The Surgeon at War

“Plots have I laid!”    
              –Richard III

Since we’re getting down to the finals days of the “biggest jerk” poll, I have another story to tell…a few details have been changed to protect the identities of both innocent and guilty parties…

     The Surgeon has an enemy that he’s been at war with for years.  Decades.  Probably longer than I’ve been alive.  

     They used to be colleagues and then had some sort of falling out…I could never get a straight answer out of the Surgeon about what really happened between the two of them, which suggests to me that it was something that was embarrassing  or his fault, or both.  But who knows?  For a long time I thought that the Surgeon had probably slept with the other man’s wife or sister or something, but he denied it.  He claims the other man started it.

     When I say it’s war, I mean it’s war.  Scorched earth, take-no-prisoners, Siege-of-Leningrad war.  The Surgeon hates this guy and it’s very personal.  The only reason he hasn’t killed him is that he takes so much satisfaction in torturing him.  Legal action, academic one-upsmanship, poaching patients, poisoning professional relationships, various publications discrediting his research and methods and business practices.  

      The other man has a zillion dollars and gives as good as he gets, too, by the way.  He doesn’t come out of this looking too good, either.  I don’t even want to think of how much money these macho dickheads have sunk into fighting one another.  It’s like an awful divorce, where neither party is willing to quit.

      The Surgeon claims that the other man is evil, which might or might not be true–the Surgeon is not exactly a reliable narrator here–so I’m going to call him “Dr. Evil.” 

      Of course, I got dragged into the Surgeon’s plots.  At his instruction, I picked up Dr. Evil at the hotel bar at a medical conference one time.  In retrospect, I’m not proud of that.  It didn’t occur to me until afterward that it was a scumbag thing to do.  At the time, it seemed like a harmless game to me, and Dr. Evil was getting easy sexual attention from a younger, attractive woman, so what was wrong with that?  I didn’t hold a gun to the man’s head, true…but somehow I doubt that he would have had sex with me if he knew that I was the Surgeon’s girlfriend.  Dr. Evil didn’t know that I was there with the Surgeon.  He didn’t know who I was–he thought I was just a random person at the conference.  

      Or maybe he would have.  Maybe he would have!  Who knows?

     I’ve asked a number of different people what they think was going through the Surgeon’s head when we had me do this, as it remains a mystery to me.  All that I know is that the Surgeon got a huge kick out of it.  He wanted to hear alllll about it.  

      My analyst is convinced that this entire thing is homoerotic and the Surgeon was using me as a proxy for himself.  Others suggest this was merely manipulative, stalker-ish creeper behavior.  One guy said that the Surgeon used me to “impress” his enemy.  To this day, I honestly have no idea.  

    Let’s move ahead a few years…the Surgeon achieves his biggest victory of the decade against Dr. Evil, and I got to see that one up close and personal, too:  somehow, he managed to poach a former employee of Dr. Evil’s who used to organize an important  event hosted by Dr. Evil.  Now, he has the inside scoop on part of Dr. Evil’s life, and he is going to use this employee to throw a rival event the same week as Dr. Evil’s…

    “It’s going to be better than his!  I’m going to get all the best speakers in the profession!” roared the Surgeon, running around his hotel suite like some demented, maniacal ferret.  Oh, he was bouncing off the walls.  

      Competing parties.  Like they were back in middle school.  All the cool kids are coming to MY party!  We’re going to have a DJ!

       This also forces people in the medical community to basically pick sides.  I imagine that they did not relish this decision. 

        I got to be there when the Surgeon called Dr. Evil’s secretary and left him a long message informing him of his plans.  The language was ostensibly polite, very passive-aggressive, and gloating.  Gloating above all!

        The employee that the Surgeon poached was in the room, too, sitting at the desk.  

        I was there, too, but I wasn’t sitting with them.  I was five feet away, tied up in the closet.  The employee didn’t know that I was there, which is sort of creepy. The Surgeon wanted me to hear.  He was very happy with himself.  

       Afterward, the Surgeon walked the employee to the door and took me out of the closet.  He dumped me on the bed, still tied up, and then did a few more victory laps around the room.  Oh boy, was he happy.  He looked like he’d won the lottery or the presidential election or something.  

      “How’d I do?” he asked me, as if he didn’t know. He was bobbing his head like a happy cockatoo.  He was already checking his phone to see if Dr. Evil had called him back.  

       “I’m sure Dr. Evil will have a rage-stroke when he hears your message.”  

        The Surgeon called room service and ordered champagne.

        “Do you think I should send Dr. Evil an anonymous consolation gift basket?” he crowed, eyes glittering.

         “That might be overkill, baby,” I said.  How does he come up with this stuff?!

         Then he fucked my brains out.  
         What a guy.  What a story!  I’ve got a million of em.  

Tattoo Removal

     I just finished my first laser treatment to eliminate the tattoo on my ass.  I was inclined to have it excised–it’s very tiny, and I sort of like the idea of having a small scar left behind…symbolic, you know?–but the doctor talked me out of it.  

      When the Surgeon put the tattoo on me, I expressed that I hoped nobody would be able to see it unless they were really looking (I don’t like tattoos). 

