Reader Mailbag: Gifts & Tipping

“Do your clients often give you gifts?  Is it standard to tip a pro-domme?  If she works in a dungeon, how is the rate split between her and the dungeon?  I’ve never done this before and don’t know what the etiquette is.”
                                        —random internet stranger        

      My clients seldom give me gifts, but it has happened a few times before.  Some dommes get more gifts than I do, but they actively solicit them via amazon wishlists and things like that.  I am too modest to ask strangers to buy me things.  

      The most common gifts are items of clothing that a client wanted me to wear for a session and gave me to keep afterward: shoes, leather gloves, a dress, stuff like that.  I’ve received flowers several times.  A summer dress from Brooks Brothers.  Most of my regular clients are Ph.D.s or some sort of egghead, so they give me gifts of books to read.  One man bought me a three year subscription to The Economist.      

       I allow the clients whose company and personality I truly enjoy to take me out to dinner off-the-clock.  The free time is a gesture of appreciation for their patronage.  It’s also allowed me to eat at some of the best restaurants in New York, which I normally would never be able to afford to do. 

       The strangest gift I’ve ever gotten was a folder of clipped, itemized drug store coupons (that client was neurotically cheap and an avid coupon-clipper).  And the battery for a hearing aid.  

        I can’t say that tipping is standard protocol, because it if was, I would be tipped more often than half the time.  Many of the clients who do not tip me come back and see me multiple times, so I know they are satisfied with the quality of my work.  About half of my clients tip and half of them don’t.  I would probably get tipped more often if I told them that I expected to be tipped, but I do not think that is dignified behavior.  Some mistresses don’t give a fuck and will stand at the door with their hand out.  They argue that if you don’t remind clients of how they are expected to act, they’ll get out of line.  This may well be true.  

        I can tell you this much: I think that tipping for a quality performance shows good breeding and your mistress will definitely appreciate it.  Especially if the session was very labor-intensive and now she’s got to peel off and clean a bunch of latex and put away twenty pieces of equipment.  

       I also think that clients would tip more often if they knew just how much–or, more accurately, how little–of the session fee goes to the mistress.  

        I have worked in three dungeons.  The house took 45%-60% of the total fee.  At my first dungeon, I believe the standard rate for a 1-hour domination session was $205, of which the mistress would get $90.  The house would take $100, and the phone receptionist who made the booking would get $15.

      I think $90/hour is a perfectly respectable wage, even if it is less than half of what an independent would make.  If you can pull off two or three sessions in a shift, you can go home with a tidy sum in your pocket for a 6-hour shift.  (A mistress can also earn a lot more money if she is willing to switch, especially if she can take pain, but most are unwilling to do this. Fine with me!  More business for yours truly.)  

       Buuuut…if it’s slow and you only see one client that day, then the extra $40 he gives you for a tip really makes a difference in your total income.  

       Another way you can show your appreciation is to bring in a bottle or two of champagne or wine for the House.  It doesn’t have to be expensive.  Believe me, they will be happy to drink your classy Little Penguin.  This will make you Mr. Popular, and you’ll be remembered the next time you come in.

Karate Champ. Ball Buster. British Imperialist. Online Dating Coach.

     This is a one-off, but I need to record it because it’s so funny.  It had all the women at the Studio in hysterics yesterday (I was there and not in the library because the library is closed on weekends). 

     Mistress Betsy is a beautiful blonde amazon.  She also takes karate lessons.  

      She has a client who likes her to dress up in a karate uniform (a gi?) and beat him up with karate moves and then kick him in the nads.

      Pretty standard “wrestling” session (I don’t do wrestling sessions, by the way.  Too much physical contact and honestly, when I do it, I feel like a moron.  No judgement on people who enjoy it, however–I certainly understand the appeal.).  

      What starts to make it interesting is… the karate outfit.

      Betsy refused to bring in her personal uniform for the sessions.  (I understand.  For whatever reason–compartmentalization, I suppose–I never wear my “work” clothes outside of work.  I have some great cocktail dresses and leather pencil skirts in my locker that I will never wear other places).  So, her client agreed to purchase a uniform to wear for his sessions.

       Then he started to customize it. 

        He went nuts.

         I dunno.  This karate uniform is this Pakistani dude’s hobby.  He does all the alternations himself, by hand.  The sewing is very crude, but hey, it’s a labor of love.

       The white outfit has a huge patch of a tiger face on the back.  He has also added gold braid epaulettes, reminiscent of Capt’n Crunch, to the shoulders.  There is also gold braid on the sleeves, like a Star Trek uniform.   Yesterday he brought it some military medals that he purchased at an army supply store.  

        I watched Betsy affix them to the breast in front of the mirror.

       “Ha!  Ha!  Do I need to salute when you walk into the room?” I asked.

         Next, he says, he wants to get a Union Jack flag patch to put on the sleeve.  This fascinates me because his homeland was colonized by the Brits. I have seen many nonwhite clients fetishize racism or military occupation.  It makes sense when you think about it.  

          I wish, wish, wish I could take a photo of this karate uniform for you.  Forget the costumes in Kill Bill.  This uniform is where it’s at!

          After getting karate-chopped and ball-stomped, our fine young fellow asked for Betsy’s opinion of his online dating profile.  He says he’s not getting much response and he wanted her opinion about how he could improve his ad.

          She diagnosed the issue immediately: “You need another photo.”

           She ran back after the session and said that we had to see his guy’s profile photo before he changed it!  What was he thinking?

           It was a picture of this guy sitting in his cubicle at work.  

           This was not an interesting cubicle (though it was, at least, clean).  It was gray.  There was a computer.  No plants, no photos, no decoration, no window in the background with a view, nothing.

           This guy.  Sitting in a cubicle with a white button-down shirt on.  Under the harsh overhead lights.  NOT SMILING! 

           I stared at the screen, amazed.  “Honestly, if I didn’t know this guy, I’d be inclined to believe that this photo is a prank.  It has to be a joke, right?  He’s trying to be sarcastic or something?  He really plays guitar in a rock band in Brooklyn?”

         When he gets a girlfriend, I wonder if he will ask her to wear the customized karate uniform. 
      

Chester Teaches Margo III: Conclusion

      To say that Chester Cheater, M.D. left a bad taste in my mouth would be an understatement.  By the end of the week, I hated him, and I’m not the type of person whose personality is predisposed towards anger or hatred.  I’m usually pretty calm and forgiving with people…but Chester really, really pissed me off.  

       The humiliation of having been so easily cheated made it worse.  I was mad at myself for giving up too easily and not handling him better.  I kept thinking of things I could have done in order to make him go to the ATM (or, probably the wall safe or the envelope of $100s in his wife’s jewelry box) and get my fee in cash.

        And I was very angry that he’d cheated me after I’d offered him a discount.  

        And his wife’s lingerie?!  What the fuck!

        This narcissistic jerk was so vain that he didn’t think he’d done anything offensive.  He started contact me again right away in order to schedule another session..he actually assumed that I’d want to see him again.        

