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Sex Blogging, Gratuitous Nudity, Kinky Sex, Sundry Sensuality
ErosBlog posts containing ""Mistress Matisse""
February 5th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
Here’s another post in the sex blog genre I think of as “people telling us how it feels to like what they like.”
Mistress Matisse is a professional dominatrix. But, you know that sort of perpetually bored sneer that so many dominatrices seem to display in their advertising? I’ve never gotten any whiff of that boredom in her prolific internet writings.
Indeed, it would be a mistake to imagine that hurting her clients bores her:
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.
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December 24th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
Ever since 2007, I can’t get through this time of year without thinking of my A Christmas Rebellion post, which is mostly a lengthy quote from an article by Mistress Matisse called The Whore On Christmas. In particular, I was struck by her account of a fellow whose wife had made his house an uninhabitable sexual wasteland, so cluttered with Christmas tchotchkes that he couldn’t get a blowjob from a hooker without inadvertently setting off a musical pillow. His effort to strike back by inviting a sex worker into this toxic space — on Christmas Eve — struck me as being both heroic and tragically cowardly at the same time (and please don’t ask me to justify the contradiction, because I can’t.)
If you chose to read that post again, now here’s an interesting contrast — a post on Bondage Blog called Christmas Bondage Blowjob. It links to exactly that — a porny photo of a nude girl in some desultory bondage ropes, giving a man a blowjob under a Christmas tree.
What’s fascinating about the Christmas bondage blowjob photo is that it’s as sterile as the Rebellion household was suffocating. The room is painted white over bad sheetrock, the tree was decorated in twenty minutes by a photography assistant, the packages are empty boxes wrapped by somebody who only had one roll of wrapping paper, and there’s a drop cloth on the couch — which may be intended to protect it from the Christmas porn-fucking, but makes the scene look like it was hastily set up in an on-the-market property using a key borrowed from the realtor.
Which, to me, makes the blowjob photo “just porn”, and not particularly interesting. Interesting would be a photo of a man on a couch in a house obsessively decorated for Christmas, getting a loving blowjob from a woman who was clearly as into him as she was in filling their space with ruffled chintz, nutcrackers, and potpourri. But that’s the kind of scene that’s more likely to exist in the real world than to be available in living digital color for our voyeuristic pleasure.
December 18th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
This is one of those posts Mistress Matisse makes from time to time that makes me regret her long-ago decision — liberating though it must be — not to host blog comments. I might have contented myself with a “Hell yah!” if she had ’em, but since she doesn’t, I’ll just post a few choice drive-by excerpts over here, and keep right on moving:
The idea that a woman can change how her male partner feels about things annoys me.
…
I strongly disagree with the idea that a woman should try to redesign the inside of a man’s head. If you want a romance with someone who thinks just like you, date other women. Men are different from us. Really. Their view of the world is neither better or worse than ours, it just — is.
…
If you tell a man what you wish to have done, he’ll either do it, or else he won’t. But if it’s something both of you can see, then it’s easier to discuss. Telling a man you want him to feel differently is hard to measure, and doing so rarely yields a satisfactory result for anyone, in my experience.
You preach it, sister!
(I don’t know about the rest of you guys, but I have definitely been in the position of confusedly asking a woman “What is it that you want from me?” and getting back the very specific answer “I want you to feel/not feel [description of a mental state]”. Let me tell you, there are no extra points for telling her that her impossible-to-fulfill emotional demands have now filled you with existential despair. “Woman, it’s how I feel, it’s not something I can change like I change my freakin’ pants.” Nope, no points for that answer either.)
March 1st, 2010 -- by Bacchus
I noticed the following slightly-butchered factoid at the bottom of a “fun semen facts” infographic posted by Mistress Matisse:
The Etoro people of Papua New Guinea it is believed that to become sexually mature men, young boys must swallow the semen of their elders.
I’m calling bullshit. Let’s assume for the sake of argument that the cultural anthropology has been done right and reported right — not too likely, but hey. Go with it. Assume the cultural pattern exists as reported.
It’s that word “believed” I’m choking on. My proposition to you: the “elders” in question “believe” this line of happy horse shit in exactly the same way that I “believe” the following two propositions:
1) Anal sex will make your butt bigger; and
2) Swallowing semen will make your unborn baby healthier.
