The Chopin Experience

     Good morning, universe of random internet strangers, and welcome to another depressing installment of Clients Who Deserve to Get Hit by a Bus.  

     Somewhere in New York City there is a pretentious blowhard of a maxillofacial surgeon who enjoys hurting and humiliating very young women.  

     How pretentious is he?  

     He calls himself “Chopin” and he really, really wants you to know that he plays the piano. 

      He also stares at himself constantly in the mirror, which is unbecoming behavior for a man.  It’s also confusing, because he is average-looking at best and is approaching late middle age.  He also has a weird freeze-dried look to him which suggests a lot of plastic surgery.  

     Chopin is a sadist.  A real sadist–the type who really doesn’t want you to have a good time receiving your beating.  He’ll hire a masochist if he can’t see anyone else, but he actually prefers dominant women who grudgingly switch for the money.  He wants her to endure the pain for him and feel emotionally disturbed and bad about it afterward.  

      What a guy, huh?  

       But wait, it gets better!

       He pays the absolute minimum that he has to.  The girl’s cut for a submissive session is $190, and that’s supposed to be for a session that involves little to no pain and nothing that would leave bruising or marks.  Chopin goes heavy.  I’d put the going market rate for the caning he gives at $600.  That’s what I’d charge him.  $700 wouldn’t be unreasonable.  The marks last over a week and prevent the woman from doing corporal punishment scenes until she heals.  Sitting is uncomfortable for days and sleeping on your back the first night or two is out of the question.  And you have to endure his charming company and conversation for an hour, which is probably the hardest part of it all!

         $600 is a nice chunk on change, no question, but I believe it is fair.  A hard caning like that is very, very painful.  He goes through about three canes each time, because they break.  There is screaming and crying involved (well, not for me–I’ve never cried in a session, though I will eventually yell once it reaches a certain level of intensity).  $600 is about what a high-end escort charges, and taking a beating from Chopin, M.D. is, I daresay, more intimate than sex.  The women who session with Chopin will remember the pain for the rest of their lives, just as they remember the boy with whom they first had sex (I certainly remember my worst beatings).  $600 is not a lot to pay to leave a lifelong impression on a young woman.  

     To have that relationship with her. 

     What’s more, Dr. Dickhead, extraordinaire can afford it.  He’s rich.  How do I know…?  Well, besides the fact that he works it into the conversation as frequently as possible (Chopin likes to keep it klassy, *snigger*), women have also done outcalls to his huge luxery apartment, which is on the Upper East Side and full of furniture made of endangered hardwoods.  I’ve never been there, but I know women who have, and I’ve heard all about it. He also has a black palm cockatoo, and those birds cost about $16,000.  Incredibly, he has a wife (I wonder if she knows about his little hobby.  Or his predilection for teenagers).  I know that I have poor taste in men, but I’m telling you, I would rather cut off my own arm with a chainsaw than fuck this guy, let alone marry him, money be damned.  

      Yeah, I’m giving out personal information about a client.  This is the third time I’ve done it on the blog.  It’s not ethical, but I don’t care.  I hate him and he deserves it.  

        So, let’s recap: Chopin, M.D. is a millionaire with shit for personality who likes to cane the hell out of women and who refuses to pay them more than $190 for it.

       You might be wondering, Who on earth would do that for $190? 

       Not Miss Margo, that’s for sure. I refuse.  And whenever I have the honor of speaking to Chopin in the waiting room, I’m sure to let him know why:  “Well, Chopin, I’m afraid that I can’t help you out.  That amount of money is inadequate compensation for a caning of that intensity, Chopin.  Chopin, the going market rate for a heavy caning is about $600, Chopin, and there are not many professionals in this City who would be willing to do it anyway.  Thanks anyway, Chopin.”  

       (I call him Chopin as often as I possibly can so that he knows I find him and his pretentious self-given moniker ridiculous.  And the truth is, I wouldn’t session with this guy for $1000, because I hate him.  I might do it for $2000.) 

      So I’m not going to cruise with Dr. Dickhead for $190, but I can tell you who would:

       The financially desperate and the woefully inexperienced who have no idea what they’re getting into. 

