date machine : fishnetsandlight

Sussudio

fishnetsandlight — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 20:40:00 GMT

The first time I had sex with this particular ex- let's call him "Jeff" - it seemed like a happy accident that there was a mirror hanging on the wall, directly across from the living room entrance way. Why, you could watch yourself doing it from over the arm of the couch. Bonus!
And then, when we made it to the bedroom, two of the walls were covered in mirrors.
Hmm.

Jeff was a liar. He lied about his age and his whereabouts. I'm pretty sure he lied about his mother's death once, in an attempt to curry pity. And he also lied about his age (he was mid-forties, not mid-thirties.) But Jeff was hot with a cool apartment and a sexy accent, so I overlooked the lying because... y'know, I'm an awful person. (It actually wasn't as dramatic a relationship as it sounds: I mostly didn't care that he was terrible, so we got along fine.)

Oh. And he could only have sex when in front of a reflective surface.

It got to be funny after a while: him, pumping away and giving himself The Look(TM) in the mirror. Talk about a sexual performance.

In retrospect: maybe not the smartest thing I ever did. That American Psycho scene hit a little too close to home, once I finally got around to watching it. I might have ended up a "cranberry" stain at his dry cleaner's.

Never a good sign when you're just a prop.

Good Fences OR There Will Be Blood

fishnetsandlight — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 05:37:00 GMT

After months of blissful cohabitation, I can't take it anymore: my boyfriend and I need space. (Whatever there is that doesn't love a wall, it ain't me.) We've never really fought before, after being together for more than a year. But we came damned close last night, after he rejected my UWS, high-ceilinged and fireplaced dream. Was the bedroom small? Sure: but all the better to cuddle you, goddammit my dear!

It's irrational, I admit. The lease isn't up yet on our current closet, and yes, the bedroom was very small. And really, I could be less of a bitch. But I'm afraid that one of us (me) will kill the other (him) if we don't get a little breathing room. And if they throw in a window that doesn't expose me to anyone who happens to walk by, that would be groovy too.

I mean, I love my boyfriend. Don't get me wrong. I love that we can be home together in the evenings and on weekends. He's the light of my life, fire of my loins and bringer of delicious snacks. But if I have to listen to him snore while I type at the desk for another 6 months, I will lose my mind.

I also have this houseboy fantasy, where I have someone trained to do chores and handiwork: in the current digs, there's just no space for someone to scrub the floor or put up shelving while we're both there.

And what's a home without a dude in a latex bodysuit washing your dishes?

Where Have All the Cowboys Gone? OR I'm Getting Old

fishnetsandlight — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 22:42:00 GMT

Every so often, I crawl out from under my mid-twenties rock to see what the young folks are up to. And I can't help but ask adolescent girls all across this great nation: W?T?F?

I mean, really, ladies: The Jonas Brothers? Is this what passes for male heartthrobs in 2009? David fuckin' Cassidy was tougher than these guys. Who put the Disney channel in charge of doling out cute boys? Between them and that guy who manages to make men in mascara suck, I'm thinking we should let Nickelodeon take a crack at it.

Back in my day, we liked men. MEN, dammit. Criminal records. Accents. Maybe a heroin addiction. My barely pubescent crushes made no pretenses of wholesomeness (OK, except maybe when they did Tiger Beat.) Johnny Depp wrecked a hotel room, put on a dress and fucked every hot actress from Winona Ryder to Vanessa Paradis. Liam Gallagher couldn't get his shit together to save his life. Tupac got himself killed! THOSE are crushworthy dudes.

When did the hot boys become... chicks? They're all virginal (not in the wink wink sense, even) and about as exciting as paint chips.

Where is the fun in crushing on a bunch of brothers who sport promise rings and act responsibly? And what is with this Twilight bullshit? I thought this generation was all postmodern and had given up on Prince Charming and abstinence tales. You've got the rest of your life to be married to Mr. Responsibility, girls. Don't waste your youth pining for boys that your mother would like.

Is wholesomeness the new... black, or whatever?

Ugh. Gaze upon Certified Real Man, Clive Owen, and tell me everything will be all be alright.

Here's To You, Mrs. Robinson

fishnetsandlight — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 21:26:00 GMT

Once upon a time, I worked in a dungeon, alongside a 40-something year old woman. She actually looked quite a bit like Stifler's mom: a modern-day Mrs. Robinson. Because of her, I was introduced to yet another interesting thing about men.