      He glanced up from his work.  The green eyes took in my face:  “You’re lucky I’m not putting it on your lower arm.”

       At the time, the reference went right over my head.  I only just remembered it at the dermatologist’s office this morning.  

       I got a chill, and my skin broke out in gooseflesh.

       (The Surgeon is not a Gentile.) 

                             *                           *                         *

        It is impossible to retain personal pride and be the Surgeon’s girlfriend.  As anyone who knows him can tell you (even his patients), humiliation is part and parcel of the relationship, and if you don’t like it, well, too bad.  Most of the significant fights we had were because sometimes I stood up for myself and didn’t back down, and oh boy did he ever punish me for it.  Insubordination was a capital offense, as far as he was concerned.  

       Over the years, I became very good at groveling.  I look back on it, and I’m shocked at how submissive he made me feel, at how deep the need was that he provoked within me. I had zero boundaries with that man.  Nothing was forbidden.   Nothing was withheld.  

       Sometimes I try to empathize with him and imagine what it must have been like to be in his position when we were having sex.  I’m imaginative, but it’s still pretty hard for me to picture the male perspective.  It must have been intoxicating for him, and very validating, because he was still obsessed with me five years into the relationship and usually he gets bored with women after just a few months, or even weeks.  

      He’d look down at me, pinned underneath him and trembling, and the expression of lust and hunger on his face would take my breath away.  I’ve had plenty of dudes look at me as if I was a jar of cookies.  This was a whole other level.  This was a junkie eyeing a big bag of smack.  

      “You will belong to me FOREVER!”

      You probably think that sounds cheesy, but let me tell you, he said it with complete conviction.  When he said it, I believed it.

     “Tell me what you are,” he’d ask.  He liked to hear the words.  It excited him profoundly.  

      “I’m your property!  You own me!  I love you!”

      “What can I do to you?”

       I knew all the words.  I knew all the answers by heart.  We’d been through this catechism many, many times.  And oh, it was pure bliss.  

       “You can do anything you want to me anything anything I love you I need it so much please please can I come please?”

       “You may,” he’d say, and I did, over and over again.  He was withholding in every other way, but he was a very generous lover with me.  He always made sure I was satisfied, always dominated me the way that I needed him to.  He learned how to use all the tools.  I had to teach him most of it, but he learned very fast, and he learned very well.  He was a natural-born sadist and a very talented man.  He was also very coordinated, with a great degree of fine motor skill.  He moved fast, thought fast.  I loved watching him move.  He was very graceful.  He would stalk me on the street sometimes, come up behind me, and I wouldn’t see him or hear him until he wanted me to.  Sometimes he’d follow me for blocks.  He loved it.  It was a game to him.  

        We’d act it out formally sometimes, actually, almost like a game of hide-and-seek…he’d give me a head start, and I’d leave the apartment or hotel and get on the street, and then he’d find me without knowing where I was going.  He’d find me fast, too…unless he wanted to take his time.  

         I told one of my female friends about this game of his.  She found it disturbing, but I always just thought it was cute.  

      I’m lonely.  My laser-treated skin hurts.  If the Surgeon ever found out that I took his tattoo off, he’d kill me.  

Russian Dashcams

   Update: 9:15 AM  

    Are those COWS at 3:35…?  I know that they were doomed to be eaten anyway, but what the fuck…!   

    Here’s another hanky-worthy one.  Men can be really awesome sometimes.

     (BTW, I must give credit where credit is due: my e-friend DubV, from Craven Desires, hipped me to this video.  I like DubV.)

       I bet those dolphins were heavy.  How much do dolphins weigh?  It’s interesting that they never tried to hurt, even though they must have been scared to be touched by humans. 

      I think that they recognize us as mammals, and know when we are trying to help.  Like dogs, when they have a thorn in the pads of their feet.

      I think our hands helped us to domesticate animals.  All domesticated animals enjoy being touched and petted, even cows and oxen.  It puts them in a trance, like a spell.  

       I wish someone would pet me.  Nobody has touched me in a long time except to inflict violence. 

        (OT: speaking of oxen, remember that scene in Barry Lyndon where Lyndon runs into a Prussian girl whilst serving in the Seven Years’ War?  The woman was leading a donkey.  There is no way a donkey would be working on a farm in Prussia back then.  She would have an ox if she was lucky enough to not be toting the load herself.  I was watching the movie the other day and this occurred to me.) 


              *                                   *                         * 

Sorry.  My ConEd adventure last night brought back some Bad Childhood Memories (TM).  Ugh.  Returning that one to the workshop for editing. 

     Till then…    

     If you’re all caught up on Breaking Bad and need a new way to waste your life or impede your productivity at work, please allow me to introduce you to the newest craze here at Margo Manor: Russian Dashcam videos!

       Curious about what life would look like after a zombie apocalypse?  Here’s a peek!  Have you ever seen an automobile with the structural integrity of a Pepsi can?  Now you have!

     Ever wondered what it would be like to drive somewhere where you don’t have to obey traffic rules and everyone drives drunk?  Now you know! 

