Control Tower

Fuckups and Faux Pas

by Mistress Matisse

Everyone in the BDSM world likes to talk about the scenes they did where they looked like a super-cool badass. What you don’t hear about so much are the times when a dominant screws up. But as long no one gets permanently damaged, it’s my opinion that those are actually some of the most interesting stories. I wrote a previous column about the time I set someone’s ass on fire. That was easily the most Three-Stooges-esque fuck-up I’ve ever had, but there have a few been others, too.

Some mistakes I made have had a long-lasting effect on me. I did a scene in the early ’90s, a time when you couldn’t throw a rock in Seattle without hitting an AIDS-awareness project. I was doing a temporary piercing on my submissive, Kay. I’d done lots of piercings before, but for some reason, I got a little careless with this one, because when I slid that needle through the pinched-up fold of her skin, I ran the end of it deeply into my own thumb.

Oh, fuck me. I froze, and everything I’d ever heard about HIV transmission through needle sticks ran through my head, loudly. Oh shit, this isn’t good.

But I adhered to the cardinal rule of BDSM fuck-ups: Handle the situation without freaking out in front of the submissive. I took a deep breath. “Well, that was pretty dumb, wasn’t it?” I said in an even voice, regarding the blood running down my thumb.

Kay smiled at me uncertainly. “Are you okay, Mistress?”

“It’s fine, sweetheart, don’t worry.” She’s a lesbian, I reminded myself. She’s never shot drugs. It’s going to be okay. And it was, thank god, but the memory of how I felt waiting to get my HIV and hepatitis test results back still makes me extra-careful whenever I open someone’s skin.

That was a medical Get Out of Jail Free card, but I’ve had social forgiveness extended to me as well, when I most certainly didn’t deserve it. Just a few years ago, I was at a dungeon party, chatting with a man who was showing me the brand-new rattan cane he’d just purchased, when a curvy blond woman of my acquaintance pranced up to us and informed me that it was her birthday. She and I then engaged in a 60-second negotiation about my giving her a little birthday beating, and I can only assume that the tempting way she bent over and wiggled her ass at me severely clouded my brain for a moment, because there really is no other excuse for what I did next. I turned to my acquaintance with the brand new cane, said “You don’t mind if I borrow this, do you?” plucked it out of his hand without waiting for an answer, and proceeded to thrash the birthday girl with it for several minutes.

BDSM people are gasping in horror as they read this, but for those of you who aren’t kinky: It is a faux pas to even touch someone else’s toys without permission. Snatching this man’s cane away from him and using it on someone in this way was such an egregious offense that I can’t believe the BDSM Police didn’t appear to arrest me on the spot. As it was, I came to my senses as soon as I’d finished the caning, and I was aghast at what I’d done. Luckily for me, the owner of the cane was a forgiving soul, and he accepted my red-faced apology.

The last mistake isn’t mine, exactly, but I do feel some ethical responsibility for it. And plus, I just like telling the story. It involves the delicate inner labium of my friend Jae. You see, I like doing erotic pussy torment on girls, and I’d used pairs of magnets on Jae’s girl bits as part of a scene with her. Apparently she liked it, and decided to incorporate it into her sex life with other people. Which would have been fine, but she made one crucial error, as I found out when I got a frantic phone call from her one evening.

“I can’t get them off!” she cried. “They’re those little tiny round ones they sell at Restoration Hardware—those super-strong ones—and I’m all slippery and swollen, and I can’t get a hold of them, and it’s really starting to hurt!”

It’s very bad form to laugh at the perverted misfortunes of one’s friends, so I put my hand over the receiver so she wouldn’t hear me. When I’d recovered myself, I made various suggestions: ice to take down the swelling, a gently applied towel, and a certain amount of fortitude in the face of what was probably going to be a rather unpleasant few minutes with some needle-nosed pliers.

“And honey, next time, use bigger magnets.”

“I will not be doing this again,” she vowed.

That’s what we all say, isn’t it? At least she gets a good story out of it.