      Did I mention that Chopin likes em young…?  I mean young, like not old enough to drink yet.  He likes them as young as he can get them.  He doesn’t care if they are pretty or not, or what race they are, or if they’re covered in tattoos or not.  If he had a choice between the most beautiful woman at the Studio (and we have some knockouts, believe me) and a bald, toothless 18-year-old, he’d pick the teenager.  

       There are two reasons for this: 1) I think he’s just plain sexually attracted to teenagers.  He could even be a pedophile.  It sure as hell wouldn’t surprise me.  I’ve heard some rumors.  2) the younger and less experienced they are, the fewer boundaries they have, and the more traumatized they are going to be by their time with Chopin, M.D.  

       You can imagine what this man is like when you’re all alone in the room with him.  In the dark.  Because he keeps it as dim as possible and still be able to work.  Know why?  I can tell you, because I can read his mind on this one: he doesn’t want the girl to see herself clearly in the mirror, because then she’d see the damage he was doing, and then she’d freak out and call it off.  

       One time he sessioned with this new girl…let’s call her “Molly.”  She was maybe 19 and looked younger.  She was nice, but, I hate to say it, pretty dumb.  She was also broke and desperate.  I wasn’t there when it happened, or else I would have warned her.  I found out the next day and asked her how it went.

      “It was okay.  I was really scared and it hurt a lot and I didn’t think that I could do it, but then I calmed down and it felt sort of like I was watching it from the outside.  It was weird,” she said.

       Oh my God, I thought.  

      “Molly, that’s what people feel like when they’re being traumatized.  It’s how the psyche copes with extreme terror,” I said.

     “Oh.  Afterward, he told me it was sub-space,” she said.

      Oh my God, I thought. 

      “He didn’t molest you, did he?” I asked.  

      “What?  Well, he told me that I had to take off my underwear so that he could see better.  He said it was part of the submissive session that he paid extra for.”

        Oh my God, I thought.   “Molly!  Never take off your underwear!  No nudity!  Ever!  Maybe topless if they cough up an extra hundred and you’re comfortable with it!”

        I wanted to kill management for sending her in there with him.

       The last girl he saw wasn’t a maso and didn’t really want to do it, but she was in a bind: her car had been towed and she needed it to get to work.  She’d just paid rent and monthly bills and was flat fucking broke.  

       “It’ll get my car out of impound,” she said.

       I was reminded of that scene in Romeo and Juliet, when Romeo tries to buy illegal poison from the impoverished apothecary.  The apothecary doesn’t want to do it, but he reluctantly agrees because he needs the cash: 


My poverty, but not my will, consents.


I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.

          Chopin, you sick fuck, you wretched, awful excuse for a human being.  You couldn’t reach into your pocket, pull out that roll of cash that’s as big around as a soda can, and peel off a few more bills to compensate my desperate co-worker for what you put her through?  I heard her crying down the hall.  

       “If it gets too bad, tell him to slow down.  You can do that, you know.  Or tell him to stop.  Or just walk out.  Yeah, just walk out.  Say that you can’t take it anymore and leave.  No matter how he tries to pressure you.  You’ve got the money up-front, he’s not going to get a refund.  Don’t feel like you have to take it just because he paid.  He’ll use your sense of honor to exploit you,” I said. 

      I don’t know how to end this blog post.  I’m sure it’s depressing to read, but there is no other place I can share it.  I feel better exposing Chopin, even if it’s just to my 8 readers.  

      I’m not sure how much longer I can keep doing this.  Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s fun, but I have been exposed to some very dark things, and some very dark people.  I would have been happy to live the rest of my life without ever knowing that Chopin even existed.   I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that he breathes the same air as me and lives…well, just up the green line.  About ten subway stops.  

       I’m sure he’s fixing a cleft palate right now, or something.  A surgeon dentist.  The perfect job for a sadist.  Perfect.

        Sorry for the post, but I feel better now.  Human again.  I felt really bad this morning, thinking about him.

        Maybe I will amuse myself thinking of ways to torment him.  I vote for angry lobsters down his pants.  

       “Writing does not cause misery.  It is born of misery.”   Montaigne.  And boy have I been prolific recently. 

Salome and Judith

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    Salome was the daughter of Herodias.  She must have been beautiful, because when she danced for Herod and his guests at his birthday party, Herod was so bewitched by her that he promised to give her anything she wanted.  At her mother’s instruction, Salome asked for the head of John the Baptist.  Herod regretted his decision, but honor forced him to keep his oath, and he sent his executioner to dispatch John the Baptist, whose head was subsequently delivered to Salome on a plate. 

