swingers will eventually go find a bedroom (or someplace) to have sex in. The kinky people, on the other hand, will start doing BDSM – although not sex – right in the living room.

***

I am fortunate enough to have some very attractive friends who really like to run around naked. It’s a charming trait.

***

A man I did not know walked by me and accidentally stepped on my toes. Such things do happen, and he apologized instantly, and there was certainly no permanent injury. But I wasn’t able to arrange my facial expression into anything that resembled understanding forgiveness – at least, not quickly enough. After he’d moved away, I felt a little bad about the frosty glare I’d given him, as it was a bit disproportionate to the crime.

Coda: the next day, my hostess told me that he was mortified by the incident, and apparently jokes were made about him dying his hair and changing his name before the next party. To which I say: dear man, your party foul was a trifling one. I was just having a bitchy moment, it’s an occupational hazard. All is forgiven and forgotten.

***

Other Opportunities For Mortification: Occasionally I’ll be standing alone, watching a BDSM scene, and someone will walk up, stand next to me and watch with me, and strike up a conversation. That’s fine, but sometimes – perhaps because I’m not wearing a leather dress or carrying a flogger – they will assume I don’t know anything about BDSM. And they start explaining the scene to me. That is highly, but highly, amusing to me. Especially when they get it completely wrong. Especially when one of the people in the scene is Max or Monk.

When I am feeling kind, I will politely clue them in right away. When I am not, I’ll let them go on for a while before I casually mention that yeah, I'm a pro domme, and that guy is actually my boyfriend.

***

Speaking of Stepping: in spite of the fact that I had arrived with no intention of playing, Jae succeeded in goading me into standing on her chest. I did some pushups with my elbows planted in her pectoral muscles, too. And then Puck and I then determined that with pressure, Jae’s legs would almost, but not quite, rotate enough for us to form a perfect T-shape with her body. Jae’s remark: “Jesus, I feel like a cross between a sex doll and a Gumby!”

***

My slightly-awkward moment for the evening? When I wanted my purse, which I had carefully stashed in the bedroom - where people were now fucking. I certainly don't have any problem with that, it's just... "Oh, sorry, don't mind me, I just need to grab my lipstick, here. No no, it's fine, don't stop. I have a girl in the living room I should be beating up, gotta get back to that. Carry on, please."

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 02:35:12 PDT

The new Stranger column. It's about a common bit of sex-industry infighting, and I see in the comments that the stripper version of this argument is also getting some airtime.

I'm not surprised. As a former stripper myself, I have known many strippers who spent a lot of time and energy trying to control the behavior of other strippers, and that always baffled me.

For one thing, trying to get a bunch of strippers to do anything at all is like herding cats. (No pun intended.)

But trying to get a bunch of strippers, many of whom are not exactly deeply invested in strict professionalism, some of whom are chemically altered in some fashion when they're at work, and all of whom are actually in financial competition with each other to adhere to a highly-interpretable set of behavioral boundaries just because you want them to - you're kidding me, right? Never gonna happen.

The amount of blood, sweat and tears some strippers will put into policing whether some other chick put her hand on a guy's thigh or his crotch, whether she brushed up against him or she rubbed up against him - you know, you could put all that energy into getting a job where there really are strict rules about how people are supposed to act. That seems like what you want.

But sex work? This is the wild wild west, baby. We ain't got no sheriffs, and we don't need no stinkin' badges.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 02:21:03 PDT

I’m off to Vegas until Friday, so while I jet away, enjoy a new podcast. This one is letters from readers with questions about polyamory.

First letter: when to disclose to a potential new partner that you are poly, if they don’t know already.

And then: dealing with weirdness from your partner’s other partners. (AKA “metamours”.)

It’s a lot of unbridled snark with (hopefully) some nuggets of wisdom. And all admittedly somewhat fueled by alcoholic beverages. I am wincing slightly as I listen to myself tipsily hold forth on these, so I think that means I must make a ban on drinking + podcasting in the future.

But I will not be podcasting in Vegas! Bye!

EDIT: The formatting is coming out weird on the podcast page, not sure why. But it downloads okay, just click on the little icon.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 23:30:41 PDT

Max is teaching his famous "Fundamentals of Rope Bondage" class on Sunday!

A lot of good rope-riggers around the scene got started with rope bondage by taking this very class. My darling Max is one of the best (if not THE best) rope instructors I have ever seen. And I would think that even if he wasn't my partner!

This is a 101 class, no experience required. Loaner-rope is available, or you can bring your own, or Monk will be vending, so you can pick up some gorgeous hemp while you're there.

A partner is not required, we'll pair you with a practice-partner if you're single. You don't have to takes any clothes off, either.

Plus, it's just fun! More info: Sunday October 4th, 2:30 PM to 5:30 PM, at the Center for Sex Positive Culture (CSPC) in Seattle.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 03:18:57 PDT

Pictures: I put a couple of snapshots from Folsom on my Flickr feed… Just some street shots, but not terribly work-safe. If you’re interested in getting a broader sense of what Folsom Street Fair is like, go watch the five-minute documentary from Peter Acworth, the owner of Kink.com. Watch closely, you never know who you might see in the background. (Not me, though.)