      Seriously: remind me never to rent a car in Russia.  It’s like a real life Grand Theft Auto video game there!

       Love these videos.  Love them!  You start tuning in to these, and you can forget about whatever productive thing you intended to do for the next hour and a half.  

        The dog on the flexi lead around 1:30 appears to have walked away–if you still the video, you can see The Amazing Pooch with 9 Lives at 1:39.  

   Among my favorites in this video are the way cars and huge pieces of metal just seem to fall out of the sky, like rain or hail, and the presence of swooping airplanes and helicopters 30 feet above the freeway.  

    I also like the way that people almost get clobbered by trucks, and instead of screaming in terror and running away–as I would do–they get pissed off and kick the offending vehicle that almost just killed them (3:18).   

        (The cheesy europop soundtracks are amusing, as well.  Not to mention the gas pump and hose trailing out of the car at 1:19.  And is that ELVIS at 6:17?!) 

     But it’s not all gloom-n-doom…get out your hankies!

Time to Try Again (or Get a Golden Retriever)

    I feel guilty for promoting a liquor ad, but I thought this commercial was very entertaining:

     What kind of puppy is that?!?!  A golden retriever?  I love golden retrievers!  I used to have one!  They are the happiest dogs EVAH!

     I wish I had a golden retriever puppy right now!  I wouldn’t say no to that lifeguard, either, even though he’s not really my type.

      I’ve been thinking about the Surgeon a lot in the last few days.  I saw him on the television program when I was working out at the gym and it startled me.  

      At first, I thought that this must mean that I miss him…but I don’t think that’s quite right.  

       I think I’m just lonely.  Really lonely, and sexually frustrated, which is just so unacceptable.  

      It’s time for me to get back out there.  I’m ready to try again.  If Advo can do it whilst being male, totally kinky, and balancing a demanding career and the care of a family member, then I have no excuse.  While I am unfortunately more cynical than I was pre-Mathematician (I now assume that every man I meet is married or in a relationship until he proves otherwise), my heart is mostly healed. 

      I don’t think that I can handle CollarMe again, though.  Three months on that last summer was…just awful.  It did provide rich fodder for the blog, though.  Oh Lord.  Those CollarMe Hell blog posts wrote themselves.  

      What does that leave?  OKStupid?  There’re lots of professors on campus and I’m about to start teaching again…

     I went to the Met with Heinrich the other day.  He is one of the only friends I have who knows about my Secret Job.  I don’t normally gossip about clients with anyone except other women in the Biz (and this blog), but I was telling Heinrich a bit about Fortinbras.  

     Check this out: Heinrich knows Fortinbras! 

    “Wait, wait,” said Heinrich, grabbing my elbow.  He got a big stunned grin on his face.  We were in the Greek and Roman galleries. “(Fortinbras’ real name)?  The Dane with a loft with a view of the park?”


      “I know him!”

      I guess the art world is pretty small, even in New York.  A few years ago, Fortinbras hired Heinrich to appraise a few antique books and a piece of furniture.

      “Fortinbras found you on (cheesy adult-services ad website redacted)?  Fortinbras was on (cheesy adult-serviced ad website)?” he asked.

       “Heinrich, everyone is on that site.  Look at Spitzer!” (Miss Margo note: vote Spitzer! The enemy of my enemy, and all that.  Yeah, I know he threw sex workers under the bus and he’s a hypocrite for that, but banks and Wall Street douchebags hate him, and that’s enough of an endorsement for me.  I’ve cut two checks for him already.  And did I ever mention that the Surgeon gave money to John McCain?  I almost had a stroke when I learned that! GROSS.) 

       I could tell Heinrich was dying to ask if Fortinbras was a top or a bottom, but I did the right thing and didn’t dish.

      I wish the two of them would tag-team me.  I know it could never happen, but it would be hot.  So very, very hot…

      I’ve thought about asking Heinrich to beat me occasionally or even have sex with me, as the last time was a total success, but he’s the Top and he hasn’t offered and I’m concerned that bringing it up would make this awkward…but on the other hand, he is a man, and if I know anything about men, it is that they never say no. 

      OKStupid?  Is any good these days?  I’m out of the bars.  What am I going to do? 

       Maybe I should just get a golden retriever and name him “boyfriend.” 

Seth Gets an Attitude Adjustement

      Let me tell you about Seth.

      Seth is a repugnant individual who harbors deep-seated resentments towards women.  He has curly reddish hair and hazel eyes that are a bit yellow, like a toad’s.  Toads are cute.  Seth is not.

      I met Seth when I was working at my first dungeon.  He would come in every week, usually on the weekend.  I was in school and always worked the weekends, so I was usually there when he came by.  

      I was a baby pro-domme and still learning about the job and honing my skill set.  I had to turn down a lot of sessions because I didn’t yet know how to cater to many of the truly mind-boggling array of fetishes one encounters in a commercial dungeon.  

       Seth’s a creep, but I’m going to follow professional protocol and keep quiet about his kinks.  Let’s just say that I was unwilling to do them back them, and I’m unwilling to do them now.  Too intimate for me to be comfortable with.

