Dining in Copenhagen

    Two quick updates before I post this:  Remember “Audrey,” the woman from The Worst Session Ever…?  Well, good news: she’s history!    The Studio canned her ass!

     Let me tell you The Awful Truth: unless a member of the management develops a vendetta against you, it if almost impossible to get fired from the Studio.  It’s like getting fired from a strip club (or so I hear).  You have to blow it in truly spectacular fashion to get thrown out of that place–I’ve seen it happen maybe 3 times, and it’s always a spectacle.

      Audrey did not disappoint. 

      What did she do…?  I’ll tell you what she did.  I wasn’t there for it, unfortunately, but I’ve heard the story from a few different people….

      Get ready for it!  lol

     Audrey was doing coke with a client, lost her mind over something, and smashed his Rolex watch with a hammer.   

      Understandably, the guy was pissed.  How much do those watches cost?  Forty grand or something, right?  At least?  She’s lucky he didn’t murder her.  If I had $40k in front of me and someone grabbed it and threw it into an incinerator right in front of me, I’d probably attack them.  Especially if I was high on coke. 

     So, the client flipped his shit, but he didn’t try to hurt her.  He argued loudly and at length with the manager, but what could he do?  Audrey doesn’t have money; she can’t pay him for the watch.  This man was in a tough position; it’s not difficult to imagine what he was going through in his mind.  Audrey deserved to be arrested and prosecuted…but in order to do that, he’d have to tell the cops that he was in a notorious S&M dungeon at 2 AM snorting cocaine with a dominatrix half his age.  Yeah, I bet his girlfriend/wife/children/boss/parents would love that one. That would be a fun story to tell at Thanksgiving for many years to come!

       There was nothing he could do.  He ranted and raved, but in the end, he walked.  

       I feel badly for him.  He really got screwed.  It’s not fair.

       Management threw out Audrey the same night.  She’s independent now, but I don’t expect her to last.  She’s a terrible domme.  Youth and looks can get you a long way in the sex industry, but they are not enough to maintain success.  She is too stupid to experience the emotional wear and tear that more sensitive, thoughtful individuals endure, which is to her benefit…but that stupidity is dangerous and extremely unattractive to most men.  

      Nobody sees her a second time.

                       *                         *                  *                     * 


 This client was so interesting and generous that I simply have to write about him…

      He was part of my birthday-week succession of great new clients, and he was the best of the lot.  I believe that he intends to see me again, and I hope that he does, but I’d count myself lucky to have only met him one time.  

     He contacted me through my ad.  Immediate positive impression: the letter was cordial, clear, professional, and brief.  We went back and forth two or three times.  I answered a few questions for him.  He agreed to my limits and my fee and passed my screening check.  We made an appointment.  Nothing to it.  God, I wish they were all so easy.  He even requested that I not wear makeup (or, in gracious fashion, “I ask that you wear as little as you personally feel comfortable with.”), which is almost unheard of (I know, I know, it’s part of the job, I’m not complaining, I accept that, and I wear some makeup everyday, anyway, but...every day that I work in this industry, it’s like getting ready for a really impressive Saturday-night date.  The grooming!  Arrrgh!  Do you know how many hairdryers I’ve burned out in the last year?  How many cans of “root-boosting mousse” I’ve gone through?  The eyebrow waxing?  And it feels like I’m doing my nails all the time!).  

       But I digress…

       So, I showed up at his building, fresh-faced, briefcase o’ swag in hand.

       The doorman rang me up.

       Now, his email said that we were going to meet in his “loft.”  I naively assumed that it would be a loft-style apartment, like a big open studio with high ceilings.   I didn’t actually think it would be a loft  until the elevator stopped at…

        ….a door.  One, single door.

        Weird! I thought.  Does he have the whole floor…?

         The door opened, and I was greeted by a small, slim, fastidious gent with blond hair and cobalt blue eyes.  He invited me inside.  

        My host did indeed have the whole floor.  It was huge.  Huge.  It was also beautiful–it was decorated in a way that I might decorate my apartment, had I the means to do so.  There was lots of molding around the ceiling and dark recessed wooden bookcases and big windows which let in sunlight and provided views of the park across the street.  Wooden floors.  

       And art.  Art on shelves.  Art on walls.  Not the worthless reproductions of priceless works of art that decorate Margo Manor. 

       He hanged up my coat.  I watched him as he put it in the closet.  His clothing was simultaneously beautiful and strange–almost costume-ish.  He was wearing slippers that looked like shoes, except that they were velvet and had a monogram on them.  He was wearing a nice shirt and a cravat (I swear to God that I am not making this up).  He had to be about 60 years old–probably older–but he moved very well.  Good figure.  His hair was still mostly blond–sun blond, golden.  

      His most attractive feature was his eyes, though.  They were small and heavy-lidded, but very bright and very, very blue.  Like Peter O’Toole’s in Lawrence of Arabia. 

      (BTW: this man had to be a knockout–a stone fox–twenty years ago.  By my standards, at least.)

        He asked me if I would like anything to drink.  I said that I’d love a glass of water.  

        He rinsed a glass and poured some for me.  He said that he’d just come back to town.  

         I asked him where he was from.

         “Where do you think?” he asked.

         “I considered Holland, but your accent isn’t Dutch.  Are you a Dane?”

         He came from the kitchen, carrying my glass of water.  “Well, that is a first!  Miss Adler!  Yes, I flew from Copenhagen.”