Speaking of Kink.com, you might be seeing me very much in the foreground of some of their photos in months to come. I’ve never modeled for them, or for any BDSM porn site. Until lately, I have just not seen any real reason why I should. I don’t want a big career as a fetish model. If I want pictures of myself playing, I can arrange that on my own. Why give up control of the images?

But Kink.com is becoming sort of a cultural institution for pervy people, and it might be time to try the experience of working with them on for size. Lord knows they have some fancy sets and some specialized toys that would be fun to use.

Why now? Well, one reason is the person who asked me. Kink.com is a huge operation and over the years, I have watched them hire a lot of people I know to run the various sites. One of those folks is a guy named Lochai.

Now, Lochai and I do not know each other well even now, but for a while we just barely knew each other at all. We said hi to each other at kink events, but it was a very slight social acquaintance.

Then, some years ago, he did something that utterly charmed me. I will not give too many specifics, but the story goes something like this. I was at a kink conference, in a class with a bunch of people, including Lochai. The instructor of this class started saying some very biased and factually untrue things about polyamory. It wasn’t a class about poly, he was just taking advantage of an opportunity to say that poly, basically, didn’t work. Could never work.

Naturally I was quite annoyed by this. But for various reasons, I felt it would be unwise of me to speak up. Because of the situation, it might have caused a problem for someone else if I had said what I thought, which was, “You’re a pompous twit and you don’t know anything about poly, so shut up about it. Not that I think you know jack about the supposed topic, anyway.”

So I was sitting there, biting my tongue, when a hand was raised in the class, and someone began, with perfect civility, to punch holes in all the poly-doesn't-work statements the pompous twit had been making. Lochai.

The pompous twit huffed and puffed. Lochai smiled and continued to politely deflate him. Pompous twit stopped talking about poly. And I went up to Lochai after the class and whispered in his ear, “You are so fabulous. Thank you.” Anyone who steps forward and, without ever saying anything ugly, takes the piss out of someone who richly deserves it is a cool guy in my book.

We’ve been friendlier ever since then. I ran into Lochai this year at Folsom. I got a nice hug from him, and he said, “Hey, I’m looking for models the new site I’m doing, EverythingButt.com, and I need dominant women. You should come do a shoot for me.”

So you know, I just might.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 00:01:01 PDT

A new podcast! First there’s a lot of silly banter about needles and being naked in bed, and then Monk reads a letter about how to do fast, easy rope bondage during a resistance play scene, and I make some comments about securing a bottom who is larger than you.
After that, I both scold and encourage a reader who is exploring BDSM, but who wants me to do their kinky thinking for them. About 16 minutes.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 02:19:03 PDT

Co-topping: no, it doesn't mean putting both hot fudge and caramel sauce on your ice cream. It means a BDSM scene with more than one dominant.

How does that work? It varies. Sometimes two dominant people, perhaps with a junior top/senior top dymanic, gang up on a submissive third. Or sometimes it's a situation where a dominant/submissive couple find a toppy guest-star. The etiquette of sharing a bottom in a scene is somewhat subtle, and it requires some practice - occasionally one can get tangled in an "After you." - "No, no, after you!" sort of thing.

But once you grasp the rhythm of it, it's actually a great way to play. I always say there is nothing like watching a long-term play partner bottom to someone else to teach you new things about him/her. A fresh set of eyes and hands will bring out things in your bottom you didn't even know were there.

I have had the pleasure of co-topping with a number of both charming and talented people in my life, and it's been a lot of fun. Most of my experience, though, has been two tops with one bottom.

It is therefore extra fun for me to have such consistently great scenes with Puck + Swan + me topping Traveler. That three women with very different topping styles and very different backgrounds in kink (not to mention very different relationships with Traveler) can weave themselves together like we do, into this insanely pervy, sadistic, sexy, mean, fabulous dance on the body of one man - well, I just think it rocks.

We have a system that we like: with three women, on a three-day trip, we each take turns being the Mistress du jour. The lead top, in other words. So each day, a different one of us plans and directs most of the action of that day's play. The other two women are topping too, of course, but in a slightly more supporting/assisting mode. Suggestions are always welcome and usually acted upon.

But I find it's quite a lot of fun to see what my co-tops think I should do. Our co-topping often gets a little silly, and we definitely laugh a lot. Last night I was calling Puck "Countess" and she and Swan were calling me "Daisy." Also involved in the scene? Dots. The candy, I mean - gumdrops. And some references to My Fair Lady.

But we get very intense, too. Puck did this thing with a silicone sound that I have. Never. Seen. Never seen! Anyone do.

I'm not telling you what it was, because I am going to go spring it on some other wonderful boys I know. But it was so hot that she got, literally, sort of flushed and breathless right afterward. Swan and I felt we should have a cigarette or something, except none of us smoke.

But regardless of nicknames we're calling each other in the moment, Traveler refers to us, jointly, as The Triumvirate, which means: a coalition of three rulers that have joint authority. I think I like that description.

noreply@blogger.com (Mistress Matisse) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 21:43:08 PDT

A few comments on blow jobs. Well, a whole column's worth, actually, in The Stranger. Now excuse me while I run around like a crazy girl, getting to fly out of here tomorrow!