        Seth seemed to take it personally when I declined to session with him.  I declined (as I always have) in the most polite, gentle, and face-saving manner possible.  Even when I was brand new at this, I recognized that when men disclose their fetishes and desires to me in consultation, they are sharing something very intimate and personal with me, and I try to respect that.  A lot of them are nervous and scared.  They don’t need the professional to go, “Ewww, gross, you freakazoid!”  

         Usually I keep a friendly demeanor about me and say something along the lines of: “I’m glad you came in/You’re in the right place/Sounds like fun BUT unfortunately I don’t think that I’m the right mistress for that type of session. (note: if I can, I try to plead lack of personal expertise, even if it’s a lie.  That way, the basis of the rejection is diplomatically placed upon myself, and not upon the client.) I’m sure that you will have a wonderful time with whomever else you decide to see.  Pleased to meet you.”  

        What else can I do?  That’s the most gracious rejection I can think of!  

          99% of potential clients I decline in this way take it well.

         Not Seth.  Oh noooooo, Seth didn’t take that well at all.  Seth seemed to think that because I worked there, I somehow had an obligation to see any client who wanted to see me.  As if the dungeon was a regular business, such as a Burger King, and I was refusing to serve him on the basis of his race or disability or something.  As if he was entitled to see me, and he was being discriminated against when I declined.  

         The first time I told him NO, he acted like I’d slapped him in the face or insulted him.  Then he asked me the question that–both then and today–is guaranteed to upset me and make me dislike you: “WHY NOT?”

        What makes you think that you are entitled to an explanation?  This is not an annual performance review for a raise at your workplace.  I do not have to justify my decision.  Furthermore, do you really want to hear my honest answer?  Really?   
        “Because I don’t think that I can do it,” I meekly answered.  I was a bit taken aback, as that is the first time a client got miffed and pressed me for an explanation before.  

         “The other girls do it.  It’s part of the job, so why don’t you do it?” he demanded.

         (FYI: he wasn’t asking for sex or a handjob or any other “job.”  I never saw anyone at that dungeon provide traditional sexual activities.  One woman did get fired on the spot when someone accidentally walked into her session and saw her kissing a client.)

          I had no answer to that.  Like I said, I was a baby pro-domme.

          Seth asked to speak to the manager.  He actually complained about me.  He wanted the manager to make me do his session.

         What kind of person wants somebody to do intimate, sensual things with them when they know that person really doesn’t want to do it?


        Management took my side, fortunately.  I have worked in three dungeons, and in all three, management has always ultimately respected the women’s right of refusal.   Frau Farbissina has given me shit about it once or twice–“Deed anyone tell you zees job vaz goink to be easy?  You goink to cost zis place money?  You goink to sit on your ass ven you could be making zee money?”–but she always backs down when a worker insists she can’t do it. 

         Thereafter, Seth was after me.  Every week, it was the same scenario: he’d come in, request to speak to me in consultation, tell me what he wanted, and then become incensed when I declined.  Then he would stay and session with another mistress.  

        I think maybe he got off on being able to describe his fantasy and gawk at me as I sat there and listened–his captive audience–in my sexy fetish clothes.  

        Something else about Seth: he would always mention that he went to Harvard.  Fucking always. And he didn’t just do that with me–every woman he’d sessioned with knew that he went to Harvard. 

       I have never had a client mention his alma mater to me in consultation.  He might as well have told me the model of car he drove, or how he likes his coffee.  What does his attendance at Harvard have to do with anything?  It was bizarre.

        But, he was an insecure jerk.

         Everyone at the dungeon hated him, by the way.  We’d mimic him, do impressions of him whenever he came in.  

         Months passed.  I met the Surgeon, things were getting serious between us, and he was becoming territorial and pressuring me to quit at the Dungeon.  He couldn’t stand the idea of other men seeing and touching his stuff.

         A week or two before I quit, I saw Seth for the last time.

         I was absolutely fed up with him, and I knew that I wasn’t going to be working there much longer, so I knew that I had nothing to lose.  I was done.  

          When I heard that he wanted to speak with me in the consultation room, I went to my locker and put a huge hoody sweatshirt on over my sexy domme clothes.  It came down almost to my knees.  

          I went into consultation and sat down.  I didn’t perch on my chair, feigning polite appeasement.  No more polite customer service.  I leaned back in the chair, crossed my legs and arms, and sneered at him. 

          “What’s this?  Why are you wearing that?” he asked, surprised.

           “No more free show for you, Seth.  Tell me, why the hell do you keep dragging me in here?  How many times are we going to have to go through this absurd bit of theater?  You know what I’m going to tell you.  Why are you doing this?”

           I think it startled him.  He blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings, and then he said–with as much sarcasm he could muster: “I came in here to discuss world politics with you, because you’re so smart.” 

           Now, keep in mind that Seth didn’t know that I was in a grad program, or that I already had an advanced degree and a bachelor’s.  Seth didn’t know ANYTHING about me.  

          He was just being a hostile asshole, and telling me exactly what he thought of me and all the other women I worked with–some of whom I was very fond, and protective of.  What Seth said translates as: You’re a stupid whore.  You are all stupid whores. 