         I entertained various revenge fantasies for a week.  In one such fantasy, I mailed his wife’s lingerie back to her along with a condolences Hallmark card and my prodomme business card.  In another, I printed out a hundred flyers with Dr. Chester’s photo on them, along with a description of his apartment and gimp outfit and our session, and posted them around his neighborhood and the lobby of his apartment building.  

          But in the end, I did something different.

         I responded to his email and said that I would session with him again.  I told him that I wanted to speak with him beforehand, in person, so that I could get feedback from last time.  We agreed to meet in the same restaurant we’d met in before.

         I was so nervous in the cab that my hands were shaking.  I wasn’t in Franz Adler mode, like when I went to see the Mathematician in that hotel room.  I was just Margo, and while I was determined to go through with it, I was also scared.

        I’d never robbed someone before.

         Never!  The last time I’d stolen something was some eye shadow from the drug store when I was 12!

        What if he calls the police?  What if you get arrested?  What if he chases you down and beats you up?

         I kept assuring myself, over and over again, that he wouldn’t do any of those things.   I kept considering it from Chester’s point of view.  Chester was a total douchebag…but he was not a stupid person and he was not impulsive.   Chester wouldn’t want to explain how we met to the police.  Chester wouldn’t want me spilling his secrets.  He might be livid about being robbed…but he wouldn’t endanger his career or reputation to punish me for it.  

        I was still nervous as hell.  

        The cab pulled up outside the restaurant and I paid the fare with one of Chester’s stupid gift cards and then went to meet him inside.  

        I found him sitting at a table and sat down across from him.

        He smiled at me, as if nothing was the matter, and we were on good terms. 

        “I’m unclear about why you wanted to discuss this here, and not in the apartment,” he said.

         I smiled, leaned forward, and tried to sound as natural and good-natured as possible.  I tried to put a feminine, appeasing ring to my voice and delivery.  You know, that tone of voice?  Where the voice goes up an octave and it sounds like you’re asking a question…?

         “Weeelllll Chester….I just wanted to say that I had a lot of fun with you last time and I’m looking forward to our session today.  The lingerie was very beautiful, thanks.  Buuuutttt…..this time I need my donation in cash before we go up…?”

          (BTW, I NEVER call it a “donation” or “tribute,” but I used it then because it’s a euphemism.  I don’t ask for donations, I’m not the Salvation Army or Goodwill or the ASPCA.  I charge a fee.  Not even a “rate.”  A fee.)  

          Chester knew the drill.  He didn’t look surprised–he’d been around the block.  Every sex worker in the world gets the money up front.  Because of assholes like him.  Only rookies like me don’t do this…but we learn fast, because there are jerks like Chester to disabuse us of our trust.  

        He took an envelope out of the inside of his jacket pocket and passed it to me underneath the table.  I opened it and sneaked a peek.
  
         Five $100 bills.

         Could I do it…?  It was time.  Could I really do it?

          I shoved the envelope into my purse and stood up quickly.  My heart was pounding.

          I’d rehearsed telling him that in the future he should never rip off honest sex workers or anyone else, and by the way, what would he say if his patients tried to pay him in leftover Christmas gift cards with ribbons on them…?  

         My anxiety caused my brain to blank (this happened to me the first few times I taught a class).  I stood there for half a second, intending to retrieve and administer my snappy two-sentence rebuke, but I couldn’t remember it.

       I went with the first thing that came to mind:

       “You suck!”  I hissed.  

        I picked up my bag o’ swag and beat it!  I didn’t run, and I was self-conscious of my posture and expression (DON’T look guilty!  DON’T look guilty! I told myself), but I walked quickly.  When I opened the door I looked over my shoulder to see if he was chasing after me…”Stop that woman!”

       Chester was still sitting in his seat.  His mouth was open slightly, but I couldn’t read his expression.  I didn’t have enough time to access his reaction or body language.  I think he looked as if he was thinking “What the heck?  Is she actually leaving?”

       I emerged from the restaurant and immediately turned a right at the street corner, in the opposite direction of his apartment.  I started to run and then, towards the end of the block, forced myself to walk.  I didn’t want to look guilty or draw attention to myself.  

       I looked over my shoulder, searching for Dr. Chester and/or the athletic male Latino waitstaff dispatched to tackle and detain me till the police car squealed up to the curb to arrest me.   Oh God, I just robbed a rich physician of $500 and I am carrying a bag of fetish gear…I am sure my public defender will love this…

      I didn’t see anyone coming after me.

      I started searching for a taxicab and saw one at the intersection three seconds away.  I started gesturing my arms like I was one of those workers guiding planes at the airport.  

       Guardian Angel Taxi Man from Indonesia saw me and gave me the “go-ahead” nod.

      I ran into the back seat so fast that I didn’t get my bags off my arm in time.  I sat on top of my Bag o Swag (my gear bag).

      I gave him an address two blocks away from my apartment, so that if Chester followed me in a car, he wouldn’t know exactly where I lived.  In my mind, it made sense at the time.  I kept looking around for Chester or the cops…but I never saw him, or them.

      I arrived home safe and sound.  I didn’t deposit the cash in the bank right away because that would leave a paper trail in the event I was prosecuted for theft.  I folded the $500 up into a small square and taped it to the bottom of a container of fish food (and then put the fish food flakes back on top of it).  

      I got away with it.  No cops, no arrest…not even a nasty email from Dr. Chester.  

      Two days later, I told Mistress C. what I’d done.  We were in the Superstudio locker room.  She knew that he’d put me through and while she was sympathetic, she’d also scorned me for not getting the money up front.  

      “YES!  YES!  $500! YES!”  She started fist pumping the air and dancing around.  “AWESOME!  FUCK HIM!  YES!”  

         Then: “Did you tell him what a piece of shit he was for scamming you?  Did you explain why you did it?”

          “No.  I intended to, but I was too stressed out, and all I could say was, ‘You suck!'”

        “How did you say it?  Did you deliver it with a flat voice and a sneer?”  She did an impression. 
  
          “Not sure, but I was so tense that I probably squeaked it out like Beaker of Muppets fame.”

          She laughed and did a squeaky Beaker-voice impression of me carrying money…cause I’m afraid to carry more than $60 cash.  I mean, someone could take it from you. 

          Then she said: “That asshole won’t come after you.  You’re safe.  It would destroy his life.  

       “Always get the money up front.  And say it matter-of-factly, no hesitation, no confusion, no apology.  You want to keep me in this room with you?  He will cough it up for you if he wants your attention. “

      And that, Gentle Reader, is the tale of Chester and what he taught me…what I learned from him.

         The end.  Sorry this dramatic story isn’t more dramatic….

Chester Teaches Margo II

       So there I was, dressed in my civvies, bag packed, sitting in a chair in the foyer, waiting to collect my fee and my coat and leave.

      Chester came over and thanked me for the session.  Glad you had a good time, Chester.  Here at Miss Margo S&M Productions, we aim to please.  

      Then he said: “Look, I’m sorry about this, but my cleaning service came today and I gave them all my cash.  Why don’t I just pay you with these?  You can use them wherever you need to!”

