And the Oscar goes to Miss Margo for Her Performance as….


       Am home…safe and sound and wealthier.

       French Fry was a gentleman because he graciously coughed up a tip, even though I know tipping is not part of European culture.  Euros almost never tip, but this one did.  Cool beans.  When in Rome, Frenchie!  (I did give a tip-worthy performance, though, IMO.)

      We talked about European politics.

       “You really know about many things!” he said.  I liked him, but this did, indeed, invoke the punching response, even though I have never actually punched anyone in my life and I hope I never shall.

       Why so surprised?  Are sex workers really that uneducated?  Even the ones in my specialty and price range?  And how clueless does one have to be to not know that Edinburgh is an important finance capital?

       We were not even discussing obscure high-brow stuff.  This was not New York Review of Books material.  It was not even Economist. 

          He complained about Muslim immigration.  I sympathized. We talked about how they almost took over Europe back in the day.  They came very close.  Who knows if they could have held it…but it’s an interesting historical question to speculate about, like WHAT IF?! the South won the Civil War or the Axis Powers won WWII.

        Then we talked about Russia.  Russians are scary shit.  They are the country LEAST worth screwing with, outside of maybe North Korea and China.  And Pakistan.  Pakistan is a ticking time bomb.  It’s run by a bunch of tards with no real control and they have nukes and our government keeps GIVING THEM FREE WAR MACHINES.

      But that is neither here nor there.

       Here are photos from the hotel:


  I almost never do role-play when I practice sadomasochism in my private life.  Probably because I don’t have to.  Readers of my blog will know that I, sadly, have awful taste in men.  Left to my own devices, I tend to gravitate towards the ones who are wildly inappropriate.  When you enter into a relationship where there are significant power dichotomies and imbalances from the start, it’s not necessary to play make-believe in the bedroom in order to get your kinky rocks off.  

         Many clients enjoy it though, for whatever reason.  I got an email for a role-play session this morning, and after my experience with Prisoner 39, it made me think about the roles I have been asked to play at my Secret Job.

       Here they are, in no particular order: 

        Executioner, Wonder Woman (or other comic book superheroine), Pimp or Madam of a brothel, police officer, Stasi Agent (he actually wanted me to be an SS agent, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  Pretending to be a Nazi is a hard limit for me. Not that the Stasi were champions of human rights, but damn…a Nazi?  Really?), kidnapper of small children, White Supremacist (black man with a Ph.D. asked for this, but again, I could not do it.  I am too much of a guilty polite liberal), step-daughter, teenage babysitter, stepmother or aunt, mean bully girl in school, leader of a “girl gang,” librarian from hell, cruel sorority chick, epileptic, Customs agent at the airport, college instructor, undertaker/mortician, corpse, cuckolding emasculating bitch of a wife, ex-girlfriend, and femme fatale neighbor lady who kills you by poisoning your drink when she invites you over to her apartment (you thought you were going to get laid.  NOPE!!!  Get out the Black Heftys and the axe!).  

        Oh yeah–hypnotist!  Evil hypnotist!  And a psychiatrist/psychologist.  

       I’m sure that there are more.  Those are just the ones I could think of off the top of my head.  

        When it comes to clients who want role-play, the least imaginative–by far–are the male doms.  They are even less imaginative than the cross-dressers/sissies (if a sissy rolls into the Studio, I can tell you EXACTLY how the session will go.  EXACTLY.   Is there some sissy script software out from from which they all download their kinky programming, or what?).

       The male doms always want me to be one of two things.  Can you guess?  I bet you can guess.  Come on, this one is easy.  

       Errant secretary.  Or co-ed/schoolgirl. 

       Secretary.  Schoolgirl. 

       If you are plan to practice professional switching, those are the uniforms you will need.  The only variation is: are you a sexy secretary, or a demure conservative secretary?  Do you want the authentic Catholic uniform, or the slutty adult version you can buy at the Halloween Store?

       I will know that society is becoming more feminist when a male dom wants me to be a Female CEO who needs punishment. 

        Secretary.  Schoolgirl.  God, you guys, could you shake it up a little?  

         Anyway, this afternoon, after I spend a thrilling hour or two at the laundrymat, I’m going to come home and get gussied up so that I can play the part of… secretary!   Wheeeeeee!   Hair down!  Dangly earrings!  Why sir, I had no idea that my pencil skirt was too short and showed my stockingtops when I sat down!  These red heels are inappropriate to wear at this law firm, sir?  

         I didn’t know that my blouse was unbuttoned too far!

         What would I do to keep this job…?  I would do anything to keep this job!  Anything!  Even…a spanking! 