         I stared at him for a long minute.  

         While I got in touch with Dad.  

          Then, I knew exactly what to do.  I knew I could crush him.  The reason he hated me was that in refusing him, I had power over him, and he hated me for my beauty.  He was a slug who could never get a woman of my caliber. 

         I slowly leaned forward and put my elbows on my knees and looked right into his eyes.

         “Sure, Seth.  Let’s discuss international politics.  Were you surprised Sarkozy defeated Segolene Royal?  Do you think Turkey will ever join the EU?  What about the agrarian reforms Poland had to make to join–how do you think these will affect their economy?  What accounts for the recent ascendency of left-of-center politics in South America?  I’ll talk about international politics with you all day, you loathsome, inferior asshole, but I do not anticipate to be impressed with your analyses.” 

           His jaw dropped open.  He looked like he’d just been punched in the gut.

           And oh, my friends, it sure was fine.  

            “Seth, you know that all the women here hate you, right?  You know that we make fun of you behind your back.  Some of my co-workers do hilarious impersonations of you.  Your mannerisms.  The way you speak.  The cadence of your ugly nasal voice.  Do you know how pathetic you look to us?  Nobody here would give you the time of day if you weren’t paying us handsomely for our company.  You disgust me and you always have and I will NEVER session with you or touch you.  If my boyfriend could see the way you posture and preen in front of me, he’d laugh.  He does laugh when I describe you to him.  We all laugh at you, Seth, especially the ones who take your money.”

             He just sat there, with his mouth open.

             I stood up and strolled out, announcing (to the girls outside) that I was done with him.  I didn’t give a damn if he complained and I got fired for speaking to a client that way.  I had nothing to lose. 

             Seth immediately ran to the elevator.  He didn’t session that day.

            Months later, after I had quit, I ran into one of my former co-workers at a fetish party.  She caught me up on dungeon gossip and I told her what I’d said to Seth.

           Apparently, he never came back.  

           I didn’t think of him, or see hide nor hair of him, until last week when he rolled into the Studio when I was working night shift.  He asked to see me in consultation, not knowing who I was (I took a new stage name when I came to work at my current dungeon).  

           We recognized each other the minute I walked in the door.  He blanched.  He looked scared.

          I didn’t even sit down.

          “Howdy, Seth.  Long time, no see.  Been to any class reunions at Harvard recently?  Want to discuss The Economist?”

          I stared at him for a minute, and then walked out.

           He ran out.  HA!  Sorry I killed your boner, Seth.  

           This is one of the only times in my adult life that I have been intentionally cruel to someone.  I know it was mean and that I probably do not come off as very mature or ladylike.  Probably some readers will feel sorry for him.  

          I don’t feel sorry for him, though.  Not one bit.  

Night Shift

       I’m finishing up my volunteer stint “Caring for Young Trees.”  I wear sunscreen every day, but I still got some sun on my lower arms, and my hair is more golden from being outside.  

       I like to watch the birds when I garden.  Did you know sparrows are related to canaries?  I’d like to get a canary one day.  Sparrows are so cute!  I’m glad that they can live in the city with us.  I love watching them hop around, making their cute little peeping noises. 

       If I was Dictator of New York, I would also issue the following edict: all smokers who do not dispose of their cigarette butts in trash cans or ash trays shall be shot. 

        Seriously, what’s up with this?  Throwing cigarette butts down on the ground is the only time I see members of the general public littering these days.  Why?  There are trash cans every fifteen feet in Manhattan.  Could you at least throw it in the gutter, and not in the plants?  You’re not even supposed to be smoking in the park…but I don’t care about that.  Cigarette smoke doesn’t bother me.  The people in my home state smoke like barbecues and since they believe that public health laws are for pussies and government bootlickers, you can smoke indoors, too.  I’m an ex-smoker myself.  Just throw out your butts, people!  Littering is an antisocial act! 

       Speaking of antisocial, I worked a double (double shift) at the Studio this week.  I spent the day in the library, but had to be on site at night once the library closed.  

     I haven’t worked a night shift in a long time.  I’m an early bird, not a night owl.  

     Also: the freaks come out at night. 

     Daytime, you definitely get the random wackjob and the guy who’s still awake and coming in off of a three-day bender…but for the most part, the clientele are businessmen and financial services creatures who are sneaking away on lunch break or stopping by after work before they take the LIRR home.  

      Night shift…especially after, say, 10 PM…it’s a whole other story.  One of my uncles was a police detective.  He knew that most law abiding citizens are at home in bed by midnight, and if you are out in public between midnight and 5 AM, you are probably up to no good.  

       I must concur with my uncle.  

      First up, I have another mistress–the Studio’s current Reigning Psycho–insulting me and complaining about my presence to the other women.  She has always disliked me.  I have no idea why, as I cause no problems and have not even had a personal conversation with her.  Maybe she considers me to be competition, but that’s stupid too, because we look nothing alike and we specialize in different things.  

       She gave me a backhanded compliment.  I got rid of her by looking up at her and staring, silent and unblinking.  My owl stare.  You don’t intimidate me, sweetheart.  You’re just an ignorant little hick from Buffalo with a squeaky voice and a nose piercing, and I have forgotten more than you’ll ever learn. 

