About Hobbyists

Let’s talk about “Hobbyists.”

Hobbyists, for those who don’t know, are men who frequent sex workers and then review and gossip about them online.

They usually hang out on a website called The Erotic Review, but there are other sites–I think one is called ECCIE.

Unfortunately, I have reviews of The Erotic Review. The reviews are all positive, except for one guy who was pissed that I fired him (I’ll get to that in a moment).

The bad news is that the reviews make the Hobbyists know about me and make a booking.

I have NEVER met a Hobbyist who was not a douchebag. Sad, but true. Every one has bargained with me, tried to get free time, tried to get me to dine for free with them at mediocre restaurants, bragged about their reviews (a veiled threat that they would post a bad review about me), etc…

The worst of the lot was a man in NYC whom I saw when I was working as a proSub.  He is one of the reasons I do not work as a proSub today (that, and the Collector would kill me).

I was brand new to working as an independent, meaning working outside of a dungeon, which is why I put up with him for five sessions. Today, I would fire him after one.

First, he complained that I asked for the money up front.  I absolutely deplore having to ask for the money.  An honest client leaves it on a counter without saying a word the minute he walks in, or you visit him.

“It ruins the romance!” he said.  Yes, this is so romantic.  Did I mention he was fat, old, bald, and plain?

Second session: brags that he’s written “almost 100 reviews” on The Erotic Review, and wants to write one about me. Is angry when I tell him I have a no-review policy.

Third session: wants me to dine with him for free at a cheap Korean BBQ place. I really needed the money from the session, so I agreed, and endured two hours of dinner. At least, to his credit, he bought me two cocktails.

(I will eat with a client for free if they are an established regular who supports me.  I will eat a burger with a guy who helps pay my rent. I will also eat for free with a client who wants to take me to a super fine-dining restaurant like Per Se.  Today, I will NOT eat for free with an internet rando who wants to get a pizza. Or cheap Korean BBQ.  Sorry, not sorry, my social date rates apply!  $100 for dinner!)

Later that night, while I was nude except for a thong and tied to the coffee table, he said, “This no-penetration thing isn’t going to work for me.”

I said in my ads–I was very explicit–“No sex. Fetish, fantasy, roleplay only.  I do not get fully nude.”  I posted these ads in BDSM and FETISH categories of the sex worker ad malls, NOT the escorting sections. I was very clear.  

“Uhh…I said no sex,” I said, trying not to freak out, in my tied up vulnerable state.

“How about a dildo or butt plug?”

Oh my God, I thought.

“NO!  Don’t make me scream!”

He backed off.

I cannot believe I went back to that guy.  $350, I needed it.

Next session, incredibly, I allowed him to blindfold me.  Then I got freaked out and asked him to take the blindfold off when I felt something silky and warm on my cheek.

He took it off and, what do you know, there is his penis in my face, begging for a blowjob.

Henceforth, with my dungeon friends (better believe I was telling them all about him) he was known as “Mr. Wang-on-the-face.”

“I said no sex!”

“A blowjob isn’t sex!” he reasoned. Like he was Bill Clinton or something.

Everyone knows the vast majority of fetish workers don’t offer sex. Maybe a few give handjobs.  You can find fetish-friendly escorts, but that’s another category of sex work.

“Don’t touch me with that!”

He zipped it up.

The final, last time, I just couldn’t take it, and I was mildly drunk when I got there. I endured another mediocre dinner for free, and, of course, had to make conversation and flirt.  I got to the room and unpacked some of my session gear.  Then I panicked and made an excuse to run to the bathroom.

There, I took out an airplane-sized bottle of flavored vodka from my handbag and sucked it down.

I started to undress, and then changed my mind.

I bolted from the bathroom, picked up my gear bag, and ran out.  The only thing I said was, “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.  I can’t trust you.”

The next day I realized I’d left approximately $300 worth of fetish gear in his hotel room.

I emailed him to ask for it back.  He said he’d return it if I came to his hotel room so that “we could talk about what happened.”

I politely asked if he would just put it into a box or a bag and leave it at the front desk for Margo to collect.