The average age of my clients at the time was around 50. Granted, I was doing a lot of schoolgirl roleplays back then, and that's always gonna appeal more to men who are old enough to now fetishize their school days. (Another weird thing about dudes: they overwhelmingly preferred the authentic school uniform-- penny loafers and all -- to the "Hit Me Baby One More Time," tied-shirt and teeny skirt version.) These days, after having tossed the uniform, my client ages average out around 37.

But the young guys -- 19, 22, 25 -- they loved this lady and her Mommy 'n' Me dynamic. And, I mean, we had some ridiculously hot, early to mid-twenties women working at the dungeon (including a Brazilian model who looked like she'd stepped out of a Victoria's Secret catalog.) Not that Stifler's Mom was a slouch: she was positively vivacious and sexy. (And kind of a lesbian grabass when we'd get to drinking, which was a hoot! One shot, and you could be sure that she'd be swatting me on the ass and honking Brazil's boobs.) But you'd think that one need not pay to spend time with an older woman: if fluff news stories and "The Real Housewives of [insert city name here]" are to be believed, cougars are lurking at every bar and frat house in America. And would probably buy presents for the young'un she caught, right?

Time after time, we'd see a barely out of college kid come in and pick Stifler's Mom. Always, I'd shake my head and decide that I'd made the right choice in dating up: apparently, it wasn't just my imagination that many men my own age wanted their girlfriends to mother them. (Note: "many" does not equal "all.")

In retrospect, the whole thing was sweet in a melancholy way. Maybe it's because I'm now closer to 30 than 20 and my bar crawling days are behind me (uh...mostly), but I've started to sympathize a bit more with younger men. It was probably nice to spend time with a sexy woman who didn't judge them by the size of their wallet or their jobs. (Especially in New York: it's vicious out here.)

After all, Mommy loves you, no matter what.
You're her little man.

And... I can see why that could be hot.

How Do You Ask The One You Love?

fishnetsandlight — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 00:26:00 GMT

Believe it or not, I'm not always in the mood to have sex. But my boyfriend almost always is...

Some nights, when I'm looking particularly uninterested, he'll want to jerk off in front of me. This, in and of itself, is not a weird thing. I mean, hey, who isn't a little bit exhibitionistic? And who doesn't like being cheered on while doing anything?

No, what weirds me out is how politely he asks. It's the same voice and phrasing he might use to inquire whether we are out of milk. Granted, I don't want him to get all Porntastic on me ("Yo, black bitch, watch me yank my white cock!") but... y'know... maybe he could dirty it up a little?

So my question is: what is the perfect way to phrase a request for an audience? Remember, this should turn the other person on. (Or at least, not make them laugh.)

On being the other woman

fishnetsandlight — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 16:27:00 GMT

In my line of work, you often spend hours at a time with other people's husbands. It's illuminating.

I'm not married. Never have been. So maybe I'm talking out of my ass here, but...I'm pretty sure that most of the "my wife just doesn't understand me"/ "she doesn't like sex" crowd is not telling the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway.

In my experience, there are way more people who want to roleplay than want to be beaten. The longer you stay in the game, the less you have to wade through the roleplayers, but they still make up the biggest chunk of the overall industry's clientele.

Think about that: married men are looking to have a sexy time with women who are not their wives... but the women have to pretend to be someone other than themselves. (Because a 20-something in a whisper of vinyl and 5inch heels isn't exciting enough?) Yet it never occurs to the men that maybe this desire to micromanage their interactions with women is a possible source (or at least a major symptom) of the fucked uppedness of their marriage.

Now don't get me wrong: I don't see married men who see sex workers or have girlfriends as being the scourge of the earth or anything. I've got my own fucked up issues (too many to enumerate here), so I'm in no position to judge.

Mostly, it's just sort of sad. It makes you look at your own relationship and wonder if this is how they started out with their wives: if the secrets and the lies are something looming large and inevitably over your own future.

But that's always what's so weird about being the other woman, I think: knowing just a little too much about the mechanics of an extramarital relationship. Knowing that it takes so little. That it could happen to anyone.

Racial Fetishes

fishnetsandlight — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 18:58:00 GMT

I've always been kind of baffled by blatant preferences for dating/fucking a particular race. Black guys who only date Hispanic women. Black women who will only date white men. White men who will only date white women, but only enjoy fucking tall asian women on the side. How does something like that develop?