Lucas Cranach the Elder c. 1530  WOW LOOK AT HER CLOTHES!

Salome by Henri Regnault c. 1870
I always make sure to see this one at the Met!

Salome With the Head of Saint John the Baptist c. 1680 by Marinari
Salome Dancing c. 1906 by Franz von Stuch

     Judith was a beautiful and resourceful Jewish widow.  Her country was under attack from the Assyrians, whose military was led by the general Holofernes.  Judith and her loyal maid went to see Holofernes in his army camp, offering her service as a spy (she must have been a powerful and politically-connected woman if she had any knowledge useful enough to interest him).  She seduced him and gained his trust, got him drunk, and then cut off his head. Judith brought his head back to her people to inspire them.  The Assyrians freaked out and ran back home where they belonged. 

      Judith did what Eva Braun should have done if she cared about her country. 

    I love the story of Judith!  I wish that her maid had a name, though, because she was brave, too. 

Judith Victorious c. 1530 by Lucas Cranach the Elder
I love this painting!  She looks smug and I like her armored gauntlets and her badass coat!  She could totally be a domme.
Judith by Franz von Stuck
Sleep it off, sucker!
The Return of Judith to Bethulia by Bottecelli
Judith with the Head of Holofernes  by Peter Paul Rubens

And here is a picture of a greyhound I like, just because.  FYI, it looks like a pencil drawing, but it’s actually painting with very fine brush strokes!

Greyhound by Druer

    I really want to post this video but I have no idea what to do with it so I’m just going to put it here.  

     Back when I accepted that I was an alcoholic, I tackled the medical and scientific literature about it.  I distinctly remember a study where researchers offered unlimited rum to Rhesus monkeys.  Rhesus monkeys were chosen because they have complex social and familial structures.  

Anyway, most monkeys tried it and didn’t like it and never drank it again.  Some monkeys just had a few.

And some monkeys fell in love and became alcoholic monkeys.  They fucked themselves and dropped out of life.  Not unlike myself. 

Reader Mailbag: the Downlow Edition

     One of my readers, Downlow, send me the following email:

 Dear Miss Margo,
You seem to be taking questions from the crowd lately, and I’ve got about a thousand. Here are a few:

What days during the week do you prefer to work? As in, which days are busiest and most likely to get you clients?

You work at a “house”. Do you ever make friends with the other ladies, such that you see each other outside of the dungeon? If yes, is that often, rare, or never? Do you see mostly regulars, or do you mostly participate in “lineups”, or is there some other way a client would find you?

Do you ever go to the dungeon and not wind up with a session?

Thank you. I love your blog!!!


      Hi Downlow!  

      I’m glad that you enjoy my little blog.  Writing it is very fun (and, I believe, cathartic) for me.  I think of it as a gratifying but insanely dangerous hobby, not unlike building bombs in one’s basement using guides one found in the more evil corners of the internet…

 What days during the week do you prefer to work? As in, which days are busiest and most likely to get you clients?

      When I work independently, I schedule sessions as I can.  My two other “normal” jobs are part-time, so my schedule is flexible. 

      My schedule at the Studio changes every semester in order to accommodate my class and tutoring schedules.  I also prefer not to work at the Studio on days when I teach, because that fucks with my mind.  

      Otherwise, I work there when I need to.  If I have the day off but need to make money to pay bills by due date, I drag myself in.   

        Busiest days…it waxes and wanes according to the season and random luck.  Friday and Saturday nights, especially the early-morning hours, and often slammin.  These are shifts of last resort for me because I’m not a night owl and if you read the Biz archives you know what sort of client comes in at 4 AM Saturday morning (hint: partying like Tommy Lee on his birthday).    Monday and Tuesday day shift is usually busy, probably because the clients are coming back to work in the City from their weekend country homes.  On weekdays, client traffic usually comes in waves: lunchtime, 5-6 PM (when they get off work), 9 PM (after dinner and happy hour), and then very late at night.

You work at a “house”. Do you ever make friends with the other ladies, such that you see each other outside of the dungeon? If yes, is that often, rare, or never?