       He passed me two pre-paid American Express gift cards, each values at $200.

        You. Have. Got. To be kidding me.

         The cards both had ribbons on them.  It was just after Christmas; the tree was still up.  Clearly, these were leftover holiday gifts.  

         Today, if some client pulled a stunt like that (unless I thought he was dangerous), I would have stated, calmly but firmly: “I’ll wait here while you go to an ATM.  My safety-call friend is sending the police if she doesn’t speak to me soon, but I can text her to let her know you need an extra 15 minutes to run to the ATM on the corner.”  

         But I didn’t say that, because I was stunned at being put in that position.  I was also tired.  

         I said: “My understanding was that we explicitly agreed upon $600.” 

        “You can keep the outfit you wore.  It’s Le Perle!  It’s expensive!  That bustier looked wonderful on you,” he said, as if I was a visitor from Mars who had never seen lingerie before (note: he’d given me an outfit of bustier, stockings, and garter skirt to dress up in for the session).  His tone of voice was that of a man bestowing a huge favor.

        It’s true that the lingerie cost hundreds of dollars if he purchased it at the store (it didn’t have tags, but looked new or almost-new), but so what…?  Without tags or a receipt, I couldn’t exchange it or return it for cash.  What did he think I was going to do with it?  Fucking wear it to bed and remember the Awesome FunSexyTime we shared together?  BARF!

       “I would really prefer cash,” I said.  

        “I didn’t expect to have to pay the cleaning company today.  There’s a limit on how much I can take out at the ATM every day,” he said.  “I bought that Le Perle here in Manhattan last week.  It is very expensive.” 

       Look at the pretty shiny baubles, you lucky little redneck!   You can replace your Victoria’s Secret with CLASSY STUFF!

       ARRGH that arrogant fucktard, I am having a rage-stroke just remembering this!  What did I ever do to him, besides give him a discount because I was trying to be honest and fair, and also a great performance in a very demanding session that was NOT what he said it would be?  

        But at the time…I was surprised and inexperienced with Indy work and I didn’t know how to deal.  I was also tired and I wanted to leave.

       “How do I know these gift credit cards are any good?” I asked.

       “I would never do that to you,” said Dr. Chester Lying Sex Addict Molester. 

        (Get real, you asshole.  Do you think I don’t know that those were leftover gifts you meant to give to your staff or building maintenance workers for the Holidays, and you had them just laying around the house?  Not to mention that your wife would never see the withdrawal from an ATM?  I bet she watches your online banking like a hawk because you are a compulsive sex maniac and you’re in trouble YOU JERK!  And I did everything to protect you to staff in your building and didn’t call you on your lies, you disrespectful JERK!  Do you think my landlord takes American Express, you fucktard?)

        I should have insisted that he get the money…but guys, I was stunned and tired, and I didn’t stand up for myself.  I thought to myself that I could probably sell the Lingerie on E-Bay for $200, and then it would equal my fee.  

        So I folded.  I took the cards and the lingerie and left.  I used one card to pay for the taxi ride home, to see if it was good..if the charges went through.

      The cards were good.  Thank God.  

      Oh yes, one last thing…when he brought me my coat, he said, “I left something in the pocket for you.”

       I wondered: what could it be?  Does he feel guilty about ripping me off, so he left a nice present?  Like a little jewelry, or a Starbucks card, or tickets to a show?

       Care to know what he left me…?  What I cautiously dragged out of my pocket in the taxicab…?  

         Get this: his wife’s used lingerie.  Stockings and a camisole.  They smelled like her perfume.  The scent was Angel.  I don’t wear it myself, but I recognized it.  

          What a guy.  AMIRITE?

          I didn’t feel much of anything on the ride home.  I just took a shower, fed my animals, and collapsed into my bed.  

           The next day, I started to feel other things.  Bad things.  

          I reviewed my entire relationship with Chester in my mind.  I reviewed our email communication.  I considered how he’d treated me–how could I not…?  

           I took photos of the nice lingerie and posted an ad for it on e-bay, cause I sure as hell was never going to wear it again, even if it was beautiful.  I paid my cell phone bill with one of the gift cards.

           I looked at his wife’s used lingerie, making my bedroom smell like Angel.  That chocolate, sweet, almost cotton-candy smell. 

             I went to bat for that man, and did everything that I said I would do.

          And that weird porn on the projector, and him in his spooky gimp outfit, and all the lies to me, and the WATER.

           Would you let your patients pay you in pre-paid American Express gift cards, DOCTOR CHESTER?  And why should I have to go through the hassle of selling these clothes on e-bay just so that I could make up the money that he owed me?  It’s going to take hours of my time! 

           ….I started to feel disgust.  And then contempt at myself, that I’d let him take advantage of me.  And then outrage, that he’d treated me that way.

           And then, a few days later: hatred. 

            Chester was e-mailing me right away, requesting another session.  

             I knew what I had to do. 

            TO BE CONTINUED

       

Chester Teaches Margo: Part I

      The doctor is a contender for one of my least favorite clients ever.

       Not because his session was unpleasant (though it was).  Not because he was unlikable (even though he was).   Not because he was a boundaries-pushing Chester Molester (he was).  

       I dislike him because he took advantage of my trust and my lack of experience and he cheated me out of my fee.  Successfully, which made it all the more humiliating and frustrating.  

        It’s an awful feeling to be scammed or ripped off, and know there’s nothing you can do.  It’s like being violated.  

        I was just starting to work independently outside the dungeon, and I had yet to learn one of the principle rules of the Biz–or any sex work: get the money up front and count it and hide it.  

         The doctor–let’s call him “Chester”–taught me that lesson.  

         I was terrified of being arrested, and thought that I was protecting myself by not asking for money.  Most clients know how the system works and would just leave an envelope on the coffee table or the bathroom, where I’d see it when I arrived.  A few waited until the end to pay me, which was always nerve-wracking, but they always came through before I left (a few of them wait till the end because they’re distracted and they forget.  But some are jerks who intentionally hold the money till the end in order to enjoy stressing the woman out and making her sweat.  They like to keep the power and make her worry.  It’s not nice at all.).

            Chester didn’t pay up front, but I thought it would be safe because I’d never been ripped off before, and it was obvious that Chester was a man of means.  He was a physician and a teacher with a successful practice and when I checked his apartment address as part of the screening process, a 1-bedroom apartment in his building was for rent at $3800/month.  Chester’s gorgeous apartment was 3-bedroom, so it’s not like I had any reason to believe that he wouldn’t have the ability to pay my fee.  

          I put some work into Chester prior to sessioning with him, too.  Like I said, I was just starting out and I let a lot of time-wasting clients…waste a lot of my time.  Chester was a control freak who wanted me to session with him and his wife, a switch session, and I got the feeling that he was trying to vett me so that I was “the right one” and wouldn’t make his wife uncomfortable, which seemed reasonable to me. 

         Now, though, I just think he wanted to discuss session ideas in detail because it was free sexual attention from me.  Le sigh!

         Via e-mail, we hammered out the plans for a 2-hour session at his apartment.  I was going to be dominant most of the time and submissive for maybe 30 minutes.