     The psycho registered it and went upstairs.   

      She really is unstable, though.  She’s best friends with the crazy junkie who got fired for assaulting a manager.  This one will be next.  That, or she’s going to say the wrong thing to Mistress C. one day, and C will put her in the hospital.  

      Next, I had a very awkward encounter with a coked-up French masochist.  He’d just finished a 2-hour session with another mistress.  She is a skilled mistress, and I’ve never seen her in session, but she has a reputation for being very harsh. 

       “He wants to see you next,” she said.  “Are you good at caning?  You have to be accurate.  No wrap-around.”

       “Yes, I can do that.”  

        “Be careful.  He’s bleeding.” 

        I went to have a gander.

        The guy was pulverized.  I have seen all sorts of marks and superficial tissue damage on people who come in to the Studio.  I have never seen anything like this.  It was worse than what the Attorney did to me the first time.  His backside was swollen and cratered so badly that it looked like the surface of the moon.

      “Have you been drinking?”  I do not judge masochists, as I am a heavy masochist myself, but I couldn’t understand how someone could take a 2-hour caning that inflicted that much injury without being anesthetized.

        Nope.  He was just a little coked up.

       “Do you know what you’re doing?  Are you sure that you want more?”

        “I need more pain.”

        I stared at him, trying to make a decision.  He seemed coherent.  He had expensive clothes and a watch, so I assume he was educated and had a good job, which means that he was smart enough and functional.  He was an adult.  He could make his own decisions.  

       My concern was whether or not I could do it.  Usually I’d be happy to hurt boys all day, but this fellow was already hamburger.  It was like something you see in movies about corporal punishment in the English Navy.  Mutiny on the Bounty.   Just call me Captain Bligh.

       Eventually, I decided: what the hell.  He can’t die from it.  As long as I wear gloves and don’t break the skin, it’ll be fine.

       I brought out a few new canes.  He wanted the fiberglass. 

       He stopped me after five minutes.

       “Please go get the manager,” he said.  “I need to see someone else.”

       “Are you all right?  Is my aim imprecise?”  I think I’m pretty accurate, and I was being careful.  I even wore flat boots to optimize my balance. 

       “It’s nothing personal.  Your skill is fine.”  He gave me forty bucks and I left.

        I learned that he didn’t care for my demeanor.  I wasn’t cruel enough to suit him.  He needed Angry Bitch from Hell.  My style is Mary Poppins if he wants an easy domme (cheerful but firm) or chief prison warden if he wants a hard domme (cold control freak).

       “You’re up,” I told the Resident Psycho who hates me.  He wanted to see her.  A perfect choice.  “Wear gloves.”

         Some men really like her.  She gets clients.  I don’t understand the attraction, as she is nuts with an annoying voice.  But maybe that is the attraction.  She is authentically dangerous.  Compared to her, I’m Mister Rogers.  She will never wonder if she should save you from yourself.  She will fuck you up if you want her to.  I honestly don’t think that she has any morals at all.  

         Next: a grouchy, insecure cross-dresser.  I seldom do sessions with cross-dressers.  It’s just not my personality and the dudes can sense it.  Anyway, this guy was a real treat.  I call him insecure because he was in a bad mood and he also managed to work into the conversation three times within the first five minutes that he just got back from Afghanistan.  

       Now, why the hell would he tell me that?  How on earth is that relevant to the activities we are engaged in?

       Oh, I know: you’re ashamed of yourself for having this sissy kink, and you want to assure me that even though you are a sissy, you are actually a Real Macho Manly Man.  You even have a cop mustache! 

      Whatever!  Put on this lacy camisole, GI Joe!  We also have a pair of clear stripper heels in your size.  I don’t think less of you for being here.  Your shame all comes from inside of you, and I won’t let you push it on to me.  

      The “Jerk in the Cage” came back.  He wanted to see me, so I guess that episode turned out well after all.  He turned out to be a nice friendly guy.  He tipped well. 

       “Sorry I yelled and swore at you when I found you down there,” I said.

       “No!  Don’t be sorry!  It was exciting!  You were really mad!”

       Finally: there was an enormous monster cockroach high on the wall by the front door, which caused pandemonium.  This was one ugly mofo.  We made a guy knock it down and smash it.  Men are good for killing bugs. 

        Oh, one more thing: you’ll never believe who I ran into that same night!  A blast from the past!  SETH!  And he remembered me, too!  

       “Hey Seth!  Been to any class reunions at Harvard recently?  What did you think about the recent editorial in The Economist?

       HA!  He walked out.  HA!

       I never told you about Seth.  Seth is a manipulative jerk who used to come in to my first dungeon.  Right before the Surgeon made me quit there, I had a little confrontation with Seth.  I put Seth in his place.  I humiliated him and he ran out and never came back!

       He deserved it.  He’s rude and insulting.  I’ll tell you all about it next time.  