      I formed three friendships with women I’ve met in my House.  We have visited each others’ apartments, do stuff together, follow one anothers’ love lives, etc, so yeah, normal girl friends.  Considering that I’ve met and worked with well over a hundred women in the three dungeons in which I’ve been employed, I’d say that establishing real friendships is “rare” for me (though I am on a very friendly basis with some mistresses inside the dungeon…we chat and get to know each other and share our personal problems and whatnot, and I care about them.  But it is a workplace friendship.).  

      Many of the women at my Studio are close friends with each other outside of work.  They even form cliques. 

      I don’t have more Studio friends because 1) it’s a security breech into my “regular” life, so I have to be very careful about who I decide to trust; 2) half the bitches I work with are crazy.  Not all of them–we have some really awesome people–but a lot of them; 3) I go there to work and I do not want any backstabbing personal-relationship drama-rama.  I don’t want to be involved in their fights with other women or with managers.  I am the Dungeon Switzerland.   

 Do you see mostly regulars, or do you mostly participate in “lineups”, or is there some other way a client would find you?

       No offense to you personally, but I’d rather not answer this because I’m worried about stalkers.  

       I do have regulars at the Studio and independently and I appreciate them as they are my bread and butter. 

    Do you ever go to the dungeon and not wind up with a session?

      Unfortunately, yes.  Most shifts I get one or two sessions.  Occasionally I do 3 or even 4, though I prefer not to do more than 3 unless one is a telephone session–it’s just too emotionally exhausting.  

     But sometimes–especially during the summer, when everyone’s out of town–I go to work and get NOTHING.  There are days when there are seven women at the dungeon, and nobody makes anything all day.   I’d say…depending on the season…1 out of 6 days I make nothing at the dungeon.  

      I’ve gone four days in a row without having a session.  That was awful.  And, of course, it was when I needed the money very badly.  It was last summer, right before the Strip Club nightmare. 

      The money is in independent work.  If I can schedule even 3 independent session per week, especially if they are submissive sessions, then I’m set financially.   

And the Award for Most Delusional Client October 2013 Goes To…..

    This blog post isn’t going to be nice, and I don’t care.

     I was lurking on Maggie McNeil’s blog and came across this comment from a reader who was giving advice to woman on how to find a competent and male sex partner who make sure she was sexually satisfied.

       Buckle your seatbelts, ladies and gents, cause this one is a doozy.  “T’jock” writes:

 I might suggest thinking about giving a ‘hobbyist’ a try. I’ve had several escorts indicate that their customers are often excellent in bed. Why? Because they practice on a variety of women. Also, many of them are there because they enjoy giving women pleasure. I know I seek escorts who enjoy their work and provide GFE (girl friend experience) and I put into the encounter as much as I receive.
You could ‘lurk’ on ECCIE for a while and pick a hobbyist. It’s easy to contact that person and for him it would be like winning the lottery. Besides, the best part is when it’s over, he will leave.


      Because a sex worker would never lie to her client about his attractiveness, uniqueness, or sexual prowess.  Much less an escort, who has no professional motivation excite her customers and get them out the door as soon as possible without angering them.  

        Reality check, you delusional fucktard: no escort in her right mind is going to say “I would rather get a bikini wax then endure one more minute of your revolting pussy-eating.”  Or, “Ow, you’re hurting me.”  Or, “Clearly everything you learned about sex, you learned from misogynistic porn.”  Or, “I could smell your ballsack from across the room.  You need to develop a nodding acquaintance with a wet soapy washcloth.”  Or, “When you kiss me, it feels like you’re trying to eat my head.”  

        Half the job is validation, sympathy and comfort, and ego massage.  No sex worker, or anyone else in a customer-service job, could make a living at it if she told all of her customers exactly what she thought of them.  

        UGH!  Fucking “Hobbyist” fucktards, I hate them!   They’re not regular clients, so if clients are reading this, don’t get mad.   And I’m not talking about Max Fisch guys either, because I’ve had pretty good experience with them.  Hobbyists are the worst.  Every one I’d had who self-identified as such was a royal insensitive douchebag.  I don’t get a lot of them (thank GOD) because they tend to stick to escorts and not fetish workers, but I’ve had a few, and not one good experience.  In fact, they were so bad that I refused to see them more than once.  The last one was Mr. Kissy-Face. 

