Clients: Please Don’T Lie About the Serious Stuff

      One thing that I always enjoyed about the Surgeon was hearing him tell stories (aka “complain”) about patients.  Boy oh boy, did he have stories.  Entertaining stories.  Incredible stories.  

      (It was also pretty fun to hear about how he dealt with them.  As you can imagine, he is not known for his comforting and therapeutic bedside manner.  The things patients wrote about him online routinely made me laugh so hard that I cried.)  

     One thing that I always found astonishing was his assertion: patients lie.  

     “They lie…?”  I asked, honestly puzzled.  “Why would anyone lie to their doctor?”

      “All kinds of reasons.  They’re ashamed or self-conscious about something.  They made a mistake.  They’re trying to manipulate me to give them what they want, and they know I won’t want to do it.  They don’t want to admit that they’re wrong.  All kinds of reasons.”  

      “What do they lie about?”

      “Anything.  Everything.  Date of birth.  Hepatitis.  Seeking second opinions.  History of past procedures.  How much they smoke.  You name it.”  

       “That’s so weird.”  

        But you know what…?  

        I believe it.  Oh yes, I believe it.  
        Know why…?  

         Because clients lie to me.  Not all of them, or even most of them, but a surprising number of them do lie.  

        They lie about their experience level and skill set.  They lie about other mistresses they’ve served or subs they’ve mastered.  They lie about being drunk.  They lie about being on coke.  

       What surprises me most is when they lie about things that I honestly do not give a shit about (and usually don’t even ask about or think about), like whether they’re married or what they do for a living.  

        If anyone is reading this who hires professional sadomasochists to get your kinky pervy needs met, please, please, I implore you: don’t lie about the important stuff.  Please please please! 


       I say this because when you lie about the important stuff, bad things can happen.  Or, as the excellent Domina Irene Boss hilariously calls it: “A BDSM-related accident.”  

      A few examples…recently some dork at the Studio lied about being on Viagra (why would he take viagra, I wonder?  He’s not getting laid.  And if he did take it, why would he lie?).  The mistress asked him about it specifically, because he wanted a partial inversion.  Well, he passed out and scared the shit out of everyone. NOT FUN!

     Another one was a client of mine.  A new guy.  Never saw him before.  

     I was moving him around by his hair, as I am wont to do.  He was making exaggerated wincing noises, so I checked in with him.  Asked him if there was anything wrong.

     No, no, he assured me.

    So I kept dragging.

     When I took my hand away, I looked at my palm.

     (can you see where this is going…?)

      There were fucking hair follicles all over my hand!  This guy had gotten hair plugs and didn’t tell me about it!  He let me pull on his hair plugs!  Why?  Because  he was vain, or what?  Hair plugs aren’t cheap, either! 

      Finally…the story that takes the cake…the most incredible story of client lying I’ve ever heard.  If I didn’t know the woman well, I think I would have dismissed this one as an urban legend.

       Man comes in for a smoking session.  Old guy.  Seems nice enough.  He wanted a little rough treatment, but mostly his kink was just having cigarette smoke blown in his face or forced into his mouth for an hour.  My friend Lisa tackled it.  

      I guess towards the end, she gave him a pretty hard thump in the chest, and he screamed…and he’d declined to remove his shirt early on, even though he’d taken everything else off, which was kinda weird.  

       He confessed to Lisa that he’d recently had major surgery…a double lung transplant.  

       You can guess how that made her feel, after she’d forced half a pack of Camel Reds down his brand new lungs.  

       Guys: don’t lie about the major stuff.  

      This has been a PSA from Miss Margo S&M Productions. 

The English Headmaster II

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      The other day I went to the Studio after class, which I’m trying not to do because it necessitates lying and messes with my mind.  

      I went in order to keep an appointment with the English Headmaster, who wanted to see me one more time before he returned to his homeland.  I felt a little conflicted on whether or not I should see him again, because I knew what it would do to my already black-and-blue hide.  

      The pain was no hindrance and the condition of my skin was no hindrance.  What concerned me was that the Mathematician would see the marks and wonder if there was something wrong with me. You know…in the head. 