I'm a fairly open-minded person. Probably more so than most. But I have to admit to looking at racial fetishists with the same wary sidelong glance usually reserved for furries.

I can understand really liking a particular physical attribute, and then finding that it tends to inform your dating decisions. If natural redheads really turn you on, for example, there is only one group that produces them. Which makes a kind of sense to me. (Though you could argue that certain preferences are born because of living in a racist society... but whatever.)

But often, when I meet up with fetishists, their attraction isn't even about the look, but focuses on stereotypes about their chosen race. And speaking as a black woman, I can't say that the prospect of being wanted based on the assumptions that I'm a loudmouth and talented dancer with several children of dubious paternity is all that appealing.

But I'd love to hear the other side of the argument? Any racial fetishist in the house?

And failing that... any fun stories about being racially profiled while dating?

Don't Hate the Player: Realize It's Just a Game

fishnetsandlight — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 08:50:00 GMT

One thing that I hear a lot of women complain about is the game player. I've met my fair share.

We all know that guy: he's never really in a relationship, but he's got a million women up in the air. He's usually good-looking, charming, funny and great in the sack: everything you'd want in a boyfriend. But he just won't commit to one person.

Personally, I don't think he's as much of a big bad wolf as most people think. Guys like this are usually pretty transparent. If he's only able to see you on Tuesdays and Thursdays, won't give you his home phone number or tell you where he works, he's not super busy, shy or trying to take things slow: he's probably got several other women in his life. (Maybe one of them is his wife.)

I "dated" one such man while between relationships. My first inclination as a serial monogamist was to try to lure him into being my boyfriend. But I quickly realized that 1) It wasn't happening and 2) It was actually hotter the way things were. There was no settling down with us: every time we went out, he was in wine and dine mode. Every night together was like the first night, because when your whole relationship is based on the high of sex, there's no room for half measures. Without getting into the details, I did stuff with him that I'd never done to anyone before.

Was it love? Hell no. But it was fun! If I had played the victim, it could have been one of those "Women who love too much" stories. Recognizing him for what he was -- a fun detour -- allowed me the opportunity to enjoy being single. It's hard to care about your official dating status when you're having great sex and being made to feel gorgeous.

I'd recommend it to any woman who's feeling a little burnt out relationship-wise. Don't hate the player: play the game!

It Takes a Village

fishnetsandlight — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 05:44:00 GMT

I've never been able to successfully date jealous men. I'm not exactly polyamorous, but I definitely like to have a slew of male admirers in my life. Being a Professional Dominatrix is a good way to go about achieving that goal.

So ironically, being paid to dominate men is a kind of kink of mine. It puts me in the position of being unattainable, and I like playing hard to get. Indefinitely. It keeps my actual love relationship fresh, because I come home from appointments invigorated, a little high on my own power.

At the end of the day, I know it's not really power. Not of a substantial kind. It's a game and an illusion. But it's enough to set my pants on fire, so I don't complain.

It's a bit unorthodox (and a little dirty), but it does the trick. Do you guys have anything like that?

Women & Porn

fishnetsandlight — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 07:45:00 GMT

I'm a little jealous of men's relationship with porn. It's a simple pleasure that most women can't seem to appreciate. If only the sight of someone else having loud, sloppy sex made me ache to touch myself. Instead, I usually find myself thinking "Geez, she looks bored" and "Whoa, that camera angle is NOT flattering."

Even when it's woman friendly, I'm just not terribly interested. When they get really hot guys for sensual lovemaking, it feels like the video equivalent of a romance novel. Instead, I get turned on by odd snatches of film from non-pornographic movies and tv shows. The torture scene in "Casino Royale." "Dexter" clips. Everything Dr. Troy did on the first season of "Nip/Tuck."

I've always wondered if being a woman, and the relatively easy access to sex that comes along with that is what makes porn uninteresting. If sex were harder to get, maybe it'd be more fascinating to watch?

Other theories?

Or, better yet, are you a woman who loves porn?

Talking to Strangers

fishnetsandlight — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 07:14:00 GMT

While I was away in Costa Rica, I noticed something surprising: during my entire two-week stay, I neither witnessed nor was the object of catcalling. And it was always 90 degrees, so it's not as if the men lacked material: ladies were showing plenty of skin. Here in NYC, a woman is hard pressed to make it five blocks-- wearing a parka and face mask -- without some lame-o offering his opinion about her appearance, or making some declaration of love.