         “T’jock” here demonstrates another aspect of the Hobbyist personal: self-centeredness.   His advice to the letter-writer is all about him, right up to “it would be a dream come true (to someone like me)!”  It’s fine for a client to be selfish in a session–that’s what they’re paying for, after all–but FFS!

Landlords Have Souls Made of Coal Dust

     Is there such a thing as a landlord who is not a total bastard…?  Or is a non-bastard landlord a mythical creature, like a unicorn or a leprechaun?  Surely, among the millions of landlords on earth, there must be one whose soul is not made of coal dust, right?

     I’ve never forgiven mine for terrorizing me and shaking me down last summer, but I’ve had almost no contact with him since then because I’ve been better off financially and haven’t been late with the rent even once.  

     But oh Lord, this month it was four days late.  Yup, paid in full on October 5.  

      The torturing scumbag was up to his old tricks in the blink of an eye.

      I’ve come home four times to find a formal bill slid underneath my door for a $100 “late fee.”  

      I dug the lease out of my records and reviewed it.  The late fee only applies after the 7th of the month, so he’s not getting it.

      If I didn’t hate him, I’d probably cough it up, if only to end the harassment.  

      The bills and the text messages (yes, he texts) still stress me the hell out, though.  That was a bad summer for me, and I don’t like remembering it.  It was a hard time.

      Well, he confronted me in the lobby this morning as I was collecting my mail: “Margo?  When I get late fee?”

       I had the Surgeon on my mind.  It’s disgusting that I miss that narcissistic bastard after what he did to me, but sometimes I do.  He’s awful, but at least he gave me something.  Now I have nothing.

        And the sex was really good.  I miss that.
        I looked at this hustling little Chinese man and asked myself what the Surgeon would say if he was in the lobby with me.

       I bit the old guy’s head off. 

       “You’re not going to get a late fee!  I haven’t broken the terms of the lease!  Stop harassing me!  What, are you on your period or something?  Are you really that desperate for a hundred bucks?  Did you have a bad weekend in Atlantic City or something?  Did you lose a bunch of money at ma jong?  Stop sending me bills or you’re going to hear from my lawyer!”

        Ha!  He just stood there with his mouth open, like he was watching a rabbit sprout fangs and go on a massacre!  Probably not too far from the truth.  

       Then I went to work.  

        That creep.

        I should have included him in the “biggest jerk” poll.  A complete oversight on my part.

RIP Captain Shackleton

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      My favorite fish, a pearl gourami named Captain Shackleton, has gone missing.

       What I want to know is: what the hell happened to him?

        He was there when I cleaned the algae off the glass two days ago, and I distinctly remember seeing him swimming near the top of the water when I turned off the lights last night.  That’s where he always hangs out.  The top of the water.

        This morning I decided to do a water change.  Once I finished, a inspected my little fishies.  

         Captain Shackleton wasn’t there.  Or isn’t there.  I checked behind the plants, the intake tubes, everything.  I stirred up the gravel, uprooting a few plants in the process, thinking that maybe I’d buried him by accident when I vacuum-cleaned the gravel.

          No dice.

           With a heavy heart, I realized I must have sucked him up in the plastic python (a tube used to clean the tank).  I hooked the python up again and ran water through it, hoping at least to get his body out of the tube before it decayed. 

             The python wasn’t lodged with anything.  He wasn’t in there.  

            Where the hell did this fish go?  I checked all around the tank for his body.  He didn’t jump out.  Besides, the tank has a lid.  There is only a small area that a fish could jump out of to escape.  

             He’s not in the filter.  I checked.

             Even if he died in the night, it’s not enough time for the other fish to eat his body.  There would still be a lot of him left.  Captain Shackleton is huge.  And he looked healthy last time I checked.  A magnificent specimen, really. 

          I call him Captain Shackleton because he lived through everything.  He’s over five years old.  Three apartments.  An assassination attempt by my Ex.  Being dropped in the filthy New York gutter by careless movers.  Being dropped on the floor more than once (sorry, little buddy).  Hurricane Sandy, when I was without electricity for over two weeks, and the cold and lack of filtration caused me to lose half of my stock.  He lived through my alcoholism.  

       I’m sure he’s dead, wherever he is.  He’s not in the tank.

       I told my friend.

      “Did your parrot eat him?”

       Impossible.  Parrot’s been inside her cage all morning.  Besides, I can’t imagine that she’d do that.  She’s never displayed the slightest bit of interest in the fish.