          What did my decent, unsuspecting, rookie ass do…?

            I fucking offered him a discount. 

 

            See, he’d contacted me through my switch/masochist ad, and when I sub professionally, I charge much more then when I’m a domme.  

            Since I wasn’t going to be dominant for most of the session, though, it seemed UNETHICAL of me to charge him my full submissive rate…so I charged him my domme fee for the first hour!  I offered it!  It only seemed fair!  I was just trying to be an honest businesswoman!  

            Doing this probably gave him the impression that I was vulnerable and an amateur.  If he was a decent human being, he would have been impressed or touched by the gesture, or at least appreciative of it.  But he wasn’t, as we shall see.  

          I just tried to be honest, and he ripped me off anyway, and that makes me even more angry!

          We confirmed a price.  It was agreed upon, explicit, laid out.

           So, I got dressed and packed my bag and went to meet Chester and his wife on the UES.  They wanted to meet me in public first, which is always fine with me.  It helps set me at ease if I get the opportunity to assess them first.  

           Well, I got to the restaurant on the corner and went in to meet them in the bar, and…

          ….it was just Chester (ChesterLie #1!)
    
           and

          ….Chester did not match his photos or physical description (ChesterLie #2!)

           As I have said many times on this blog: I do not care what my clients look like.   I don’t care, don’t care, don’t care.  The only thing I care about is that they are clean and groomed, and if their feet are gross, it would be awesome and appreciated if they’d keep their socks on.  I have had many excellent sessions with plain-looking, or even homely-looking men.  Heck, in my private life, I’ve fucked plenty of ugly guys.  I don’t care!

          But this guy told me that he was handsome.  Repeatedly.  “Very handsome” was the exact phrase. I was not impressed by this claim, but I was expecting a conventionally attractive individual (and keep in mind, I like nerdy-looking guys.  I think a man can be very good-looking and not be, you know, Jude Law or Antonio Bandaras or whoever).  

         The only woman who would find Chester “very handsome” would be his mother.  And this was not a case of “Handsome at 35, but age has taken this natural toll.”  He was average at best.  

         Which is fine!  I only mention his physical appearance because he did!  He bragged about it!

         Chester…was a narcissist. 

         Chester told me that he wanted to meet me first, without his wife, to make sure that I would be a good match for them.  He didn’t want to upset her, he said, by bringing the wrong woman into the house.

       I immediately pegged him for a lying cheater (oh, if only I had the same sense with the Mathematician!).  

        Why’d he lie?  I don’t care if my clients are married!  I’m not having sex with them (and even if I was, I still wouldn’t care)!  Why lie?  Why lie to a sex worker?  It makes no sense.  

        We chatted.  I couldn’t exactly call him a liar, but I tried to feel him out.  He was nervous.  Clearly, he was cheating on Mrs. Chester.  I doubt he ever discussed me with her.  But…he was safe, obviously very white-collar with a lot to lose by seeing me.  I knew the type.  They can be pricks, but they are almost never physically violent.  They are paranoid and scared to death.  

         We went up to his apartment.  I followed him three minutes after he left–we went up separately.   Like I said: scared cheater.

        The scene in his apartment was something else.

         Chester lived in a high-rise and the glittering lights of Manhattan were laid out underneath the floor-to-ceiling windows.  There were two folding tray tables laid out with a bunch of really weird, expensive, obscure S&M gear.  I’m talking thousands of dollars worth of stuff.  I know good equipment when I see it.  

         There was weird European porn on the projector, and he had a surround-sound audio system, so the talk and sex noises sounded like they were coming from all over.  It sounded like there were other people in the room. 

         He asked me if I’d like a refreshment.  I asked for a bottle of water.  In my email to him, I expressed that I would only drink from AN UNOPENED BOTTLE.  

         He brought me a glass of carbonated water (Chester Lie #3).

         “Sorry, but I can’t drink this,” I said.

          “Why not?”

           I stared at him.  “You work in a hospital.  You have access to drugs.”

           “I would never do that to you.”

           I went and got some water from my bag.  

            Chester got dressed.  Get this…remember that gimp from Pulp Fiction?  That studded leather bodysuit with the hood?

            THAT’S WHAT CHESTER HAD!

             At first, it looked so ridiculous that I was biting the insides of my mouth trying not to laugh.  It was so fucking funny.  I mean, here I am, in this luxury high-rise with this sex maniac doctor in his gimp outfit and weird Euro porn all over the wall, and all of this ODD sexual equipment on the tray table(s).

            I knew that he had to be a surgeon because everything was immaculate, and when I washed my hands prior to session, he told me that I “did a good job.”  

          After about an hour, though, the doctor didn’t look so silly in his gimp suit.  

          He started to look weird as hell.  Not frightening, just…creepy.  

           I knew what I was looking at: a sex addict in thrall to his addiction.  He was in an obsessive place in his mind.  He wasn’t present with me, engaging.  I was just a prop.  I was never scared that he was going to rape or assault me, but I was acutely aware that he stopped seeing me as a human being once the session started, and the weirdness of the scene stopped being funny.

        I was trapped in the Haunted House with Chester.  Welcome to Chester’s Haunted House!

         And he kept pushing, and pushing…he’d back off, but even though I was the “domme,” I’m telling you, I was in the submissive role and I should have earned submissive rates for that session.  I know the difference in the emotional labor I have to do.

          I managed him and got through it.  He came down.  Or, more accurately, he came back.  

         The porn was turned off, the lights were turned on, and Chester changed into street clothes.  I changed and gathered my things.  I was mentally and emotionally drained, and I just wanted to get my money and go home.  

          I earned every red cent.  If I’d known what I was in for, I would have charged that man $1000.  Our agreed-upon fee was $600.  

          It didn’t work out that way.

           TO BE CONTINUED




 

Two Minutes of Hate

UPDATE: Oh yeah!  One more thing, Mr. Kissy-Face!  You’re in for a shock when you go pay for your hotel bill this morning!  I’ve never done this before, but I was so mad at you that I pulled a total white trash hooker move and took everything in your dry bar when you were in the bathroom!  I would have taken the booze for the girls at the Studio, but I was worried you’d hear the sound of the bottles as I threw them into my gear bag!

I don’t eat most of the candy and crap, but the others will.

My Parrot says thanks for the $17 mixed nuts!  She’s been snacking on them all morning!  Put that in your TER review!

   It was totally inappropriate of you to complain about your wife to me, too, but no less than I would expect from a classy gent like yourself.  

                           *                       *                     *

  Get out the popcorn!  Time for a rant!  Two Minutes’ Hatred for a client who slobbered in my mouth!

      Gross, right?  You have no idea! 

      I have a client.  Or had a client–he just got the axe.  A male dom, naturally…no sub who was not suicidal would try to pull a stunt like this.  Male tops, man.  It sucks that I need one so much in my personal life, because a lot of them are dickheads.  I’m not sure why, but it just seems to go with the territory.  

     I’ve always been wary about this guy, because even prior to our first meeting, he sent up a big red flag by asking me if I allowed kissing.