I did not want to talk to him ever again (I did not say that).

He said no, he would return it if he could see me.

Thanks for not returning MY STUFF that I PURCHASED that is important for MY BUSINESS to me, asshole!

I abandoned my property rather than see him again.

Then, of course, the review, which said, to paraphrase: “Beautiful but very unprofessional.  She left the session without an explanation.  Buyer beware.”

Oh, did I mention I hadn’t been paid?  It’s not like I ran out with his money! 

Buyer beware?  What am I, a faulty coffee maker? Nobody BUYS me. They buy my service and expertise.

Yeah, Mr. Wang-in-the-face, enjoy my $80 vibrator, leather cuffs, bondage rope, and metal-handled turquoise suede flogger that matched my corset, which I can’t replace.

Sadly, this man is typical of guys hanging out of Hobbyists.  Many sex workers concur.  I’ve never had one treat me well.

 

Swimsuit Humiliation

Finally!  A post about my job.

I have a guy who has a fantasy about something that happened to him, and he wants a re-enactment.

Specifically: I needed to wear a one-piece swimming suit and a swim mask for my hair…

…and then pants him (take down his swim shorts) in front of all the other girls.

He says this happened to him at a pool/birthday party when he was an adolescent. I think he’s telling the truth.  He could be making it up, which is also okay, but I don’t think that is the case.  In my considerable experience, men have experiences in their childhood and youth and become fixated on them.  Like myself, they become imprinted.

The girl who pants him was, so he said, an older girl next door who was sometimes a babysitter, and he had a huge crush on her.

Where the hell am I going to get a swimsuit this time of year? I wondered.

There was no way I was going to spend $120 to meet this guy’s swimsuit fantasy.

I found one at Marshalls in Union Square for $19.99. I had to go to a sports shop for the swim cap.

I’m putting it on in the hotel room and I feel like the biggest dork in the world. But, what can you do? I’ve dressed like Batgirl and a nurse and schoolgirl a million times. Part of the job.

He came in and immediately started trembling. Middle-aged white guy, totally passive, seemed normal. No alarm bells went off.

He went to the bathroom to change into swim shorts.  Gotta hand it to him: he folded all his clothes and piled them up. When they just strip and drop them on the floor, I throw a fit and correct them: “Pick them up and fold them! What am I, your mother?!”

When he came out, I draped my arms around him and asked, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

He nodded.

I pulled his swim pants down and started cackling. The laughter was not fake. Far be it from me to judge a fantasy–God knows I’ve had many darker ones that this–but the situation was pretty weird. I’m wearing a swim cap in a Hilton hotel room.

He flushed bright red and immediately came on the carpet.  He voluntarily cleaned that up with a washcloth. The man was polite.

Overall, it was a great session.

COMPLAINING and CONCERNED

This will be a short blog post, and scattered.

Underneath the art collection, the gorgeous condo filled with books and flowers, the Savile Row suits, the fact that he can be the most attentive and intellectual and polite gentleman in public…

…he is, at heart, feral. The Surgeon was the same way.  This one expresses it differently.

I never thought I would meet a man more extreme than myself (the Attorney proved me wrong, but he was an exception.) The Collector is. My part in this weird relationship is that I enable him to go crazy and indulge in whatever crazy fantasies come up in his mind. I make all of the sadists worse, because I’m fearless and have very few limits. I admit this.

Another thing he does is push and push my boundaries and limits. When I Top as a prodomme, I push just enough to make it exciting–nobody wants a boring session, unless they are a novice and scared to death. I don’t push hard enough to make them safe out.

The Collector pushes until I’m about to call it off, which really says something, and then he senses it and reels me back in by being gentle and letting me off the hook.  What I feel instead of anger is gratitude.

My last therapist, who thought my sadomasochism was pathological, actually had a point when he said, “You only cut off one of my hands! Thank you for not cutting off the other one!”

I care about my beauty, meaning my figure and my face. That’s how I make my living, at least partially. Otherwise, my physical integrity means nothing to me and never has.  Time will take its toll soon–I’m not a spring chicken anymore.  I still look conventionally “good” and can rock a bikini.