     But I ain’t gonna lie: in the end, the money was just too good to pass up.  $500 for an hour of my labor (I did tip the manager for hooking me up…but even still…$460)?  Are you kidding me?  And the Headmaster is a total gent, a very friendly person, not a psycho or a pain in the ass (no pun intended, hardy har har) to be around.  I didn’t feel emotionally drained at the end of the session at all.  

      This time, the Headmaster brought a new prop: A PIPE!  A pipe, to match his tweed jacket!  HILARIOUS! 

      It wasn’t an American pipe, like my father used to smoke.  It was a Sherlock Holmes pipe!  It looked like this:

     Yes, I got the cane.  I got it worse than last time, because it didn’t break right away.  I took it over my bluejeans (while babbling: “I’m sorry!  I’ll never cheat on my exams again!”), but I have welts.  

owie owie owie owie WATCH THE WRAPAROUND, JESUS!

      The Headmaster said that I was one of the best masochists he’d ever met, and he gave me a box of Godiva chocolates.  

      What a sweetheart, and a class act.  Three cheers for you, affable English Headmaster!  If I could drink, I’d share a Guinness with you.  Or sherry.  Port? Whatever it is that English Headmasters at all-girl boarding schools drink.  

Rawkin’ the Overhead Projector

    Hey, Party People!


      Miss Margo gets to use this wonderful piece of World War II technology to teach!  A lowly adjunct slave instructor like herself does not qualify for a Smart classroom.  

     The light gets really, really hot and makes sunspots in her vision and burns her fingertips if they linger on the transparency.  The fan blows her hair around, too.  

     The students are not digging The Federalist Papers.  They are not digging The Federalist Papers at all.  They text on their cell phone in front of her.  One young scholar crunched on a nice crispy apple in the front row until Miss Margo asked him to stop.  Please refrain from eating your tasty apple until the end of the session, Teenage Scholar. 

     Miss Margo told the Mathematician about the TEXTING.

     “They are probably tweeting about you.  When I give a presentation, I always look up my twitter hashtag right away,” he said.  

       This made Miss Margo very paranoid.  

     Miss Margo Recommends:

           She doesn’t know what’s in this shit and doesn’t want to know. It burns like a mofo and will discolor the fabric of your clothing, so you have to put it on at bedtime.  It also hurts.  Stings like acid.  It is probably nuking your sweat glands.  Maybe it will make you have 2-headed children.

      However, if you wear it–especially on a daily basis–you will not sweat from your armpits (or wherever else you apply it).  No sweat.  El Zilcho!  

Beware of Ms. IED and her Cutlery

Oh yes, one other thing…the English Headmaster is returning to his country tomorrow and wants to see me one more time.  The bruise he left on my ass last time isn’t black anymore, but it’s still pretty bad.  

If he goes over the same area again, I’m going to be roadkill.  

The Mathematician took it in stride last time, but there’s no telling how he’ll take it again, especially in such a short time frame.  I could really be pushing my luck here.  And I don’t want to do that.

But it’s easy money.  A lot of easy money.  I could take the rest of the week off and focus entirely on my other job.  

He’s coming at 2.  I have a decision to make.

                         *                  *                 *                * 

   My conclusion of “Shopping with the Mathematician” is almost ready, but I wanted to write this post first.

     Man, I don’t know who’s been doing the hiring at the Superstudio recently, but some of these new hires are just not going to cut it.  Is that talent pool in NYC really that shallow this winter?  It brings to mind what a former co-worker would always tell women who asked her advice about how to get a job as a domme:

     “Call every dungeon in town and ask if they’re hiring.  If you were born a female, someplace will take you on.”

      Let me tell you about one new girl in particular…let’s call her “Miss IED,” because as far as I’m concerned, that’s exactly what she is.

     At first I thought she was going to be okay.  I know why they hired her–she’s gorgeous.  Really stunning.  She looks like Pocahontas from the Disney cartoon.  She’s not too young–about my age, I think.  She has a little experience and knows what the job’s about.  So yeah, I thought she’d be okay.  

     First sign of trouble was when I took her into a session with me to show her how I conducted an equestrian session with a pony.  First, she laughed at the guy.  Not good, unless you know that they want to be laughed at.  That’s unprofessional.  Then she tried talking over me a few times when I did her the favor of letting her interact with us instead of just requesting that she watch from the corner.  Hey Ms. IED–don’t fuck with my authority while I’m running the show, ok?  It makes me look bad. I noted the rudeness and filed it away to think about later.  