         You know, I would find the eroticization of blatant sexual harassment offensive if this roleplay were not also so cornball.  I mean, picture it from my perspective.  Do you know how hard it is to keep a straight face sometimes when you’re playing sexy secretary?   It’s even harder when the dude is taking it really seriously and isn’t, you know, having fun with it.  And it’s hardest of all if Mr. Serious Domly Dom is also kind of a jerk in the bargain and I’ve sized him up and know for a fact that I have at least 40 IQ points on him (but then again, he’s the one with the big bucks to hire me for an hour, so maybe my intellectual snobbery is just sour grapes).

         This is basically the email I received to book the session:

           Dear Miss Margo;

     Hi, my name is Well-To-Do French Businessman Cog in the Capitalist Machine.  I would like to have a session with you this afternoon.  I would like a roleplay in which you are a sexy secretary who must be punished for teasing the men in the office.  I enjoy red toenails and nice soft feet.  Do you have red toenails and nice soft feet?  I am happy to meet with you at the hotel bar and prove that I’m not a cop. These are my references.  Again: soft feet, red toenails.  Black stockings are also ideal.  And I love high heels!

    Thanks and I look forward to meeting you,

   French Cog in the Capitalist Machine

        Well, I guess this male dom is actually shaking it up: sexy secretary…and foot fetish.  Riiiiiiiight. 

And now, because I was wearing flip-flops all day yesterday, I have to go spend some quality time with the Ped-Egg.  Excuse me.  

     Ped-Egg.  Laundry.  Sexy Secretary with this French Fry.  AA meeting.  Gym.  Call mom.  Keep it simple, don’t pick up.  

      Frenchie says I will recognize him in the lobby as he is French and also doesn’t have much hair.  Well, that sure narrows it down!  Must consult the internet and make sure this guy isn’t Dominique Strauss-Kahn.

       Speaking of sleazebags, if you ride the NYC Subway, you can’t help but notice the grotesque and cheesy ads for Dr. Zizm*r, cosmetic surgeon.  I mean, these are some really bad ads, and they are ubiquitous (if you want the scoop, the Surgeon told me once that the guy is really slimy and shakes down younger doctors, but this is coming from the Surgeon, who is not exactly Mr. Rogers himself.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the Surgeon writes negative, scathing anonymous internet reviews of his competition).

       Someone did a parody of Dr. Zizm*r’s subway ads.

        I laughed till I cried.

5 thoughts on “And the Oscar goes to Miss Margo for Her Performance as….”

  1. lots going on in this post! like the parody and glad that rent is coming along [so your not moving?].I agree about the role play, I never was into it,but i’m SURE your performance was great. hot week ahead hope you have air!

  2. Thanks Rick–glad you liked it. Total trip down memory lane for me…all those roles! I should write about the nazi/race role play sometime…I get requests for it because I look very northern-European…but it’s so charged, I can’t do it in person and I’m afraid to write about it. More later! Am writing from my stupid iPhone

  3. For what it’s worth, I had no idea Edinburgh was a financial center. Don’t have much of any idea what goes on in Scotland really, other than some golf and nice whiskey.

    I actually own a square foot of Scotland I just remembered. A distillery was selling them off to protect the watershed it uses. Huh.

    Anyway, if the South would have won the Civil War life in the truncated US of A would be so much better. or the life of me I cannot figure out why anyone thought it worth a fight in order to hold on to Alabama.

    This has turned into a list of random thoughts it looks like. Hm. Oh well….

  4. Would we be so lucky to read a compte rendu of your gym regimen these days. Cardio? Free weights? How hard to you push yourself?

    -a former trainer

  5. Former trainer–is that you, Canadian friend? If so, remember that shithole gym in which we spent so many happy hours on our beautiful Ivy-leaved campus?

    I have a gym close to my apartment which is almost identical, except that I don’t think any professors go there. It is full of fucking Jersey Shore rejects with gold chains and hair product who grunt and groan pretentiously in the weight room. The price of the gym is right, though.

    I don’t do cardio, though my fat ass probably should. I was doing hot yoga for some time, but I decided that it made me feel clumsy and fat. The yoga class was also full of 18 year old Ukranian supermodels. Not exactly good for my self-image. At the Jersey Shore Reject gym, I am a total babe.

    Free weights almost exclusively. Four days a week. Three sets of eight. When not hung over, I try to push to muscle failure.

    I also have adjustable free weights in my bedroom. I bang out a set every now and then as a break from writing at my desk. Combats carpal tunnel and batwing arms. I am not going to be one of those women with batwing arms.

    If I had to become an addict, why couldn’t it be coke or meth? I hear that shit makes you skinny, and I already have trouble sleeping…


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