        It’s a mystery. 

        RIP Captain Shackleton.  You were the best fish I ever had.

The Captain

Captain Shackleton surveys his domain        

Cast Fetish…?!

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      When I started working as a professional domme/switch, I already considered myself pretty experienced.  I’d been doing sadomasochism in my private life since I was 19, and you know how seriously I take it.

      Even still…there is no way I could have foreseen what was in store for me.  The Wide World of Human Sexuality is vast.  It contains multitudes.  

       Now, on my third stint in the Biz, a lot of the shine is rubbed off (my analyst told me recently that I was changing.  Mourning. Not all change is voluntary, she said. Sometimes it just happens to you. I’ve been thinking a lot about that.). 

        That said: sometimes something can still knock my socks off. 

        I discovered a new fetish, boys and girls.  Something I’d never heard of before.  Something I never would have dreamed up in a million years.  

         Get ready for it!

         Cast fetish.

          What. The. Hell.

      These images are from the good people at  Their videos and photo sets have titles such as Fetish Princess Bodycast, Cast Cutie Learning Day, and Lizzy, Left Alone. 

       I am speechless.  

       (I must say, though, that weirdness notwithstanding, the vibe of the website is quite cheerful and good-natured.  It also seems very female-positive.  If it wasn’t for the orgasms, the thing would be rated “G.”  I kinda like how everyone is grinning.)  

     After I picked my jaw off the floor, I did a little digging on the internet.  

      There’s a lot of cast fetish websites out there.  Consider…  Sexy babes in casts!  (and is she pregnant?)


       I was dying to hear the explanation for this one.  What accounts for the cast fetish…?  At first, I thought it must be psychological association with all the positive attention and accommodation you get when you’re injured.  You know, people sign your cast and ask you how you hurt yourself and tell you that they hope you get better soon. 


       It seems to be the vulnerability of being “frozen.”  Like bondage.  Very, very extreme bondage.  

       From FAQ:

Q: What, in the hell, is a casting fetish site? Is this supposed to be sexy? A: This is a fetish site. So, if you don’t have a fetish for casting, or for immobilized girls in general, you may not understand. For me, there’s something magical, about staring into someone’s eyes, and knowing that they can’t move. In fact, they require a power tool in order to be free. That’s the theme we explore, here, in various ways. If that’s a vibe you like, we can’t wait to see you inside.

         They’re in Massachusetts, and they’re soliciting models.  I think this is the only fetish website that I’ve ever seen for which I could model and not risk my professional reputation.  It actually sound like fun, in a…weird sort of way.  I’ve never been in a cast.  

       Any other weird fetishes that you know of?  This could be a fun potential blog category!  “The Wide World of Wacky Sexuality,” or something like that…

Halloween Costume!

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    Halloween is a holiday for children, but I agreed to attend a party this year.

     (Protip: Dommes and fetish workers can find great costumes at the Halloween stores…PVC nurse outfits, masks, police officer, etc.  Wait till after the holiday and get it 70% off!)

      I decided to be Darth Vader.  Domme Darth Vader. 

      Inspiration for the outfit comes from a post by blogger paltego at Femdom Resource

     Pretty dorky, right…?  But original!  

     I am trying to remember the Halloween costumes I wore as a child.  I remember being a gypsy (kinda racist, in retrospect, but I was 8 at the time), Cleopatra, a werewolf, and an angel.  And a witch.

      Jung said that men are wolves and women are witches.  I like that.

     One time I was a bear.  I remember that my father found a very odd faux-bearskin rug at a flea market.  Why the heck anyone would manufacture (let alone display as home decor) a bearskin rug is beyond me.  


        He cut a hole in the head and emptied out the stuffing and put it on my noggin.  Then he tied the arms to my arms, and I went trick-o-treating like that, like some little cro-magnon.  

       I remember that he didn’t get all of the stuffing out, because it stuck in my hair and my exasperated mother had to comb it out later, which really hurt.  Female readers will know what I’m talking about: the pain of hairdressing as a child.  Now it doesn’t even register, but it hurt to have the hair pulled and yanked on and styled when I was small.  

       I don’t get any trick-o-treaters because my apartment building is only accessible with a key (unless you are a crazy surgeon), which is sad because I love to see the kids dress up.  