      I heard from a few other women that Ms. IED has been a little rude, patronizing, or arrogant towards them.  A little sharp.  I guess prickly would be the right word.  

      Now, I don’t like Ms. IED anymore, so I’m not going to warn her…but the Studio is not a safe place to act like an asshole.  There is a hierarchy, especially among the night-shift women.  I am mostly exempt from the hierarchy because I stay out of the drama and social network as much as possible, meaning that I don’t hang out with these people outside of the Studio.  I’m also mostly a sub and they know it and leave me alone because I don’t have an alpha, Queen Bee personality.  But some of the dommes in the hierarchy have big fucking personalities, if you know what I mean, and they’re territorial.  If Ms. IED condenscends the wrong person, they’re going to make her life hell.  Or maybe punch her out.  

       Then, I found out that Ms. IED is a major germophope.  A major, major germophobe.  It’s pathological.  She can’t touch the trash.  She freaks whenever she has to use the women’s bathroom.  If she drops a tool on the floor, she’s scared to pick it up.  She won’t sit on the furniture, even if it’s just been sprayed with bleach and alcohol.  If you try to touch her with something “dirty,” like, say, a can of Diet Coke from the fridge, she recoils like a vampire from holy water and gets this really ugly, hostile expression on her face. 

     And something is wrong with her “filter.”  She has told me–a person with whom she is only modestly acquainted–about how her family used to beat her with extension cords.  Why is she telling Miss Margo this?  WHO KNOWS!  Because I didn’t ask!  

     “It wasn’t as bad as the big wooden spoons.  Those were the worst,” she told me, as I sat there reading the newspaper.  

      It gets better.  The other day I was sitting in the locker room on the sofa, trying to read.  Ms. IED’s costumes and makeup bags and hair straightener irons are all over the couch (on top of towels for sanitary purposes, natch).  Kinda rude.  I looked over at a leather dress she’d just thrown down next to me.  

       The fabric looked interesting.  I wondered if it was real leather.

       I reached out my hand and touched it for a second.  Just a quick pat, really.  My hands were clean.  I didn’t move it.

      I looked up to see Ms. IED bent over me, her hands balled up into fists and an absolutely batshit expression of rage on her face.  I mean blazing eyes, snarling mouth, tight attack posture, the whole bit.  

      To say that I was taken aback would be an understatement.  

     I looked over at Kitty.  Kitty was watching Ms. IED with big round eyes, her mouth open. 

      Ms. IED snatched her leather dress up.  “I really hate it when people touch my things!”

      Yeah, no shit, I thought.  What I said was: “Sorry.  I wasn’t thinking.  I just wanted to feel the fabric.”

     “I got in trouble once because I stabbed a guy in the thigh with a fork  up to the prongs.  He snatched a French fry off my plate.”

      Jesus Christ, I thought. This is troubling for two reasons.  The first reason is that she actually did that. The second reason is that she didn’t see anything wrong with admitting that she did that in public to her co-workers.  I mean, if I did some crazy shit like that, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell people about it, you know what I mean?

      “I’m not that bad anymore.  I just really hate it when people touch my stuff.”

     “Okay,” I said.

       Mr. IED stormed out, presumably to de-germ her dress and get my cooties off of it.

      Kitty said, “I really thought she was going to kick your ass.”

     “Me too.”

      This creature is unstable.   She’s not wired right.  She’s either going to go off on the wrong domme or else she’s going to flip out on a client who touches her wrong or something.  She’s a liability.  

     I hope I’m not around when she goes off.  

Shopping with the Mathematician (and Bruise Debacle concluded)

      Well, Monster Bruise was not the end of the world.  

      Ultimately, I took the advice given to me by a thoughtful reader and decided to be nonchalant about it.  The important thing was not to make it a bigger deal than it was by rushing to explain and apologize for it, as if it were some sort of huge scarlet letter.

      I didn’t bring it up.  When he saw it–as, inevitably, he had to–he winced.  Yeah, I saw the face.  There was a mix of emotion there.  I couldn’t tell if he was feeling sorry for my pain, or revulsion, or getting a little reality check about what I do for a living, or what.  

     “Wow.  Someone really got you there,” he said.