It was a refreshing change, if you ask me.

But I do realize that there are ladies out there who don't get annoyed by strange men chatting them up on the street. So, I'm wondering... have you ever had a relationship that started with "Nice tits?" Or, "Excuse me, Miss, you have the most beautiful eyes?" Or some other line that a perfect stranger might utter?

And what are the best (or worst, depending on how you look at it) bits of sexual street commentary you've ever heard?

The Perks of One/Merry Xmas

fishnetsandlight — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 16:00:00 GMT

I know that there are some people out there who feel a bit down about being "alone" for the Holidays. Or, hell, in general. But I've always felt that this was a case of the grass being greener: being in a relationship has its own draw backs, after all.

Being single is full of endless possibilities. There's always another cutie to play with. There are first date flutters ahead; that moment where your eyes meet and electricity passes between you. There's the promise of something new and exciting.

Married or otherwise committed couples can't make the same boast. There's the same ride to the families... the same tired issues being rehashed. The same predictable road unfurls before them. It ain't all roses.

So, everyone raise your thoroughly spiked glasses of eggnog and try to be happy, wherever you are, whatever your relationship configuration. Cuz it's fucking Christmas. Have a merry one.

Supaho, Inc.

fishnetsandlight — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 17:49:00 GMT

My soapbox moment...
There is a subset of men out there who are angry about their sexual oppression. And by "oppression," I mean "total inability to get laid and/or connect meaningfully with a member of the opposite sex."

A favorite topic of discussion among such men is "All women are whores!" This statement is, of course, patently untrue: all women do not receive financial compensation for their time and access to their genitals. I know plenty of ladies who pay for dinner/their children's expenses/etc because they choose to fuck the unemployed, the underemployed, or the cheap.

Actual whores-- and by "whores," they tend to mean all sex workers in general -- are seen as even more infuriating blows to their egos. Here are women who might actually agree to help them act out their sexual fantasies, but the bitch will have the nerve to charge. Who would've thought? A sex worker who requires money? Why, she should be happy to be paid in sex!

The idea that a sex worker gets paid for an adult interaction enrages them. They get everything, those whores. Yet, whores who don't charge-- ho's, I suppose -- are equally as disgusting to them.

It never seems to occur to them that part of the problem, outside of their own personal misogyny, is the way that society looks at female sexuality. Do you know why there are whores? Because sex still comes at a cost for women. Y'know why it costs women? Because jealous douchebag dudes will call you a ho if you fuck whoever you want, whenever you want. Or if you have the temerity to talk about your sexual desires. (As if you were.... a person!)

Guess what, moron? If you tell women that sex is bad, and that enjoying it makes you a bad person, it becomes a lot harder to get them to fuck you.

So every time you call someone a ho; every time you complain about whores; every time you judge a woman for what she's wearing or not wearing, you are helping to build an empire. You are driving up the cost of sex by the hour.

My lovely rates, set by you. My life, sponsored by you.
I'll be thanking you for the next two weeks, while I sip margaritas on the beach.

Looking at Looks

fishnetsandlight — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 15:45:00 GMT

I get off on men paying for my time and skills. It seems like an appropriate fetish to have as a native New Yorker. ("Oh yeah. That's right. Compensate me fairly. Get that overpriced rent paid. Mmmm.") It is part of what makes being a Professional Dominatrix a worthwhile pursuit for me.

The downside? It's the same story for every sex worker: I worry about my looks. How to enhance them. When will I lose them? Should I try to lie about my age? Oh my God, is my ass really that big... and should I try to capitalize on that?

Looks aren't absolutely everything, but they play a role. When I first started out, I knew diddly squat about how to tie a proper knot. I didn't know a thing about medical play. Basically, I had no real marketable skills as a Dominatrix. But I had an authentic schoolgirl uniform (one day, I will tell you my creepy stories) an assortment of lingerie, and a penchant for being borderline underweight, so that was enough for plenty of people. Even now, when I can actually bind a man with speed and finesse, looks matter. (I doubt anyone would contact me without seeing photos, anyway.) And it does something to your head when you think about it: I have made more money in a profession that does not require so much as a High School diploma than anywhere else.

I am worth more in a catsuit than I am in an office, in some J.Crew knits.
The idea is hot. Yet infuriating. And sometimes, tinged with half-hearted regret, because maybe if someone had told me back then that you can't make a living off of a love of books and writing, I wouldn't have all these stupid student loans. Someone could have told me to quit it with the poetry, at the very least.