Making the Money

    I taught at the tutoring center and then had THREE sessions at the Studio today.  Then an AA meeting.

      Stick a fork in me, man.  

      My first student expressed displeasure that her low mathematics scores on the GRE were negatively affecting her numbers and possibly prohibiting her entrance into the grad programs of her choice.


        “I took the GRE twice,” I told her.  I was trying to be supportive.  “My first math score was unacceptable, so I hired a tutor and tried again a month later, with better results.”  

         She glared at me.

         “That’s what I’m hiring you for!” she yelled. 

          Note: I’m not tutoring her in math. 

          Then…three sessions!  Two of them were over an hour, too!

          The first: publishing biz exec going through painful divorce.  He is a pretty nice human being.  I don’t know if I’d want to be married to him, but I think one could definitely do worse.  He is very appreciative and acts like no woman has laid a hand on him in the last five years, which is probably close to the truth.

         “Oh my god!  You’re so much fun!  This is so much fun!” he exclaimed, as if it was Disney Land.  That was very flattering to my ego, actually.  We talked about Pitcairn Island and the mutiny on the Bounty.  

         Next: English gent, blond, probably my best client this month thus far.  Oh, was he well-mannered!  Impeccably polite.  I put a blue collar on him because it matched his eyes, and made him trot to and fro in the hallways for the amusement of myself and the other mistresses.  

        Then I tied him to a post.  Not unlike St. Sebastian. 

        “Where in England are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

        “The far north, close to the border.”

         “The border of Scotland…?  Around Hadrian’s Wall…?” (I want to see Hadrian’s Wall so badly!)

       He said yes.

       He took a shower afterward and when I was leading him out, he paused and asked me into a corner.

        “In the U.S., is it customary to tip the mistress if you enjoy the session…?  Sorry that I’m inexperienced in this regard.”

        “Yes, but a tip is not obligatory.”  

         He took out his wallet and gave me $150.  He also complimented me on the session and said it was one of the best he’s ever had. 

      wheeeee wheeeeee party party party!!!!!!!  I wuv you, English man!  And I don’t think less of you even though you got a degree in FINANCE.  

        “I never thought I could get a forced orgasm and talk about Hadrian’s Wall with a Yank!” he said.   “Thanks!”

          Then I cleaned the room and went to the locker room and took a nap.  I was pretty spent.  

         To be continued.  I need to curl up with Parrot and fluffy pillow.  

Mommy Issues

     I spent four hours moving furniture out from the walls, trying to find exactly where the mice are coming from.  My apartment is very small, but this was a chore because of my ceiling-tall bookcases.  Books are heavy.  I had to remove them first. The aquarium didn’t make it easy, either.

     I think I found it: a crack in the baseboard, where the floor meets the wall, behind my tallest bookcase.  I stuffed it with steel wool.  Party’s over, you little bastards.  

     Then I mopped the floors and scoured the grout in the bathroom.  This reminded me of my mom.  When I lived in her house, every time we took a bath we had to clean the tub with bleach and dry the chrome so that it was shiny and the water wouldn’t make spots.  The towels had to be hanged in a precise fashion.  I did not realize this was crazy until I was an adult. 

       The Surgeon is that way.  He is similar to my mother in many ways.  He even has similar coloring, which I didn’t notice until he pointed it out while looking at her photograph on my bedroom wall. 

      “She’s a professional,” he said.  “I respect that.”  

       I feel weird about what he did and I still can’t decide what to make of it.  I guess he didn’t get the memo (or else he got it but doesn’t give a fuck, which is even worse, but is pretty typical for him), because he sent me a cheerful card.  

       I have a nagging sense self-blame about it, too.  I encouraged him to be violent with me in our relationship.  Hell, more than that: I taught him how to do it.  Part of me wants to believe that he thought he was giving me what I wanted…but I saw his face and remember what he said, and I know he knows that what he did was wrong. 

       I can see the expression on his face when he thinks about it now: small smile because he feels he got away with something, but in the back of his mind, anxiety.  He’ll cut a check to his religious organization or go to the sink and wash his hands.  He washes his hands every time he gets off the telephone with his mother, and doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.  I noticed that right away.  It’s because he feels guilty about hating her.  

       Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sure she deserves it.  