     Say what?  What the hell are you talking about, Mr. Domly Dom?  Do you have some problems with your reading comprehension? Does my ad say “Miss Margo, Upscale GFE Companion?”  No, it says “Experienced and Enthusiastic Masochist for Hire: Fetish, Fantasy and Roleplay Only” and it is in the BDSM SECTION.  In my entire career, I have met exactly 1 fetish provider who will make out with a client, you retard.  

     I wrote back: No kissing, sorry.  Have you seen a pro-switch before?

     He says, “Yes, but usually I see escorts.”

     Big red flag.  Cross-over clients (that’s my term for them…men who frequently see different types of sex workers) are usually bad news.  There are exceptions, but usually, they are bad news.  I’m not saying that men who see escorts are bad people.  Not at all.  But a lot of them, when they come to see fetish workers, they expect sex. 

       Well, he had references, so I went ahead.  I should have known better.

         The sessions were tedious and I had to safe out once when he got his wang too close to my face (he claimed it was an accident.  Yeah, right!), but we got through it all right.  

        Then, last time, he tried to French-kiss me.  He didn’t try, actually, he did it, and his tongue was in my mouth before I could pull away.  

        He is lucky that I didn’t barf all over his futon.  

        I brushed my teeth three times, but all the Cool Mint Listerine in the drug store can’t get that taste out of my mouth.  

        Escort ladies should get awarded Purple Hearts for enduring that shit at work.  PURPLE HEARTS.  I don’t know how they do it.  I guess $500/hour is a hell of a persuader if you’re high-end, but there is no doubt in my mind that there is a poor $100 Backpage escort who is expected to make out with her dipshit clients because HE wants it. 

        Let me ask you something: what sort of person wants to kiss a girl, while knowing, in his heart of hearts, that she really doesn’t want to do it?  Really.  Who would want to put another person through that, just because he happens to enjoy the physical sensation of kissing, or the illusion of intimacy it provides? (“intimacy”! Ha!  Ha!)

        Answer: a sadistic, selfish fucktard.  

        There is no other explanation.  

         How could you push yourself on another human being like that?  You know I have feelings, right?  Yeah, I know I agreed to be here, but don’t you care one whit for my emotional well-being and comfort?  I mean, I care about yours.  I am here to cater to your needs, it’s true, and I acknowledge that you are paying me to be selfish, and I am not your girlfriend…but still, I am a human being…

         What’s that?  NO?  You don’t give a flying fuck about how I feel, or how your behavior in a session might affect me?  

         What sort of human being are you?

           Oh!  That’s right!  A sadistic, selfish fucktard!  

            You know you’re buying my service, and not actually my body, right?  You know I’m not actually a slave, right?  

           No?  You don’t agree with that?  You think you paid me, so now you own me and can do whatever you want?

           What kind of person are you?

            Oh!  That’s right!  A sadistic, selfish fucktard!


   
              I know that this is going to sound weird, coming from a person whose job, and sexuality, is predicated on the eroticization of control, power, and pain.  We aren’t having conventional sex, but we are engaging in a sort of sexual activity.  And, you know, I think that sex should be approached in a spirit of benevolence and compassion, even if it involves beating the shit out of someone. 

           But that’s just me.  I am not, alas, a sadistic, selfish fucktard.  I would never try to make out with someone who did not want to make out with me.

           I do like your $350.  At least I got something out of it.  That is going to buy a lot of Listerine.

Awesome Photos! Spanish Civil War!

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Update: Can anyone tell me what the tall black cylindrical objects are in the third photograph?  The photograph of the soldiers marching down the road, with the countryside vista in the background?  The black objects strapped to their backs?    Are they guns of some sort?  Do they launch missiles?  Is it rolled-up tarp for a tent?  What am I looking at?  I’m dying here!  Help an aspiring war geek out!  

Thank you

               *                        *                    *                 *  

Look at this amazing photo I found.  Fascists, during the Spanish Civil War.  That war was amazing (aren’t they all?).  In my fantasy life, I go fight in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.  I probably would not have the courage to serve in battle and women are last-resort fighters anyway, but I could have helped with military infrastructure.   

    Men are so fantastic looking.  I love how strong they are. 

     JACKPOT!  I just found the name of the photographer: Guglielmo Sandri, name at birth Wilhelm Schrefer, born 1905 in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. 

      I wonder why he changed his name…?  Probably to fit in.

      Anyway, the Internet says he was a fascist photographer, but that is not a helpful description.  Was he a propagandist?  I must research this further.

     In any event, he took some damn fine photographs:

     

what are those black things? TELL MEEEEEE PLEEZE!

This photo is so rad.  What is that tower?  A minaret from the Muslim occupation, or what?  Maybe could be a church spire, but the design looks Arab to me.  Am I wrong?  Does anyone know? 

     As an aside, I have always wondered how the SS & Co., such as this fellow here, could get up in the morning, get dressed in front of the mirror and put on their hats with the idiotic and extremely creepy death’s head insignia, and go to work whilst taking themselves seriously.  

      Am I alone in wondering about this…?  Didn’t anyone ask himself, “Why does my hat have a skull and crossbones on it?  What am I, a pirate?  Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum?”

       Seriously.  Who came up with this spectacularly bad PR decision?  What the heck?  Were they just trying to scare the shit out of everyone they encountered?

      Well…I guess I just answered my own question. 

      Handsome man.  Too bad he was on the wrong side of history.

Do you kiss your mother whilst wearing that hat, Sir?

A Monkey Could Pass That Test

     I went out with one of my girlfriends recently so that she could discuss a problem she is dealing with.

      She hurt a man pretty badly a few years ago and she’s felt guilty about it ever since.  She wants to contact him and tell him that she’s sorry…but doing that is very awkward.  

      I can relate.  I expect everyone can.  People get hurt in dating.

      I told her about something that I did to a guy a long time ago that I still feel badly about.  I don’t tell this story to many people or even think about it very often, but when I do, I still cringe inside…

     When I was in High School, I was pursued by a boy who was ass-backward in love with me.  He had the world’s most crushable crush.  They call it puppy love, but in my opinion there’s nothing cute about that sort of emotion.  Do you know the way it feels when you adore a person so much that it makes your chest hurt inside?  Like it makes you ache, and you can feel it in your mouth and throat…? 

      Love.  The only obsession/addiction everyone wants to get.  It’s insanity.  It cracks you open the way a frozen stream of water cracks open a stone. 

       His name was Brian.  He wasn’t quite in my (small) social circle, but we went to the same school and he was friend’s with one of my girlfriend’s boyfriends.  We took a geometry class together, and also a cooking class. 

        Brian crushed on me for a year.  His friends would tell me about it…”Brian has such a huge crush on you!  He’s scared to ask you out!”

       It was embarrassing to me and made me feel uncomfortable, because I wasn’t the slightest bit attracted to him.  I mean, not at all.  And you can’t really help who you’re attracted to.  There was nothing bad about him, but I just…no attraction.  

      It went on for far too long, because I had zero relationship experience at that time.  I’d never even kissed a boy.  I didn’t have sex till I was 19 (I hate the barbaric phrase “lose your virginity” and I think it should be retired or burned in a fire), and this was a few years prior to that.  