Dangled from an O ring in the ceiling? Perched on a 3″x 6″ whilst getting the single-tail (which, incidentally, I taught him how to use)? All of the games?  The Collector, unlike the Surgeon, is creative. He always has something new to use on me.

This shit with his boys…?!  He actually told Elder One–in English, in front of me–“My girlfriend is more beautiful than yours.”

I wanted to die. Why is he competing with his son?

I’m sorry to lay this on my 8 readers, but I can’t talk to anyone else.

Thanks for reading this bummer of an essay.

THE SON KNOWS

I guess it was bound to happen eventually, but that doesn’t make it any easier:

The Elder One confronted me about my BDSM relationship with Dad, the Collector.

The Collector and I have been going through a rough patch. I left early and came back to my apartment to work in San Francisco. My regulars all wanted to see me again.

The Collector threw a fit and threatened to buy the house I live in.

“Please don’t make me buy real estate in that town, of all places,” he said on the phone.

“Why the hell would you buy this house? To evict me from my apartment?”  I couldn’t believe it!

“So that I have a legal right to be there.”

I hung up on him.

Well, sure enough, the guy flew across the country and dropped by my apartment unannounced.

And get this: he let himself in. Unbeknownst to me, he’d taken my keys out of my purse and made copies of all of them (except the car key. What would he do with a 20-year-old Toyota Camry?).

Here I am, sitting at the computer in underpants and a camisole, watching Game of Thrones re-runs, and a guy lets himself in without knocking and runs up the stairs.

The last time a man let himself into my home was the Surgeon, paying his final house call, and we all know how that worked out.

I freaked out.  I had to freak out!  What would you do, if you were a woman?  Besides being hostage in a Bosnian rape camp or living in Afghanistan, I think home invasion is every woman’s worst nightmare. A guy breaks into your house, and the best thing that’s going to happen to you is being raped.

Well, I freaked out and pulled my gun on him.  Yeah, I’m not proud of it, but can you blame me?  Legally, I could have killed him and gotten away with it. He’s not on the lease! I have every right to kill a home invader!

Abe was chirping and playing with his bell toys on top of the cage and he froze. Birds are sensitive. They feel the emotion in the room. When the Surgeon made his house call, all the birds froze and huddled together, and they didn’t play or vocalize for days afterward.

In the end, I couldn’t do it.  I like to think I’m tough, but I just couldn’t do it.

“Is this it? Are you going to take my life, Margo?”  I had a gun pointed at his head.  It’s only a .32, but it would do the job.  He averted his face, but otherwise he was completely unruffled.

I’m not going to lie: it was completely surreal. I carry a knife and I have a concealed carry permit.  In sessions at work, I have a sun gun that looks exactly like a cell phone.  I’ve never pulled a weapon on anyone in my life, though there’s a handful of bad apple “clients” who would have deserved it.  I’m a prodomme, but I’m not really a violent person.

I lowered the gun and went to lay it down on the coffee table.

“Do I need to unload this? Are you going to take it away from me and shoot me?”

“Of course not. I love you.  I just want to talk,” he said.

Yeah, I just want to talk is exactly what the Surgeon said when he banged my door down. If you just want to talk, you don’t have to say it.

“How did you get in here? I locked the door.”

“I made copies of your keys.”  He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I started crying.  I am not a crier–I cry maybe 10X/year–but this was just too much stress.

He picked me up and carried me to the bedroom.

“I don’t want to have sex,” I said.  Believe me, I was not in a sexy mood.

“Let’s just lie down.”

I am pleased to report that I did not have sex with him after that egregious boundaries violation. He went to a hotel that night. But, yes, we talked.

A few days later, the Elder One gives me a ring on Skype.

“I hear you pulled a gun on Father! I would have paid money to see that! You should have shot the bastard! Shoot him next time!  I’ll take care of you out of my inheritance!”  He was overjoyed.

“I’m not going to kill your dad,” I said.

“Dump his selfish, abusive ass!  What a loser!”