Miss Margo: Bollywood Kidnapped Bride

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Update Tuesday 10 AM:

      This has nothing to do with the rest of this blog post, but I wanted to write it down and it’s not enough for an independent entry, so here it is:

      I just got an email from a client–a dominant–who described me thusly: an “adorable sexual pinata.”

      I’m pretty creative, but I could not have come up with that one in a million years.  

       It manages to be belittling, objectifying, and absurd all at the same time.  The objectification doesn’t bother me much–it’s part of the job, and I don’t expect or even want most of my clients to appreciate me on a personal level.  “Adorable” is sort of annoying, but lots of old guys are casually sexist and don’t even realize it.  What can you do?

      But “sexual pinata”?  REALLY?  I realize that both pinatas and myself get beaten with sticks, but REALLY?  Who associates a pinata with eroticism?  If there is a less sexy way to describe a masochist, I’d like to hear it.  

      What, does candy fall out of me if you hit me really hard?  And isn’t a pinata a children’s toy–which makes the description even more bizarre and stupid?  

       I need to think of a passive-aggressive way I can insult this guy in my response…like a backhanded compliment.  “Your emails are so funny!  They read as if they were composed by Monty Python!” or “That’s MISS pinata to you, Sir!”  

       A sexual pinata.  WTF?  

           *                                        *                              * 

     This one was weird (in a good way).  I feel it merits sharing. 

       Several posts ago, I discussed the many characters I have been asked to play in clients’ fantasies (and by the way, since I published “The Execution,” this blog has received at least two hits a day from people googleing “female executioner fetish” or some variation thereof.  Isn’t that incredible?).  

      I have a new one to add to the list: kidnapped bride.

       A young Indian man came into the Studio and hired me for a roleplay session.  In the consultation, he seemed a bit nervous but also very happy.  He couldn’t stop smiling. 

       “So, what brings you in?” I asked.

       “I want you to be my true love, but you have married another man.  So I am going to pick you up and run away with you and hide you in my house, because we are meant to be together.”

       It took me a few seconds to process that one.  Wait, let me get the Dr. Evil clip…this definitely needs the Dr. Evil clip…

       I consider myself to be a feminist and this fantasy offended my political values.  Then I remembered that I have recently been “abducted” and held in captivity by Heinrich & Co. at my request.  Rejecting this young man would be rank hypocrisy.

      “Interesting…I’m a good improv actress.  Anything else…?  What will you do once you get me back to your house?”

      “I spank you a little until you admit that you love me and say that you are sorry for hurting me.  Then we are together forever!”

       Should I re-post the Dr. Evil clip…?  No, no, that’s overkill…

       “Can you wear a sari?” he asked.

       I have a locker full of uniforms and all sorts of domme gear, but alas…I regret to report that I do not own a sari.   

       “No, but I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

        (Incidentally, I think that saris, even the plainest ones, are beautiful clothing and I am glad that Indians have decided to keep wearing them.)


       I ran back to the locker room and ghetto-rigged a sari substitute.  One woman had a long, bright yellow skirt with beading and sequins sewed into it.  It was too full to be a sari skirt, but I rolled up the extra fabric in back and affixed it with safety pins.  Then I put on my black sports bra and draped a sparkly pink scarf around it, also affixed with safety pins. 


      Young Indian dude burst in the door.  I looked up from my vanity, where I was putting on lipstick.

     “Gupta (NOT his real name)!  What are you doing here?  I told you never to come here!  My husband and his family will kill you!” I said.  

      Oh yeah. Melodrama in the Superstudio. 

     “You belong with me!” he said.  Then he ran over, picked me up, and ran away with me slung over his shoulder, like this:

     That was most of the session–him running around with me over his shoulder.  I was instructed to kick my lower legs and beat his back with my hands.  He would stop in front of one of the mirrors periodically to see how we looked.

     When the space was clear, he’d run back and forth in the hallways with me.

      The hardest part was trying not to barf, because all of that movement made me dizzy, and my head was down.  

       I’m amazed by males’ physical strength.  Women are very tough and some are excellent athletes, and we work like beasts of burden all over the third world, but men are so much stronger.  The Surgeon was my height and lean.  He was strong like an ant.  Have you ever seen a tiny ant lift and carry something 100X its size at a picnic? 

     Anyway…Indian guy ran around with me over his shoulder most of the time.  Sometimes he would switch it up and carry me in his arms in front of him while I would feign protest.  The lifting and carrying and kidnapping seemed to be his favorite part.  

    Finally, we came back to his “house.”  He told me that he loved me so much that he wouldn’t let me be with another husband.  I said that I only married the other man because he paid for my brother’s college tuition and bought my parents’ house.  

    Then said I was sorry for hurting him.  I said that I always wanted to be with him, in my heart.  

     (note: the first time I was asked to say “I love you” in a role-play with a client, it caused me major angst.  I’d never said “I love you” to anyone I didn’t really love…saying those words is extremely significant to me; I don’t just toss them off.  I was being asked to roleplay someone’s wife.  I told myself that it was just like acting in a play.)

     He forgave me and said that he loved me and that we would go somewhere where we could live happily forever. 

     THE END

     P.S.  My abs and torso muscles are sore from writhing around in this session.  I also have a tender spot on my left side above my hip bone.  I think this is where his shoulder was digging in.  