Anyway, I was thinking about how inordinately vain being a sex worker has made me, and I realized that a lot of the same dynamics come into play when dating. I once had an online dating profile in which I exposed my personality flaws. It said that I mope alot. I'm irritable in the morning. I will never offer to pay for dinner: not so much as a fake purse reach. My sex drive operates in fits. But there was a (tasteful!) photo of me in a bikini, so nobody cared if I was a basketcase.

So, at the conclusion of this rambling post, my shamefully heteronormative question for the men: How important are looks when you're looking to date a woman? And for the ladies: How important do you think/feel looks are to men?

Online Dating Experiment

fishnetsandlight — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 21:48:00 GMT

I met our test subject, Dara, to discuss her Nerve profile and previous dating experience. She hasn't had a lot of luck in the love department. From reading her profile, I surmised that she was a nice gal... but there was no oomph.

Meeting her in person proved that the problem was in the presentation. Dara is an attractive and vivacious woman. And sexually adventurous to boot! We immediately set about injecting a bit of Va Va Voom into her profile. She happens to excel at a very sexy form of dance performance, and it seemed a tragedy that it wasn't mentioned anywhere in her self description.

So, here is Fishnetsandlights number one tip for successful online dating: Don't be afraid to flash a little sexiness. Emphasis on "a little!!" Unless you're looking for a string of hit it and quit it's, there is no need to post photos of yourself soaking wet/topless/grabbing your secondary sex ograns. And certainly, no one needs to know that you can shoot ten ping pong balls out of your hoo-ha before the first date. But we're all adults, on a site that helps you make romantic connections: sex is a part of all that.

This is especially true for people who are a little deviant in the sack. (Kinky folks, swingers, polyamorous peeps, and women who do anything upon which the patriarchy would frown, I'm talking to you!) The last thing you want is to make people think you're totally normal. You'll scare the bejesus out of them.

Before the tweaking, Dara's profile wasn't really getting her any looks. But now, she's talking to a guy, which will be followed up on for next time. She is also looking around at other men, and asks this question: Is it OK for women to "wink" at men?

My personal tactic for "winking" online is this: I never initiate it. But I'm a girl that likes to be chased. Dara is also looking to be pursued, but fears that she might be missing out on some cool people by not being forward enough online. She is no shrinking violet offline, and we both worry that she might end up running into guys who can't handle a strong woman.

So, what do you guys think? To wink first? Or just wink back?

Fuckin' The Man

fishnetsandlight — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 18:47:00 GMT

I fuck The Man.
No, I'm not talking about at work.

I have always thought of myself as anti-establishment. Growing up in Brownsville will do that to a girl. (Incidentally, I grew up in the housing project pictured on the Wikipedia page. Shoutout to Tilden houses!) I don't trust the government. Or banks (and I was RIGHT!) I have been known to ask dealers on the corner for directions in unfamiliar neighborhoods, even after having passed several police officers.

And yet... I grew up to date The Man. Habitually. I don't even just mean "men with jobs." I mean, sometimes millionaires. Suits. Hell, even when I was a naive co-ed dating a coke dealer, he had a broker.

My boyfriend matter-of-factly referred to us as "bourgeois" the other day, and I snorted. He might be, I responded, wearing his three piece to the office. But I am a sex worker and general woman of the people. Need I remind him that I have ducked bullets and carried hammers/butcher knives in my purse for protection? That Nine to Five ain't nothing but a Dolly Parton song to me?

"Uh.. but you date me. And you went to [overpriced private liberal arts school]. You're bourgeois."

Of course, he's wrong.

But that made me wonder: what exactly does the person you date say about you? And do the implications ever baffle you?

Dating Experiment Update

fishnetsandlight — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 18:56:00 GMT

Thank you to everyone who has written an e-mail asking to take part in the dating experiment: a subject has been chosen and things are underway.

So, stay tuned!

Gasp: A Quiet Night at Home

fishnetsandlight — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 18:13:00 GMT

The rope around his neck connects to the rope binding his feet together: a breathless hogtie. When the I slide the hitches back, he has to come up on his arms to avoid being choked. It sort of looks like he's doing a woman's push-up.

When his face goes too red, I slide the knots forward, so he can fall to the bed and breathe.