“Your father is not a loser by any objective standard. He wins at everything he does.”

“Well, he lost my mother, he lost his last wife, he’s losing you, and he’s going to lose me once I finish Law School. That is a loser to me.”

Readers, this is where the shit hit the fan:

This boy actually said, “I know that he hits you, and I don’t like it.  I see the bruises because he makes you wear skimpy clothes.”

I just sat there.  I was completely pole-axed.

What I eventually spit out was, “You don’t need to worry about that. Everything that happens between your father and me is consensual.”

“I am not a coward who hits women! How can it be consensual? How can you consent to being abused?”

What am I going to do, readers? I don’t want to give this kid a “birds and the bees” lecture about sadomasochism. My sex life is none of his business and I don’t want to gross him out! At the same time, how can I set his mind at rest?

He went on.  I really wanted to hang up the Skype and claim the internet went down, but that would be disrespectful. The young man had something to say. Maybe it’s my professional educator, but if they’re speaking from the heart, young people deserve a voice, and the Collector says constantly that we are a family. I can never be his Mom, but I can be his friend.

“I hate talking about this. It is awkward. I have heard people having sex. A lot of sex happens at (my boarding school). The noises that I hear coming from his bedroom do not sound like sex.”

What can I say? He’s not WRONG. If I wasn’t into BDSM, I’d think there was something abusive going on, too.  It still made me feel like a freak, and I was humiliated that I’d made that much noise. The boys stay in bedrooms in a separate hallway, and when they visit I try to keep the vocalizations to squeaks.

“Your father and I are sexually compatible. I’m not abused. You don’t have to worry about that,” is all I could think of to say.

“Everyone is bribed or abused.  Call me any time.  I have classes, but I will call you back.”

“Well, thank you. You know I am happy to proofread any of your papers.”  It was an idiotic statement, given that he has the best education money can buy and he’s completely fluent in English, but I wanted to offer something.

Imaginary Boyfriend: Elvis Presley

Well, it’s Christmas Eve. I have to suffer through Christmas tomorrow. I thought I’d celebrate with another Imaginary Boyfriends post!

Elvis Presley.

I gravitate towards blondes, but was there a more handsome man on the planet?  And couldn’t he rock out?  Couldn’t this guy sing? Listen to the MUSIC. This stuff had piano and horns in it. What happened to rock n roll? It was folksy and bluesy. I know he ripped off Black artists, but, jeez.

I’ve read three biographies about him. He became totally deranged in later adulthood. Very sad, but not surprising when you live in a fishbowl.

My father saw him in Oklahoma in the 50s, when he was still very young (both my father and Elvis). Claimed the performance was “electrifying.” If he could get my German-American father to dance, he was doing something right.

My mother saw him twice. The first time, she said he was great.  The second time, in the 70s, she said he was sweating his ass off and kept forgetting his lines.

The addict in me really sympathizes.

The man came from dirt poor Tupelo, of all places, and conquered the music world. Wasn’t a half-bad actor, either, though he mostly got crappy rolls.

He didn’t deserve to die the way he did. If he was born in more modern times, he could have gone to rehab.

What’s in the Closet?

Sorry to burden you with this, readers, but I have a new episode in my tales of relationship awkwardness.

The last time I visited New York for the weekend, the Collector had to run to work to put out a fire on Saturday, and I was left in the house with Elder One, who is in his Freshman year at a college in the Tri-state area.

Elder One avoids his father as much as possible, but when Dad whistles he always comes, even though I know he hates himself for it.  It’s complicated. He’s not like his little brother, who still idolizes the Collector.

Well, I saw my chance and took it.  This question I am about to share with you, readers, has been bugging me for two years, and I thought maybe the son would have insight.

I went down the other hallway and cautiously rapped on the door.  I’d never come to his room before.

He opened it.  I could see books and papers open all over his bed, along with his laptop.  He was writing a paper.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your work,” I said.

“It’s okay.  What is it?”

Can I ask you something about something in the house?”

“What?” he looked confused.

“Let me show you,” I said, and gestured for him to follow me to the other side of the house.