     So, I was inexperienced and confused and I didn’t know how to handle it and let him down in a very gentle, face-saving manner.  I was also very much under my parents’ (especially my father’s) thumb at the time, like a prisoner, and I was very obediant and had a bad case of Nice Girl Syndrome.  I didn’t know how to assert myself, however diplomatically, in emotionally tense situations, and I certainly didn’t know how to tell a man “no” or do something that would hurt his ego (and BECAUSE I didn’t know how to do that, this stupid sitation went on and on and got worse and worse.  Oh, the irony!).

     I just pretended like I had no idea that he had a crush on me.  This made social situations where he was present extremely awkward for me.  

       Brian was in the same boat as me.  He had zero experience with girls and didn’t know how to ask me out and just get it over with.  Dating rituals are a fuckin baptism by fire for both genders.  God, it’s excruciating to learn how to do it, because it’s trail and error, and there’s no way to not get hurt and humiliate yourself at least a few times when you’re starting out.

    So, instead of asking me out, or even just saying that he was attracted to me, he would just try to hang out with me and my friends.  As much as possible.  And try to sit next to me in class.

      One time he left a rose from the gas station in my locker.  Another time, an X-Men comic book.  He never left a note, but I know it was him.  No boys except for Brian paid attention to me in High School.  I was an introverted nerd and my mother ran the household like a Navy submarine (she would have been a very, very good military person). 

       When I was fifteen and a half years old and became legally able to work, I started applying for jobs.  I would have been working since I was 12 if the state would have allowed it…I supported my father for years.  

        There is not a shitty retail or food service job in town that I did not apply for.  The next time someone tells you that Mexicans do jobs White and Black Americans won’t do, fucking punch them in the face.  There are–or were, before immigration changed everything–plenty of white car-washers and chambermaids in this country.  I know because I was one, and so were all my friends and their parents.  My grandfather laid rail up to the Yukon. 

     I probably just pissed off a Mexican.  Relax, it’s nothing personal.  Your government sucks.

      Anyway, Brian was a year older than me and had a job at Jack in the Box.  He hooked me up and got me an interview with the manager.  That was my first legal job.  It was the hardest job I have ever worked, and I’ve had plenty.  I worked there for a year and a half.  $5.15 an hour.  I was up to $5.50 when I left.  I won “Employee of the Month” twice.  The experience traumatized me, politicized me, and prepared me to join the Karl Marx Fan Club my first semester in college.  

       Working with Brian made everything worse for both of us.  I could feel the longing coming off of him in waves.  I’d be mopping the floor in the dining area and a customer would tap me on the shoulder and tell me, with a big smile, that “that young man looks sweet on you.”  I’d be hauling buckets of ice and Brian would stop whatever he was doing and try to be gallant and pick up the ice for me.  Arrrrgh!  Soap Opera at Jack in the Box! 

      I applied to college and was accepted.  Brian wasn’t cut out for college and didn’t like school.  His grades were always mediocre and he didn’t know what to do with himself.  His family was sort of fucked up and his mom didn’t give him much structure or tell him what to do.  My family was fucked up too, but in a different way, so I didn’t have that particular problem.  

      Then one day the Army recruiters came, and everything changed for Brian.  I remember exactly when it happened, because my art teacher, Mr. Gilbert, pulled the same stunt he pulled every year when the army recruiters came: he started the class with a slideshow of the art we were going to study and discuss, and then he flashed a slide of him and his buddy, both Vietnam vets and comrades-in-arms, at the VA hospital after they survived walking on a land mine.  Mr. Gilbert injured his back and walked with a limp the rest of his life.  His buddy lost a leg.  I remember the photo very well.  It was black-and-white.  They both had bandages on their heads and were very thin and looked about eighty years old.  They were holding Purple Hearts.  They were not smiling.  That fuckin photo should be in the photography gallery at the Met. 

     “That’s my friend and me after we went to Vietnam!” he said.  Then he went on with the lesson plan.  Mr. Gilbert got in trouble for doing this because parents complained sometimes, but he never got fired.  He was a great teacher and kids loved him.  I wonder what happened to him…?

       Anyway, Brian talked to the military recruiter…and decided to join the Army. 

      He was riding high.  Suddenly had a new zest for life.  He was really excited about it, and I understand why: for once in his life, someone wanted him.  Brian also had no father, and now, in all these meetings and phone conversations with his recruiter, he suddenly had all this approving male authority in his life.  

       He lost a little weight to prepare for boot camp.  He would get on the computers in the school library and print out Army pamplets to show his friends.  It was all he could talk about at work.  He was so proud of it.  I mean, he’d tell customers that he was going into the Army!

       I understand.  That’s exactly how I felt when I got into my first grad program.  It was probably the happiest time of my life. 

      He also took the ASVAB.  We all took it–everyone in my class at school.  

       The ASVAB is one of the easiest tests I’ve ever taken. If you want a gander at some ASVAB questions, here they are. 

       I aced it.  The only questions that stressed me out where the spatial reasoning questions…the ones that require you to picture a geometric object backwards and inside-out.  I can’t do that to save my life.  Those always fuck me up in IQ tests.  But the rest…?  Easy!  I could have done it in 6th grade!          

      But…I also have the variety of intelligence that inclines me to do well in standardized testing.  I’m good at it and always have been, but plenty of people are not.

      I know this.  I teach.

      Brian took the ASVAB and he did well in the Mechanics and Auto sections. 

      “I scored really well!  My recruiter says I’m going to be a great armor (tank) crewman!” he would say.  He was thrilled about his ASVAB scores and would mention them at the drop of a hat.  He was so excited. 

      I understand why this was such a big deal to him.  It’s a thrill to do well on a big test.  This was a confidence boost for Brian.  

      One day at lunch, Brian was talking about his ASVAB scores in the backseat of my friend’s car.  We were going for lunch.  I was annoyed because my friend and I wanted to be alone to discuss her boyfriend issues, but Brian had invited himself along.  I felt like I couldn’t say no (which is bullshit, I could have said NO, but I didn’t have the skill set at the time), so he was along for the ride and telling us, again, all about his ASVAB scores.

     I was mad and I looked over my shoulder at him in the backseat and said something I’ve hated myself for ever since:

     “Brian, a monkey could pass that test.” 

     The look on his face was memorable. The way he folded up, like one of those plants that curls up when its leaves are touched. I might as well have stabbed a dagger in his heart.  

       I felt like dogshit..as I should have…like I’d just stomped a Golden Retriever to death.

      Why’d I do it..?  

      The Army sent him to South Korea.  He left the service afterward and came back to town. I don’t think that the military is necessarily a poor career option–I have almost joined on several occasions–but I do advise youth that the military might help pay for college, but it won’t get you a decent job.  What is a tank crewman going to do in civilian life…?  Get shot out of a cannon in the circus?   Brian came back to town and got work repairing air conditioners.  I have no idea what he’s doing now.

    I want to write him  and apologize for that “monkey could pass that test” remark, but I don’t think that is appropriate. 

