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The Sex Blog Of Record
Monday, November 16th, 2015 -- by Bacchus
Why do I get the feeling that somebody (not pictured) was walking funny and sporting a big grin the next day?
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Saturday, 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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Friday, 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.
Saturday, 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.)
Monday, November 30th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
It’s not every day that one of my favorite and longest-running sidebar-linked sex bloggers does a porn shoot with my favorite porn production company. In fact, it’s never happened before. So, I’m delighted to announce that Mistress Matisse’s shoot for Kink.com (at their Everything Butt site) has finally gone live.
Now, mind you, given our long virtual association, it would strike me as a little bit weird to show you the closeups of Mistress Matisse cheerfully shoving a huge black dildo up Bobbi Starr’s butt, no matter how much of a hottie you think Bobbi might be (which she totally is). And, to be honest, the free photos and trailer from the shoot don’t show us as much of Mistress Matisse as I was hoping for. As is typical, the focus in a Kink.com shoot is on the submissive in a large majority of the pictures. Fortunately, as a stalwart affiliate I get some extra perks, including member access to the shoots when I need it. Which is how I can bring you Mistress Matisse in living color [note: the Everything Butt image I had here at first has been replaced, at her gracious but emphatic request, by a different image she provided, because she thought the EB image unflattering]:
Here [we return now to the originally-scheduled Everything Butt photos] she is in the world’s most barren office, hard at work with the cutting-edge info tech of the early twentieth century:
Whatever her job, though, you cannot argue with perks that include Bobbi Starr:
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Tuesday, 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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Monday, August 31st, 2009 -- by Bacchus
Allow me to present a column, in which Mistress Matisse takes off her dominatrix hat and goes out to have some non-kinky sex. Hilarity ensues.
3-word memo to the guy who though she moved too much: “Dude, consider inflatables.”
Tuesday, January 13th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
Judging by the number of “how can I get my wife to…” emails I’ve gotten over the years (answer: “Der… ask her maybe? Beg?”), there are a lot of households out there where this scenario could easily play out, more or less as written:
Bend over and grab your ankles.
What in the fuck is that?
Don’t play dumb. I’ve seen the bookmarks on your computer; you know exactly what this is. Now bend over and grab your ankles.
Those bookmarks don’t mean anything. It’s just crazy guy stuff. Just fantasy stuff. Not real.
Is that why you’re forking out all those credit card payments for memberships? I’m not an idiot, so don’t screw with me. Do it!
I don’t want to. I don’t want to do it for real.
Well, I really don’t give a shit if you want to do it for real. Quit your lying, quit your whining and bend over and grab your goddamn, fucking ankles!
I’m getting dressed and leaving. This is crazy. You’re crazy.
Is that what you want? You really want to leave? You really are going to pass this up?
What are you doing? Stop it?
Why? What’s wrong with me rubbing my girl cock up against your boy cock? Doesn’t that feel nice? Think how good it would feel to take it up the ass.
Stop it.
You don’t want me to stop it. Look: your boy cock is trying to grow nice and big like my big black leather one. I think it likes it.
It’s because your rubbing it with that stupid … that stupid thing. It’s friction. Of course, it’s going to react. I am a guy, after all. What do you expect?
I expect you to bend over and grab your ankles. You know you want to, so just do it.
I, um, I ….
Come on, just do it. I’ll just rub it up the crack. Come on, bend over.
Okay, I’ll let you play this stupid game. But don’t you dare try to put it in.
That’s good. Now lean shoulders into the ottoman so you don’t lose your balance, and grab your ankles. That’s it, like that. Just like that.
Which reminds me — Mistress Matisse had some trenchant advice recently for a man who wishes he was the star of that scenario above:
If you’re putting as much effort into making this idea attractive to your wife as you did in writing this email, I can see why she’s not going for the idea. I suggest you spend some time considering what’s in it for her to fulfill your fantasy. Is she going to get lots of orgasms? Or a long foot massage and dinner cooked for her? Or a new pair of Salvatore Ferragamo shoes? I think she should get all three, but that’s just me. Figure out what she wants, and give it to her. Then see about getting what you want.
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