There is a door to a room there.  The door is fingerprint-protected.  Meaning that you have to push your thumb print on a scanner in order for the door to open.

I have no idea what is in that room.  It has plagued me, like I said, for more than two years.  I’d like to think it holds sensitive documents for the clients he does work for.  But if that was all it was, wouldn’t he just tell me that? I’ve asked him several times.

“What do you have in there?” I’d ask the Collector, trying to make a joke of it.  “Hacked up body parts in freezers?”

“Do you have any idea what could be in this closet?  Do you know how to get into it?”  I asked the son.

He shook his head.  “Can’t get into it.  I’ve seen this door, too.  I don’t know.  It must be confidential documents for work.  Things that can’t go onto the computer, because people are afraid of corporate espionage and hacking. It’s the only thing I can think of.”

“If that’s the truth, why won’t he just tell me that when I ask?”

“Because he loves power and playing mind games.”

Well, can’t argue with that.

“Now, let me ask you something,” he said.

“Yes?”

I followed him into the big room, where the bookcases go up to the ceiling. Here and there are spaces for showcasing small works of art.

He pointed way up towards the ceiling.  “What the fuck is that?

Oh, I knew exactly what it was, all right. I’d been questioning the Collector about whether it was wise to publicly display it since I first saw it there.  I know that even he is on the fence about displaying it, which is why he put it up as far as possible…but the man thinks that he’s the sovereign of his home (not really wrong) and he can do whatever he wants.

It’s a Medieval torture device that goes around the unfortunate subject’s head.  If you want details, I can send them to you.  There’re videos on YouTube about this; it’s published in several books I know of.

I froze for a moment.  Be honest, or lie?  Be honest, or lie?

I lied.  This kid does not need to know any more than he must already suspect about his father’s odd sexuality. And, jeez, I was embarrassed, too.  But mostly I was thinking of him.

“I have no idea.  I never gave it much thought.  It must be armor for war, right?” I said, trying to sound befuddled.

“Sure!” he sneered, and started walking back to his room.  “Pardon me. I have to finish my paper.”

He knows I lied to him.

When They Won’t Let You Up (BDSM Nightmares)

Let us discuss one of the worst things that can happen to you when you’re being submissive:

You’re tied up and the guy won’t let you go when you safe out and ask for it.

It’s happened to me twice.  Which, given my significant experience with about two dozen tops, says a lot.

Both times were terrifying.

The first, and by far the worst, was with my restraining-order Ex, John. It was December in Lake Tahoe and there was a foot of new snow on the ground; more coming down every minute. It was the middle of the night. I could not have gotten out of that house without snowshoes.  Even if I called the cops, they would not have been able to come. There was no auto traffic that night.

He started being a rude, abusive jerk, ignoring my limits, during the session. I was dressed in a fishnet body stocking with my arms locked behind me.

I safed out and asked him to let me go. I wasn’t a shrieking basket case, either (not that it would matter if I WAS a shrieking basket case). I called it off and expressed myself in very clear words.

The guy would. not. let me go.

“Why did you agree to do (this thing) and then renege?”

I kept repeating, “Let me up. Let me up.”

I kept thinking, I am going to get raped and I cannot get away from this man, even on foot. This is going to happen.

He kept asking me why I “reneged.”

He tortured me for about an hour.  I was terrified, but holding my composure. Eventually, he did release me.

I ran to one of the spare bedrooms and locked the door behind me.  He proceeded to pound on it, yelling that he never should have let me up until I was “broken.”  Yeah, I’m not making that up.

He broke the door down.

The next morning, I had to endure shoveling the driveway with him in order to get a ride home.  He had snow tires.

I broke up with him once I was in my apartment. We stayed broken up for 5 months.

Eventually, due to his relentless efforts, I took him back.  And I stayed.

I stayed for five more years.

A Wonderful Client

I just wanted to express appreciation for a great, generous man today.

I left rehab (I’m still going to outpatient rehab for my drinking problem) early to attend a session with a new guy.