    I have never forgiven myself for it, however.  How could I have mocked him for taking pleasure in his achievement. 
      
         

A Tale of Two Sissies

     The Mathematician hasn’t won the “Biggest Jerk” poll?  What the hell, people?  Was the Surgeon really that bad?  His tag label gets a lot of hits, so I cautiously presume my 8 readers enjoy reading descriptions of his amusing neuroses and our weird sex life.

      Would someone reading this please vote for the Mathematician and tip the poll in his favor (or unfavor, as the case may be)?  I have a fantasy in which I mail the birthday gift I never gave him to his office along with a card telling him that he is deeply unlikable and everyone agrees with me, and if he has a shred of remorse, he should keep this gift on his desk and ruminate about the pain he caused me whenever he lays eyes upon it.

       (But of course, I won’t do that, because he gets no more attention from me.  It wouldn’t work, anyway–if he was capable of empathizing with my pain, he wouldn’t have lied to me like that in the first place.  In my fantasy, though, the card has a cockatoo on it, so now he would have one of his own, and would not have to borrow his neighbor’s next time when he wants to seduce a gullible parrot-loving girl.)

If this music video doesn’t put a smile on your face, then you have no soul.  Some teachers in the department down the hall were watching it on a laptop at school.

     One guy didn’t like it and complained that it was reverse sexism.

     An angel of silence flew over the room.  I was there with three other women, and we just stared at him.

    “Of course it is.  That’s the point.  The video is a parody, Doctor (Dumbass).” (I did not actually call him “dumbass.” I did use his title, however.  This guy teaches political science!  Can you believe it?  And he’s got tenure!  I know this sounds like sour grapes, since it’s coming from a lowly adjunct slave instructor like myself, but FFS!

       “It’s still wrong!” he huffed.  Translation: guys in heels and sparkly thongs make me feel scared, either because they provoke homosexual panic within me or because they are an affront to the status quo of the patriarchy and this threatens my entitlement as a male. Or both.

      “That beat is really catchy!  Let’s watch it again! That black guy is hot!” said that woman beside me.  SCORE!

      We played it again and cranked up the volume.  Lol.

      Since we’re conveniently on the topic…I think I’ll use this opportunity to talk about crossdressers.  They come into the Studio all the time.  I don’t usually get crossdressing sessions because it’s not my thing and the guys know it, but yesterday I had two of them.  Two!

       There are two types of crossdressers.  The first type, whom I appreciate and respect, cross-dress because they love women and crossdressing is a way for them to celebrate women and feel closer to women and have fun with them.

    The second type, whom I despise, do it because they want to become the sexualized fetish object that they consider women to be.  This guy also wants to be humiliated, and he considers femininity to be humiliating, so he puts on some panties and lipstick–or he’s “forced” to by a mistress–and TA-DA!  He’s humiliated.

      Think about that, reader.  I implore you to take a second to let that sink in, because now we’re not just talking about a kinky guy getting his wacky pervy needs met.

     Now we’re talking politics.  Shit just got real.

     Now, the second type of sissy has a point.  He’s on to something–he’s not wrong!  The practice of femininity is humiliating. The elaborate beauty rituals are humiliating.  It is humiliating to hobble yourself with stupid shoes and clothing that doesn’t protect you from the elements.  Many men do not understand this.  I don’t think most of them even think about it.  But I also think there are plenty of thoughtful ones who, when confronted by this idea, will agree that a lot of femininity is degrading and dehumanizing.  To be constantly, constantly, constantly judged on your beauty and the way you appeal to men?  Are you kidding me? (I make a living, in part, off my looks.  I know exactly what a commodity they are.  Do you think I would make money at my secret job if I cut off my hair, stopped wearing makeup, and just went Rosie O’Donnel?  I’d lose 80% of my business overnight.  If not more.)

     The second type of sissy realizes this, even if his analyses are not sophisticated.

      And I guess that’s the Awful Truth about why he makes me angry and resentful: because he’s right about the system and sexism and he’s acknowledging it.  He’s just being honest, but I feel like he’s rubbing it in my face.  I fucking put on panties and lipstick every day of my life.  Nice to know that you find the way I have to live is inherently humiliating…even if it is.

      He’s dropping the fig leaf and engaging in a total misogyny-fest.  It is really awful to look at and when I do it with him, I feel like I’m colluding in my own oppression…which I am.   But I didn’t fucking set up this system, and it’s not fair.

     It’s like if I went to a black person and said, “I want you to dress me up in hip-hop clothing and blackface and make me rap, because that would be SO HUMILIATING, and it would totally get me off!”  FFS!  Really?  Really?

       This guy comes in yesterday and he’s got his sanitation-worker uniform on and a gold St. Christopher’s and a macho cop mustache, and he wants to be put into drag, and a wig, and some earrings, and then he goes up to the mirror and asks repeatedly if he looks like a whore.

       No, you jackass, you are wearing exactly what every woman wears every day of her life, including your mother and daughter.  But if you think that makes you “a whore,” then go ahead.

      “Are you going to beat me like a whore?”

      Why does this make me so mad?  He’s just being honest.  Whores do, in fact, get beaten up.  I don’t know a single woman in the Biz who hasn’t been assaulted by a client.  I know plenty of women who have been raped by clients. A guy put his cigarette out on a woman’s chest when she wouldn’t remove her bra just last week.  I am afraid of every single one of my clients until I get to know them and trust has been established.  Men are scary.

        I beat him, all right.  I wore my head out on that man.  He was muscular and it felt like I was hitting a frozen pot roast.  My hand hurts today (it’s an occupational hazard, lol.  Another one is pain in the elbow or shoulder from overextension, sort of like tennis elbow.  The Surgeon threw out his elbow swinging a belt at me on more than one occassion).  Usually the red, hurting hand evokes fond memories of an fun session.  Not this time.   The entire time, he was begging to be beaten like a whore.  I would never beat a whore! How about if I beat you like my landlord, or a certain unpopular, philandering math Ph.D. I know? Christ!

      Why does this make me so mad?  He’s just being honest. 🙁

       Well, writing this made me feel sad, but it’s good that I wrote it.  I’ve been thinking about it for some time.  I’ll end it on a high note by discussing my other session, with a good crossdresser whom I actually like quite a bit!

        He comes in whenever he’s visiting the City from London.  He’s an English gent who is passionate about English Lit, so we always have a lot to talk about.  He comes up with roleplays which are silly, but fun.  Yesterday he was pretending to be the CEO of a hosiery company, and I was a young woman applying for a job at that hosiery company as his personal assistant.  He brought in like two dozen pairs of stockings.  We got all dolled up and did a stocking fashion show, and put stockings on each other, and ran around talking about how stockings drove men crazy.  I got the job, lol.

       “You’re so beautiful!  I just love that basque!  You look more magnificent every time!  I would love to wear these clothes all the time!” he said.  What a sweetheart.  He really was very, very sweet.  He is one of those clients I would go on an outside date with if I met him someplace else.

       Then I made him a drink and we talked about Jude the Obscure, which is one of my favorite books.  He has great taste in books.

