My main regret about this column is that it seems to make some people think I'm an actual journalist. People, do you see the word "Mistress" up there in front of my name? Have you ever heard of Mistress Campbell Brown? Mistress Rachel Maddow? Mistress Katie Couric? No. Those women are journalists. I am a professional pervert who wouldn't know a basic principle of J-school if she were fucking one up the ass. Thus, I am largely free of the type of self-recrimination that drives legitimate members of the press—and Stranger staffers—to drink. (I am free of their student loans, too, which might have something to do with the drinking.)

I know a little something about regrets, though. For example, I deeply regret having that one night of non-kinky (and non-successful) sex with the hipster musician. I wasn't even drunk. What the hell was I thinking? Speaking of that, I'm sorry to find that people who have non-kinky sex are so damn touchy about it. (See August 27, the "Ruined for Life" column.)

As evidenced by comments on the October 8 column, "Not Too Sexy," I regret that people are apparently unfamiliar with the word "perquisite." It's a lovely word, and if you don't like it, you're obviously not a real Stranger commenter, but just a hooker with a whip.

I regret getting a little—okay, fine, a lotcarried away in a scene at Folsom Street Fair and leaving signal-whip welts all over a certain lovely man who wasn't supposed to get marked up. Lesson learned: Stick to the staple gun. (See February 26, "Hurt the Ones You Love.")

I do not regret telling guys who sleep with other women but insist that their resentful female partners adhere to a One-Penis Policy that they are insecure prats. Yes, I am making a value judgment about your relationship. UR DOIN IT WRONG. (See August 13, "The One-Penis Policy" column.)

I also regret some of the columns I could have written but didn't. Like the one about the time in that fancy hotel downtown, when I let my tipsy pal in the very, very short dress be profane to the sour old lady frowning at us. I could make a hilarious story out of it, but sex workers should be more discreet.

I regret not taking my trusty staple gun to my brother's wedding, so that when my cousin's husband tried to get me drunk and fondle me, I could just staple his pants right onto his crotch. "Handling Mr. Handsy"—wouldn't that make a good column?

I sincerely regret having that one lousy drink with Mr. Gigolo Wannabe, because, for reasons I do not comprehend, he spun a flirtatious conversation into a banal polyamorous drama. That's all right, though; I probably will write a column about it—as soon as I can figure out what the hell happened. recommended

Mistress Matisse blogs at