         Miss Margo Christens thee: Fortinbras (and yeah, I know Fortinbras is not a Dane.  He assumed the throne after the death of Hamlet, though, so the name is good enough for Government work).  

         Fortinbras said, “I noticed you were looking at my painting!”  Then he proceeded to tell me what he enjoyed about it.  I can’t give details because it would be distinguishing information, but I can say that we chatted back and forth about the artists who inspired the work for several minutes.  

         Fortinbras decided to give me an art tour of his apartment.

        Dude had great art.  Most of it was too abstract for my taste, but I know enough about art to recognize the work of prominent artists.  Fortinbras had quite a collection. 

       It must have taken about an hour.  I hadn’t even thought to start charging him for my time yet.  I was just happy to be there.  Happy to be enjoying the experience.  It’s a special occasion for me to be around things like this. I appreciate hanging out with people like Fortinbras from time to time.  It’s like visiting Mars.  It’s fun.  Makes the job more worthwhile, if you know what I mean.  What am I doing this for (aside from $$$)…?  Experience and adventure, amirite?  

      “What a treat you are, Miss Adler!” he pronounced.  What a smooth talker.  Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Fortinbras!  “I was not expecting this when I wrote to you!  Look, I’m hungry–I will not eat the airplane food.  How much would you charge to stay an extra hour and dine with me?  Are you hungry?”

       “Uhhh….”  I drifted off.  Clients have paid me to eat with them on several occasions…always in advance.  Sometimes it’s fun, and sometimes it’s a chore.  Dining with Fortinbras, though, was definitely no chore.  I was having a fine time and didn’t have anything else planned for the rest of the night.  

          “A hundred  fifty dollars…?” I suggested.  That is only a fraction of my fee for professional masochism…but really, how much could I charge someone just to hang out with me while we ate dinner?  What was I supposed to say?  “Fortinbras!  $350/hour to talk to me while I sit in your gorgeous loft, eat your superior food, and listen to your excellent conversation!”  I mean, FFS.  

        “That is far too little.  I’ll pay your hourly fee, is that all right?”

       “Uhhh…sure.”  Only if you twist my arm, right?

       “Excellent!  To the kitchen!”

        Fortinbras cooked us dinner.  He had a beautiful stove and beautiful heavy copper-bottomed cookware.  All the cooking utensils had considerable heft. He had many rare spices that I never see at my local grocery store.  

       He prepared salmon and exotic mushrooms.  It was a lot of fun watching him chop the food and fillet the fish–he was good with the knife.  Very fast.  

       “I like to cook!” he said.  Haahahahahahah!

       I helped him set the table.  There were long white candles which were arranged at different lengths.  I guess that is so that the light can illuminate the table to its best aesthetic advantage. 

       We ate dinner.  It was delicious.  He was a fascinating conversationalist.  He asked me questions about my intellectual interests.  He seemed very interested in me, which was flattering.  Of course, I don’t trust clients (especially after the Mathematician), but it was still nice.  If he was faking it, he’s a good faker…but I don’t see why he’d be faking.  Who would pay to eat dinner with someone they didn’t want to eat dinner with?  He could have hired me to meet his needs and seen me to the door within the first hour.  I think that it is fair to say that he kept me around because he enjoyed having me there.  

       We talked about Europe.  He told me about himself and his family.  

       Fortinbras is extremely intelligent.  He reminded me of Hannibal Lecter, except that he wasn’t, you know, a serial killer.  He is very cultured and well-educated.  He knew about politics, law, economics, and history.  IQ had to be in the stratosphere.  In fact, I think he’s one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, and I’ve been around many exceptionally bright individuals.  He was more intelligent than most of the professors I’ve had.  I was very impressed with him.  

        I went to clear the dishes, but he told me not to worry about it. 

        It was time for the session.

        I laid out the content of my bag and asked him how he would like to begin.  

        I can’t get into the particulars–that would be an invasion of his privacy.  I can tell you that he turned on, and it was like watching a deer or rabbit sprout fangs and go on a rampage.  He attacked me like a shark.  It was startling.  I never would have guessed that he had it in him!  I thought it was going to be an easy, snoozer-type spanky-spanky session!  NOPE!

        Jesus, I thought.  This guy must have been hell on wheels when he was my age.  

        He actually bit me a few times.  The marks were gone the next day, but he bit me pretty hard.  Nobody’s bitten me since the Surgeon. 

       He had a huge flogger–very supple, Elk skin, with dozens and dozens of tails.  It weighed a ton.  Despite its softness, it was an absolute bone-cruncher.  I’ve never experienced anything like it.  It landed on me like a ton of bricks.    

        I was frightened for a few seconds.  I admit it.  It was like being caught in an unexpected tornado.  I wasn’t anywhere near scared enough to call it off…but I was afraid.  The man was ferocious.  Absolutely ferocious.  

          Then it was all over.

         He brought me a glass of water, and we talked for twenty minutes.  Then I got dressed and he escorted me to the elevator.  I grabbed a cab home.

          Before I got into the elevator, he passed me a card.  I opened it inside the cab.

         It was a thank-you card with $1000 inside.  A THANK-YOU CARD!

         Thank YOU, Fortinbras!  The pleasure was all mine.  My family would buy you a thank-you card if they could, because I used that money to buy a flight home and get roses for my mother for Mother’s Day.  

      Sometimes this job is awesome.  


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