I sit in front of him and stick my legs between his raised arms. They quiver from bearing his weight and he makes fish-out-of-water faces. It seems like a nice time to tweak his nipples, so I do. And then I give the rope some slack. He falls forward, face in my cleavage. As soon as he's drawn a breath, he pecks one breast lightly. We have a nice, quiet moment. I stroke his hair. I make him tell me he's mine.

Then I tighten the rope again.

Sidenote: Dating Experiment is underway!

A Modest Proposal: The Looooooove Doctor

fishnetsandlight — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 23:38:00 GMT

OK, so I want to put it out there: I'm awesome at getting boyfriends. It's not that I'm so wonderful or gorgeous or anything... it's just an odd gift. Give me two weeks, and I'll give you my new LTR.

Which made me wonder: can I do the same for someone else?

So, this is an open call to all Nerve daters (bloggers included!) If you're chronically single, I will do my best to change that. All you have to do is hand yourself (or... your profile and messages) over to me.

Any takers?
Email me at MistressEliza@gmail.com. Link your profile and tell me why you need help. (When was your last relationship? Been on any dates lately? Etc.)

If someone actually lets me do this, I shall keep a running blog of the process and results.

XXX

fishnetsandlight — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 23:47:00 GMT

I'm trying to make kinky porn that doesn't suck ass.

OK, maybe it's more like Erotica. The production value is higher than your average "Watch me spank some hairy and overweight dude on my IKEA couch" variety of kinky clips. And I'm staying away from the "Ooo, scary dungeon!" background as well. Y'know... keepin' it classy.

Most of all, I don't want a film of me dressing a six foot tall man up in a pink tutu and calling him Daisy. I want to do the sort of thing that will make even totally vanilla viewers think, "Hmm, that's kinda hot."

So I hooked up with a videographer and we played around this weekend, sort of as a test run. I crushed my waist with a cincher and donned a pair of fishnets, a vinyl bra and shiny black gloves. Judging by the raw snippets I saw, it looks like it came out pretty well.

Still, I always like to have other people's opinions. For the kinky folks out there-- I can hear ya breathing hard in your leather hoods -- what do you think would contribute to a quality bit of perverted film? I want to stay away from the submissive-as-a-pathetic-piece-of-shit troupe (I think submissives are amazing. If someone tried to tell me what to do and stuck a needle through my naughty bits, I'd freak the fuck out. But they take it like champs.)

Would you jack/jill off to artsy scenes? Or does it have to be all coochie and wang shots?

A Mighty Libido, Forged in the Heat of Sunday Afternoon Programming

fishnetsandlight — Sat, 08 Nov 2008 18:42:00 GMT

Like most Kinksters, I have a wide geek streak. I don't know why... but we have a disproportionate amount of Trekkies and D&D players among us. So it's not that surprising that I first discovered my inner perv watching a made-for-TV movie that starred Kevin Sorbo.

The plot was about what you would imagine: Hercules stumbles upon the Amazons. They tie him up, take his shirt off and batter him around a bit. The Queen of the Amazons is hot (Roma Downey) and they have some rough sexy times. (Everyone in Ancient Greece had sex in rooms with lots of sheer linens hanging from the ceiling and fires blazing in an iron bowl, if TV is to be believed.)

At 11 or 12, I thought it was the hottest thing ever.
Shortly thereafter, I figured out what a clitoris was for and Xena: Warrior Princess was introduced to channel 11's lineup. It was years before I could fantasize about anything other than taking ancient Greek soldiers/warlords prisoner, beating them up and then forcing them to be my sex slaves. (OK, so sometimes I also liked to imagine that I was an amazingly beautiful priestess in the temple of Ares, and then he would surprise me.... with his cock. But that was during my Pagan/Wiccan phase, and the late Kevin Smith was pretty hot in his leather outfits.)

It kind of makes you wonder about the creative staff behind that show.

So, what about you guys? Were there any TV show or books that were critical to your sexual development?

The Fishnets Method

fishnetsandlight — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 16:05:00 GMT

If you're recognizably female, breathing and ever been in a bar or club, you've probably been targeted by a Pick Up Artist.

For the uninitiated, PUA's are men who are so geeky that they have to reduce what is supposed to be fun flirting/hooking up to an RPG adventure in order to make any progress.

Hurry! Cast the Roofie spell while her fruity girl drink is unattended!