December 11th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
Here’s another approach to the sexy phone problem explored the other day. Instead of a sexy phone made of crappy plastic, just use the solid old black rotary (just like Mistress Matisse!) but get yourself a sexy telephone table:
Leather straps and ball gag not included; no batteries required.
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November 19th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
Mistress Matisse was writing about her shoot earlier in the week for Everything Butt, when she diverged onto a tangent about anal hygiene. (Bluntly: how to wipe your ass.) She wrote:
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.)
When I saw that, I boggled, and then I went back and read it again. Nope, still boggled.
So: “No. No, that is not clear. Not at all clear. In fact, it is perfectly perplexing.”
I refer specifically to the charge that one should conduct this operation while sitting. More specifically: What? The? Fuck?
I am somewhat larger than the average bear. Mistress Matisse, doubtless, is somewhat smaller than me (this is understatement). But I still do not understand how she, or anyone else, can wipe their ass whilst still sitting firmly on the toilet, unless: 1) they have been endowed with the mysterious power of passing their hand (and bumwad) through porcelain as if it were air, or 2) they have an ass that is less than six inches wide or nine inches long.
I have numbers to back this up. I went to my bathroom and measured my toilet seat. It is standard; I know this to be so because I bought it from Wal-Mart. The hole in the seat is an ellipse, approximately 8.5 inches on the minor axis (width) and 11 inches on the major axis (length).
The diameter of my hand across the base while grasping a wad of paper in a loose fist is approximately four inches. This, admittedly, is much larger than usual; I have huge hands. Let’s divide that by two — I’ve met women with hands half the size of my own.
So, thus. Assume that one positions the organ of excretion approximately over the center of the hole, for symmetry and avoidance of extraneous mess. While sitting in that position, in order to reach through the hole and into the bowl (where the area to be wiped is positioned, if one follows the Mistress’s directions) there would need to be a gap larger than two inches, somewhere.
Let’s rule out going in from the front (might work for a woman if she had two elbows and rubber bones, but a man has complicating topology.) One side or the other might sort of work, albeit inefficiently due to the orientation of the axis of the butt crease; but that would require sitting on the throne in a significantly lopsided way, with the business at hand being more than two inches off center — a bad idea given that we’ve only got just over eight inches to work with here.
No, I assume that she’s proposing to reach around and go in from behind, to take advantage of local topological conditions. And that means that her instructions will only work for people who have, when sitting, butt cheeks that occupy at least two inches less than the five and a half inches present between the center of the seat hole and the rear edge. So, doing the math, 5.5 minus 2.0 equals 3.5. Quod erat demonstrandum; if, when seated, your butt print extends more than three and a half inches to the rear of your anus, Mistress Matisse’s instructions are not practical.
When I was four years old, I was about that size, and used a procedure much like the recommended one; but not once I grew even unto the size of a middle schooler.
From all of this we must conclude one of two things. Either Mistress Matisse is considerably smaller than hitherto suspected, or by “sitting” she means some version of that squatting/hovering/crouch maneuver that lithe women are said to use in deeply disgusting public bathrooms. Which would certainly be possible, only why didn’t she say so? And why would she go to that extra effort, when, even standing, it’s really not that hard to wipe until, as she puts it, “the paper shows no smudges”? (Personally, and this will be TMI if nothing else so far has been, I’m a fan of those moisturized cleansing wipes that come in a discrete plastic tub for storage on the top of your toilet tank. They do a much better job than paper.)
Or, just as possible, there’s some flaw in my assumptions. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anybody wipe their ass from any less than about thirty feet away, and that would have been outside under hunting camp conditions where no throne was present and no ass play was incipient. Maybe everybody but me shits into the front two inches of their toilet, directly onto the sloping porcelain above the water line (accepting the extra cleaning burden) to leave room for just such post-elimination procedures. I dunno.
What I do know, what I already knew, is that women are alien creatures, who sometimes speak to us in what sounds like the language we know, but the words (individually clear and distinct) convey nothing but confusion and perplexity when considered together.
November 17th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
Following neatly from my last post which mentioned the “castle of kink” maintained by Kink.com in the Old Armory building in San Francisco, Mistress Matisse (who went down to San Francisco to do a shoot) painted a delightful (if somewhat surreal) word picture of what it was like to spend the night there. This is not the jacuzzi in the infamous Grotto at the Playboy Mansion, that’s for sure!
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.
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