“There’s a Jerk in a Cage!”

      What would you do if you came to work and found a stranger locked in a cage…?

       What..?  You say that you have no idea…?  

        Well, I had no idea what to do either, but I had to figure it out the other day…

         Someone booked an early appointment with me, so I showed up 45 minutes in advance so that I could get ready (his wardrobe requests were specific and elaborate).  

         I couldn’t get in.  Nobody was there.  I called the front desk repeatedly and then sent text messages to the management.  

          Nothing doing.

          Eventually I was spotted by one of the building’s maintenance workers.  He recognized me and used his keys to let me in through the back door (the Studio has multiple exits and secret doors and passageways.  I’ve rehearsed a few different escape plans in the event of a police raid). 

         It was dark as a mineshaft inside.  I had to use a flashlight app on my phone to find the light switch for the reception area.  Then I put down my bags and worked my way through the rooms, turning on the lights and intercoms and computers.  

        I flipped on the lights in one of the back rooms when a voice came out of nowhere:

          “Hi!  Do you know when Mistress Betsy will get here?”

          Scared! Me! To! Death!  I actually made a little scream and turned in a circle, trying to find where the voice was coming from.  

            “Who’s there?” I asked.

             “Me!  Over here!”

              “Over were?  Who are you?”  I didn’t see anyone.

            “Over here!  Under the table!”

            I bent at the waist and looked underneath the large bondage table.

             There was a man there locked into a heavy-duty dog crate.  He was wearing his clothes except for his shoes and jacket, which were folded and laying on top of the cage.  

           “What the fuck!  Who are you?  What are you doing in there?  What the fuck!”  I yelled.

         “Sorry I scared you!  I’m waiting for Mistress Betsy.  I came early!” 

         “What do you mean, came early?  It’s nine in the morning!  We’re not even open yet!”

          “I came in last night.  I didn’t want to go home.  They said I could stay and wait for her,” he said.

         “How long have you been in there?”

          “Since about 6 AM.  They left me a light and a book, but the batteries went out.”

         So there you have it.   This guy showed up five hours early for his appointment after drinking and doing coke all night.  Some GENIUS locked him in the cage and left him there.  With a book, a magazine from the waiting room, a bottle of water, and a flashlight.

       I have no idea why they left him with reading materials.  He was too high to read.

        “Are you okay?  Do you want out?”  Now I had a dilemma: let him out and be all alone in the dark with a total stranger who obviously had very poor judgement, or keep him in there and be responsible if anything bad happened to him, since I was aware of his presence and didn’t try to help him.  

        He said that he would wait.

        “Do you have any more drugs?”  I didn’t want him to OD in the cage.  What the fuck! 

         He said he didn’t, but who knows?

         I stepped out of the room and started calling the management.  There’s a jerk locked in a cage!  I have no idea who he is!  They left him there!  What do I do with him?  What if he died while unattended?  What if he killed himself?  What if he’s dangerous?  What the fuck!  Which dumbass approved this spectacularly bad decision?

         And on top of that, I was supposed to be getting ready for my session, but I couldn’t do that until I dealt with this problem!

         One of the managers came an hour later.  We let him out.  He was okay and seemed happy.

         Just another day at the office.    

My Body is a Cage

     I rode hard all day and now I can’t sleep.  Blinking owlishly at the computer monitor.  

      I found a paperback copy of The Foundations of Early Modern Europe, 1460-1559, by Eugene F. Rice, Jr. on the sidewalk by a trash can on 1st Avenue.  Why would someone throw out a good book like this?  I started reading it.  It’s an excellent book.  I’m at the part where Dr. Rice explains how gunpowder transformed warfare.  Check this out: 

At the siege of Constantinople by the Ottoman Turks in 1453, Sultan Mahomet II (ruled 1451-1481), who had German and Hungarian cannon founders in his service, was able to deploy against the astonished Byzantines fourteen batteries, each of several great bombards, plus fifty-six smaller cannon of various types.  Most spectacular of all were two enormous guns which fired stone balls nearly three feet in diameter and weighing each over eight hundred pounds.  The guns required seventy oxen each and more than a thousand men to move them from Adrianople, where they were cast, to the Bosporus. (p. 11)

     What I wouldn’t give to see that…!

      The previous owner of this book didn’t highlight any passages or make notes in the margins.  The only clue he or she left is a yellowed postcard of Portrait of Erasmus by Quentin Metsys, 1517.  The postcard seems to have been used as a bookmark. 

     I also like Westerns.  The first Western was The Last of the Mohicans. I find the genre fascinating.

      I heartily recommend that everyone see Death Valley, Bryce Canyon, and Zion National Park before they die.  God, the air there is so clean.  I smell it in my dreams.  The fish in the streams were perfect.  Fingerling trout.  Nice wholesome freshwater fish, and the riverbed made of quartz gravel…and the skies…

      Still can’t sleep.  YouTube to the rescue.

      Just because you’ve forgotten 
      That don’t mean you’re forgiven

My Body is a Cage from JT Helms on Vimeo.