Probably the best known PUA is Mystery, seen in the Youtube link above. As you can see, he's stolen Pam Anderson's pink fuzzy hat and dyed it black. (I guess he figured she's sexy... so emulating her would make him sexy by extension? I can't explain the safety goggles. It's like he's trying to pick up ravers circa 1997. Man, do I miss my UFO pants.)

From what I can gather, PUA's try to be assholes to the ladies. They do something called "Negs," which are pretty much backhanded compliments. I actually had a guy say "Wow, your hair looks really great... is it yours?" before trying to up his "Kino" points by touching my back. Now, this was supposed to make me feel attracted to him because it's not the ass-kissing that I was expecting. Really, it just made me slap his hand away and go talk to someone else.

PUA's have it in their heads that if a woman is at all attractive, she doesn't want a nice guy. What they don't get is that if I'm gonna date/fuck an asshole, he should also be hot and preferably rich, with an undercurrent of vulnerability that explains why he's such an awful human being. Y'know... he should be every TV character that Julian McMahon has ever played. Guys like that don't need 1-ups and strategies to begin with.

So, if you're not the guy (and you probably aren't), you need to grow a nice personality and a pair of balls. I call it, The Fishnets Method.

1. Take pride in your appearance. I'm not saying you have to get all Queer Eye/GQ. But spend more than five seconds picking out your clothes. Maybe cultivate some perpetual five o'clock shadow, if that works for you. Try a new haircut. Figure out what hides your gut (or better yet, hit the gym.) Maybe pick up a nice, all-purpose cardigan. Ladies love cardigans. (OK, maybe just I do.)

2. Be yourself. You can't be someone else. You just can't. It'll make you look stupid if you try. Put yourself out there and see who is compatible. The secret is revealed! You have to be with women who like you. Ta-friggin'-dah.

3. Realize that there are women outside of bars and clubs. Seriously, unless you're an alcoholic or a dancing fiend, these are not the best places to meet that special someone. Everyone's drunk. Make friends with women at work and they'll introduce you to their sober girlfriends, sisters, cousins, etc.

4. Don't let some dude in a fuzzy hat tell you what to do. I mean... seriously. A fuzzy hat? What the fuck?

Now go forth and get laid.

Always Date Democrat

fishnetsandlight — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 15:37:00 GMT

He wore a white tee and slacks to the hotel bar we'd agreed upon as a meeting place. I was informed that said tee was Armani. In size extra-small, "to accentuate the physique." If he didn't have hair plugs, he was wearing way too much product, as he had that porcupine quill look going on. He waxed on about the possible genetic superiority of tall, thin people (neither of us cracked five-foot-six, so I don't get that.) He dropped names I didn't give a shit about and put a hand on the small of my back. In retrospect, maybe he was trying that Pickup Artist crap.

It was like spending the evening with Patrick Bateman, without the good looks and eventual mercy killing. And he was ten years older than his profile stated.

I amused myself by ordering old-fashioned drinks that I knew the names of. Sidecars are pretty tasty.

Afterwards, I said I didn't want to see him again. With a bit of prodding, I admitted to thinking he was a bit of a pompous asshole. I might have mentioned the hair.

Naturally, what I thought or wanted didn't matter.

He wanted to give it another go. Try again. Fuckin' Republicans.

Don't give them another do-over. Don't let them even get started.

More importantly, don't meet them for drinks.

My Dating Confession: Interracial Dater

fishnetsandlight — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 04:28:00 GMT

My name is FishnetsAndLights and I date white guys. A lot. And sometimes, when I'm all alone and having imaginary conversations with The Boondocks characters, I feel weird about it.

I blame all those Women's and African-American studies (and let's not forget Black Women's studies) courses I signed up for. How is anyone supposed to do anything without feeling guilty and/or depressed after reading Toni Morrison? (The Bluest Eye guilted me into exploring my natural hair texture as an undergrad.)

It's not that I'm not physically attracted to black men. How could you not be, with hotness like this walking around:

But the fact remains that I haven't seen a live brown penis in years.

And it doesn't help that the majority of my interactions with black men are confrontational, whether it be some rude remark made towards M, my boyfriend, or a catcall directed at me when I walk the streets alone. It's an endless loop of feeling both the betrayer and the betrayed.

Intellectually, I know that there are issues of class, economics, etc. But emotionally...

Period Piece

fishnetsandlight — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 22:28:00 GMT

Since we're all on the subject of potentially gross things...