I came home, made sure my apartment was spotless, and got all leathered up (he’s a leather fetishist) and did my hair and makeup all pretty, and the jerk NO CALL NO SHOWED.

I understand that 80% of my clients are married and scheming around to see me.  I understand they are lying to get away from work or their families. I get it.  I really do.  One little thing goes wrong, and they can’t get away to see me.

But you stand me up, and you can’t even email me to apologize and cancel?

Well, I tweeted about it, because I was pissed.  Twitter is stupid, but, for some reason, I love it.  Very passive form of communication.

In rushes a longtime, established client, who actually knows about my blog and who has been in my home.

He shot me $200 to “make sure I was okay.”  He saved the day! Normally, I’m very wary of a man trying to give me unearned cash, but I’ve known him for over a year and I know he’s not trying to manipulate me/bully me with money.

You know a good man when he puts his money where his mouth is.  A good man wants to take care of the women in his life, because he KNOWS that we are taking care of him.

I will date a poor man.  I will never again date a cheap one. Crucial distinction.

Thank you so much for your help.  You saved the day, Sir. Next session is on me.

Client Misconceptions

Allow us to discuss client misconceptions.

I know these because they have been expressed to me frequently for about ten years now.  The men have spoken them into my ear. I know about that of which I speak.

First and foremost: we are all rich.  They imagine me reclining on a sofa being fanned by submissives, dripping in diamonds, eating fruit. NOPE. Most sex workers are working class. I am on the upper end of this, because I’m white, educated, and Aryan-looking.  I’m not young anymore, but I still look “good” and I’m skinny.

Another one: we do it because we’re constantly randy.  Men think we are nyphomaniacs. Dudes looooove this one! I have had so many men say, “If I was a woman, I’d do this, too!”  If you could last one day in this industry, I’d eat your shorts. I have a very high libido. It is not, however, my motivation to be in this job.  I have a lot of fun in my good sessions. I seldom get turned on. Because boundaries.

“Daddy Issues!” Can’t get you wrong about that one (speaking for myself), but half the women in Congress have the same problem. Also, nobody asks guys how many have mommy issues. Hear me now, believe me later: it’s a lot. A LOT of guys have mommy issues.

“Sex Trafficking!” It exists and it’s awful. Why a man would bring this up to me during a prodomme session is a real head-scratcher. I suppose it does suggest he has a soul. However, I am clearly not trafficked. Furthermore, what sort of mentality does it take to presume the woman you are seeing is “trafficked” and then want to book her anyway?

 

The Surgeon’s Parrot

It’s a blast from the past: I’m going to write a little something about the Surgeon.

I was thinking about him recently because when I work in San Francisco I board my parrot, Abe. The boarder keeps many parrots. Some of them are Amazons.  The Surgeon had a Yellow-napped Amazon.

People who are not bird people do not understand what intelligent and highly emotional beings parrots are. They are not mammals, obviously, but they feel love and fear and all the other basic emotions. They bond to you, fall in love with you.

The Surgeon’s Amazon was bonded to him.

The Surgeon neglected him because he was working all the time and he was basically a neglectful person in regard to his personal relationships. The parrot is a personal relationship.

He did not take him out of his cage or play with him on a regular basis.  All he said was, “He’s such a good-looking bird.”  Yes, he’s a good-looking bird, but do you KNOW him?

You buy an animal because you think it’s an ornament? It fits in with your house decor?

Well, one day he let it out, and the parrot flew across the room and bit him on his face.  He had to go to the emergency room and get stitches.  The bird did this not because it was cruel, but because its heart was broken.

After that, he did not let the Amazon out of his cage. Soon after, the Surgeon dropped him off at the dog pound. “Bird is history!” he texted me.

I said, “You left your exotic bird at a dog pound?”  This man is a multi-millionaire. There are parrot sanctuaries. Alternatively, he could have gone to a local avian vet to inquire about re-homing the bird.

“He cost thousands of dollars! I’m sure he’ll find a good new home!”

The Surgeon has daughters.

Of this much, I am sure: what happened to your parrot will happen to them. Your daughters will attack you the minute they have autonomy.