       One time I asked him how he got into this.  He said that he was very close to his female relatives, and when he was a little boy his two older sisters would play dress-up with him.  It was done all in fun, and he has many good memories of loving time spent with them.  As an adult, of course, it’s taken a sexual edge, but he is motivated by feelings of warmth and adoration, and not of hostility and contempt.

        This is the type of man who would step in front of a train before he’d beat a whore.

        I’m so glad that he came in.  He paid me and tipped generously, which was greatly appreciated…but he also reaffirmed my faith in humanity and in men.

      Let’s watch this charming, funny video again.   HAPPY THOUGHTS!  “R balloons sex”? lol lol and those guys walk in heels better than I do!  I like it when he’s riding the bike and holding that sword.  It’s funny.

P.S.  Someone just voted for the Surgeon!  What the fuck!  I know you read this!

Reader Mailbag

     Questions from the mailbag!

    “Have you ever beaten your slaves and left marks on their thighs so that they had to see it when they jerked off?”
                –a random European Internet Stranger who also advises me to look up “rent-seeking behavior” on wikipedia.  I know what rent-seeking behavior is, thank you very much, Mr. Mansplainer of the Year.  I have at least fifty books about political and economic theory in my library right now, and God-knows-how-many journal articles.  How many do you have?  Do not get into an intellectual dick-measuring competition with me.  Like a good Stalinist, I will liquidate you. 

     But on to your question…!

     Well, no, but that’s a fine idea and it sounds kinda hot…

      The thing is, I do not have any personal slaves at this time.  I’ve had one “personal” in my life since I moved here…David, aka No. 29.  I trained David over the summertime a few years ago.  I haven’t written too much about him because he’d just finished college and was starting a new career, and I was protective of him. 

      The men that I see at the Studio in my capacity as a domme might identify as subs or slaves, but they are not my subs or slaves, although I have cultivated closer, more intimate relationships with a few of them over time (I do feel personally dominant with these men, and I enjoy it, and them, tremendously).  

    My professional role as a domme is is usually that of a Service Top.  I do what he hires me to do, so long as it does not violate personal boundaries (his or mine).  I put as much of my personality into it as possible, but I don’t have free reign to punish, discipline or train clients however I like.

       Following that, many of my clients are married or in relationships.  They cannot be marked in tell-tale ways…or even marked at all.  They don’t want their significant other, or anyone else, inquiring about how they got the bruises or welts on their thighs.  
       Bruising the thighs is a great idea, though.  Sometimes, if I can, I like to leave a bruise somewhere where they can see it looking down–usually on the hip or torso.  I call it “The Button,” and if I poke it with my fingers or a stick or my shoe, it means they have to act out a specific command…mmm, The Button, very hawt…..

        NEXT!

       “What are your favorite movies?”

                                          –Random Internet Stranger

        You must be a woman, whoever you are. 

        Wow, what a date question!  I feel like I’m being courted right now, as I sit here in my underpants and one of my ex-boyfriend’s old shirts, wishing I could go back to sleep or at least do some housework without waking up the birds. 

         Hmmm, haven’t thought about it before, but…in no particular order, here you go:

         The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara.  Errol Morris’s work is always first-rate, but I think that this is his best.  

       I read McNamara’s books for a university seminar.  I find him repulsive but fascinating.  His IQ must be in the stratosphere.  (My father remembers when he would view slideshow presentations of fifty, sixty, seventy slides, all unlabeled, and McNamara could keep track of the slides…he’d say, “Go back to Slide 42.”)

       Something is also very wrong with his capacity for empathy.  I’d love to see this guy’s brain scans. What an arrogant, disingenuous prick.  I am not a psychiatrist, but I think he is probably a sociopath, and I am not saying that because I disagree with his politics.  The only time he displays emotion in this film is when he talks about things that affected him personally, like the assassination of JFK.   


        

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    Next: The Thin Red Line.  The film’s a little confused, but I like it because it gives me a lot to think about and when it’s good, it’s very, very good.  It’s also explicitly philosophical and very American.  I think Terrence Malick is the reincarnation of Walt Whitman, lol. 

      It’s not all Transcendentalist navel-gazing.  The war scenes freak me out in a very bad way.  There’s a scene where a bunch of soldiers are standing in a river, sitting ducks, awaiting their imminent doom, and they’re asking their CO for orders…and he doesn’t know what to tell them.  That scene just rips my heart out, because that’s life sometimes. 


        Next: CASINO!   I love this film!  Loved it!  ARRRGH!   It was soooo much fun!  The characters!  The sets!  The pen scene with Joe Pesci!  

      Sharon Stone was such a jerk in this movie!  But god, did she ever knock it out of the park.  

     Mistress C and I watch this sometimes at the Studio when we’re bored.  She likes Joe Pesci’s character.  I am more attracted to Sam Rothstein.  

       Next: WINGED MIGRATION.  Birds, birds, birds.  Birds and more birds.  Beautiful birds!

       It’s also a virtual vacation.  Put down the manuscript and fly to France with the cranes, man. 


         The Libertine.  Oh, the bad old days.  The film does an excellent job of capturing how wretched life must have been back then, even if one was rich.  

       Seriously, though, it’s very well-written and full of wisdom and the relationships are captivating and very true to life.  It’s also funny as hell sometimes.  I watch this film very year and I always get something out of it.  

      If I was an actress or artistic person, this is the sort of film I’d want to make.




  
Finally: The Proposition.  An ultraviolent Western set in Australia.  Men!  Men with guns!  In the desert! Go make some popcorn.

  It’s a shocker.  And I love the soundtrack by Nick Cave. 


      Downfall.  I’ve read three biographies of Adolph Hitler.  His constellation of personality disorders was very ODD.  His entire administration…what a rogue’s gallery of losers and misanthropes.  It was like revenge of the nerds gone all fucking wrong…where instead of the awesome geeks taking over and getting revenge, it was the Columbine shooters.  

     Anyway, the film captures what a disgusting person he was.  Can you believe this weird, middling-bright fucker got 90% of the vote?  Stalinism was horrific, but at least the Russian people can say: it was foisted upon us.  The way the Bolsheviks seized power in the vacuum was criminal.  In contrast, Nazism was an organic movement.   The people loved it.  They made it.  And him.  

      I have zero sympathy for the Germans.  Those Teutonic assholes caused the Franco-Prussian War, World War I, and World War II, and if you don’t think they’d march on Poland tomorrow if they could get away with it, you’re wrong.  They are not the reformed techno-loving environmentalists they appear to be.  Take it from me.  They’re killers.

      I feel pity for exactly two things: Dresden, and what happened to the women and children when Berlin finally fell.   It was wrong that that happened.  

      I could talk about war all day.  I’m worse than a dude, lol.

      Those are my favorite movies off the top of my head.  I also like Amadeus and that PBS special about lions and hyenas.  And Immortal Beloved!  I loved Immortal Beloved!  And the documentary film Why We Fight.  A State of Mind, about girls training for the Mass Games in North Korea, is also jaw-dropping.