Period sex.
I'm a fan, if for no other reason than it helps alleviate cramps. I wasn't always so eager to fly my crimson flag, though. By the time I started menstruating, I lived in a household that was less than woman-friendly. It was impressed upon me that men must never be made aware that you've got that going on. Pads were to be wrapped in fifty rolls of toilet paper and hidden deep inside the wastebasket.

Of course, around the same time, I was given a stern little talking to about how evil The Cardigans' "Lovefool" was. So, it's not that shocking that this bit of womanly wisdom was quickly discarded once I began making the hell-bound beast with two backs.

It could be that I just date unusual men, but most of them have been game regarding period sex. More so than I am, even. (One ex and I ruined a snow white resort duvet cover, at his urging.) Maybe it has underlying meaning for me because it was verboten in my house. Without getting into the messy details, my mother's husband was a Grade-A ass, and it was his delicate little sensibilities that I was to spare by hiding all signs that I was becoming a woman. With the men I welcomed into my life, my period was not only known about, the blood was often smeared onto them. I think of it as the female equivalent to ejaculating on your lover: this came from inside my body (the evil genitals, no less!) and you're cool with having it smeared on you.

What's more accepting than that?

In the beginning...

fishnetsandlight — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 15:31:00 GMT

The first person I got kinky with was a sinewy coke dealer living uptown. He was a mid-twenties version of Gary Dourdan.

I can't remember how it started, how long it went on for, or what we were on that night, but it was awesome*.

All but the bathroom light was off in the apartment. Moon and streetlight from outside filled in a few blanks. We'd wrestled in the living room... or rather, he'd pinned me. I probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet at the time, so I was particularly easy to manhandle. At some point, I got my hands on a length of bicycle chain (he biked everywhere... it was weird.) I told him I'd hit him with it.

"Come here," I said, smiling and beckoning with the same hand from which the chain dangled. He laughed and danced out of reach, retreating into the darkness of the bedroom.

I followed slowly. I liked the dramaticism of it. The building tension. I can still hear the chain dragging over the wood floor as I walked the long hallway: past the kitchen, with his little black cat hiding near the stove. I stopped by the open bathroom door, standing in an island of light, not two feet from the bedroom.

I sing-songed for him to come out, taking tiny tiptoe steps towards the doorway. I could just make him out: a sliver of olive flesh visible in the space between the open door and where it joined the wall.

I shot around the door like a woman possessed, lifting one arm and then bringing the chain down, an inch from his long toes. It made a sound that was half clang and all terrifying. He yelled "Fuck!" and slipped out form his hiding spot, skittering along the wall.

We ended up on the bed, me on top, knees on his arms, and leaning down to press the chain across his neck. His face darkened with the struggle to breathe. And I will never forget the wild look in his eyes: the "Oh shit!" moment that rolls over you when you can't grab that necessary gulp of air.

So. Hot.

Needless to say, he did get to breathe again, and we fucked like rabbits. And he was covered in scratches, bruises and bites the next morning.

And that is where it all began!

*While it was awesome, I do not condone doing anything more complicated than light spanking while under the influence of drugs. (And if you're on PCP or something else that is just extra fucking crazy, you probably don't even want to do that much. You might end up peeling the skin off of someone's ass and feeding it to your dogs or something.)

Allow Me to Introduce Myself

fishnetsandlight — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 18:34:00 GMT

Oh... hello. I didn't see you there.

I'm Fishnetsandlight, your resident perv and little chocolate drop o' diversity. I work in Manhattan as a Professional Dominatrix, which mainly means that people pay me to tie them up and hurt them. I'm very bad at being the cliche of a Domme: my voice is quiet, I'm five feet tall barefoot and slicked back ponytails are not my thing. But I'm secretly one of the meanest sane people you'll ever meet.

I live with my boyfriend, M, who works a very corporate job and wears ties. He's cheerful and goes along with just about whatever I dream up: I like that in a man.

So, obviously, there won't be any talk about how I just went out with this or that guy. But there will be talk about funny Nerve dates of the past and my patented Nerve dating strategy! And, oh god, we'll also get into some of the more outrageous exes.

I'll also sit back smugly and wax on about how to keep your relationship running smoothly (even if your boyfriend is less submissive than mine.)

And of course, there will be BDSM/Kink chat. If I don't have an insider's tip on a subject, I at least have a strong opinion.

So stay tuned!
I command it.

(See? Told you I wasn't any good at that. But come back anyway!)