      “Yup!  Don’t worry about it.  It looks a lot worse than it feels.  It was just some girls at the Studio.  We were practicing on each other.”

        Yeah, I lied.  I admit it (to you anyway, gentle reader).  I didn’t want him thinking about a man doing that to me.  Even an affable, absurd English barrister I was not sexually attracted to.  

       Then I changed the subject: “What’d you bring in your bag?”

        Nothing like sex to distract a man!  Or Miss Margo, for that matter.  

        The Mathematician was holding a bag from The Apple Store.  Inside of that bag was a bag from J. Crew.  Inside of that bag was plain black plastic bag from Purple Passion DV8, purveyor of fine fetish attire, bondage hardware, sex toys and implements of torture.

     It was his idea to go there, not mine.  He’s really taken to bondage for sex, which is perfectly fine by me–as far as I’m concerned, there is no sexual activity which cannot be instantaneously and significantly enhanced if one partner is tied up. 

       We’ve been using rope.  A lot of rope.  Being a sailor, he has a shit ton of it lying around his house.  

        Now, I like rope as much as the next degenerate sex maniac.  But there’s so much more! 

       “What else is there?” he asked.

      “I’ll pick up some cuffs and stuff next time I’m in Chelsea.” I have a shit ton of that stuff in suitcases underneath my bed, but I am not going to use the stuff I used with the Surgeon and I sure as hell am not going to use the stuff I use on clients, even if it’s good quality. Maybe some people can use their sex gear with everyone, but I’ve never been able to.  It seems rude and icky to me.  Like having sex with a guy for the first time and finding a half-empty bottle of in his nightstand (guys: buy new lube when you get a new girl).  

      “Can’t you get it online?” he asked.

       “Yes, but I prefer to buy my gear in person if possible.  It’s hard to get a feel for the quality online.”

       “Okay.  Can I go with you?”


       Now, if left to my own devices, I’d just as soon get most of my things from The Leather Man on Christopher Street.  But there is no way that I’m taking the Mathematician aka “Dr. Dork #1 Dad” to a hardcore gay sex shop where the staff are tattooed mos wearing leather pants and t-shirts that say “Nasty Pig” on the front.  Especially if they recognize me and start chatting me up….”Miss Margo!  How’s that electro anal plug working out for you?”  Uh-uh, not a good idea…

      Babeland just ain’t gonna cut it for me and I hate those sleazy adult bookstores (though I guess “sleazy” is in the eye of the beholder) with cheap “adult novelties” and rubber dongs all over the wall.  Gross.

      That leaves Purple Passion.  Kind of a freaky establishment, but they have good stuff, and thought that I could take the Mathematician there without scarring him for life. 

       We went on his lunch break.  First we had lunch at an Italian place down the street.  He was there when I arrived and he stood up when he saw me approach the table.  It made my heart do a little flip.  He looked so handsome in his nice work clothes.  He’s so well-mannered.  Any woman would be proud to be meeting him for lunch.

       We shared the tuna ravioli.  I’d come from class and told him a stuffy story about how I’d walked into the wrong classroom and it was EMPTY and I thought that every student had dropped the class because they hated me.  

      “It was like a nightmare!  I screamed!  I really did!”

       “Oh my God!  What happened?”

      “I walked in to the wrong classroom!

      You have to admit, that is pretty hilarious.  

      Lunch was pleasant but still slightly tense.  He’d told me that he’d never been to a sex store with a woman before.  And for me, well…yeah, I was having some insecurity.

        Hey retard!  my mind shrieked.  Why don’t you just throw it in his face again that you’re a dominatrix?  Babeland!  What was wrong with Babeland?  Vibrators and hot pink bondage tape!  Fuzzy handcuffs!  Perky hipster lesbian staff!  You’re taking this guy to a fetish store where THEY GIVE YOU A PROFESSIONAL DISCOUNT! 

       I excused myself to go use the restroom.  While I was in there, I remembered that I had barfed in that bathroom on multiple occassions back when my eating disorder was at its worst.  

      This did not help with my anxiety. 

      (I can vouch that I did not barf up my tuna ravioli this time.  He would have been able to tell.)

      I looked at myself in the mirror and put a gentle smile on my face.  

       He’s paid the bill while I was in the bathroom.  I thanked him for the meal.  

       Then we were off.

       (to be continued…)