       One of the best things I ever did for him was liberating him from some of that guilt and telling him that it was perfectly healthy to feel and express his rage towards her.  Nobody had ever told him that before (probably because they are scared of him).  It took him about a year for us to work through it together, but it changed his boundaries with his mother much healthier.  I don’t know how he could reach his age and not know better, but the Surgeon is not exactly big on personal reflection.  

       I had compassion for him on this issue.  He is an atrocious person, but really, a very dutiful and obedient son.  If he was as good a partner as he was a child, I’d still be with him, but the resentment and rage he feels towards her is expressed towards female loved ones as abuse. 

      And he’s just plain spoiled. 

      Speaking of people with issues, you would not believe the session I had today.  My Mistress Batphone blew up after 4 hours of furniture-moving and mousehole-searching, when I was disheveled and sweaty and gross, natch.  I was still glad to get the call, because my school job isn’t going to pay me for another 3 weeks and I’m stone broke.

        The manager told me that I had a two-hour session with an Englishman named…”Edwin.”  

         I thought for certain that it was my favorite cross-dressing Limey from “A Tale of Two Sissies.”  I love that dude; he’s lots of fun, so I jumped in the shower and hailed a cab.  I spackled on the whoreface en route.  Pro-tip: do not attempt to apply mascara in a moving automobile!  Especially one driven by an enraged Nigerian!  Not good!  

        Well, it wasn’t my Edwin after all, which is pretty amazing (how many could there be, visiting dungeons and asking for me specifically?).  This was a different Edwin, and oh boy, what a weird session.  

      It wasn’t wacky or crazy, like client “Ants-in-His-Pants.”  It wasn’t quiiiiiite haunted-house disturbing, either.  But it was still fucking weird, and I had a few moments of distinct unease, which is probably why it’s almost 6 AM and I only got three hours of sleep last night.  

      He said that he was in town because he had the day off from teaching.
     I brightened right up.  A colleague!  Something we have in common.  Makes breaking the ice a little easier.

      “I teach too!” I said.

      He asked me what I taught.  I gave him my fake discipline. 

      “You are much brighter than me, Miss.  I teach “X” and I am not even a full professor,” he said.

      Well, I was slow on the uptake, so I patted his arm and said, “That’s okay!  I don’t have tenure, either!  It’s hard to get in this town!  Nothing to feel badly about.” 

       He stared at me, like what sort of dominatrix are you?

       Then the little lightbulb went on above my head.

       “But then,” I continued, adjusting my posture and lowering my voice, “I’m much younger than you. I’d hope that by the time I was your age I would have made more of myself.  Teaching without tenure at your age is rather lame.  Pathetic, actually.”  

       He visibly relaxed.  Knew he was in the hands of a professional.  

       FYI: I believe he’s an academic because, along with soldiers and cops, I can usually spot them on sight.  My people.  I do not for a second believe that he’s an associate or adjunct slave holding office hours in a timeshared cubicle with a dying spider plant like myself.  He was way too bright and his fantasy was way too weird and creative.  He is probably at Columbia or one of those expensive private toy liberal arts colleges around here.  

       The session consisted almost entirely of him sharing his story, or fantasies, with me, while I sat across from him in a chair (I sat in the higher chair, of course) and listened.  

       His speech and delivery was absolutely flawless, by the way.  His diction, likewise.  It just flowed out of him like a string.  There was no interruption in his speech; he didn’t pause and search for words.  Perhaps he’s just gifted like that…or maybe he’s rehearsed and delivered the same fantasies a million times over the years.

      I don’t know how much I can share here without violating his confidence, not that he swore me to secrecy…

      He told me that a long time ago he was teaching in Munich (and I believe that part; his German was excellent) when he was seduced by one of his students, a beautiful young lady aged 20 years.  I suppose that part is possible.  From what I understand, there was a lot more screwing around on campuses before sexual harassment became illegal; these days it’s professional suicide. 

      He became her slave, and he had many stories to tell.

      Oh, my friends, what a Freudian shitshow this was!  Some of it was completely mundane and typical (“She had a friend, Sophie, who was also a Domina, and who would sit in the front row of my class.” “I had to wear a ladies’ dress in the house.” “We went shopping for a dress and the women in the department store laughed at me.”).  

      But some of it was scary shit that came right out of his childhood, I have no doubt.  No doubt, because you can’t make this stuff up.  This was not wack-off material concocted in his randy, feverish brain.  I recognized the true parts because my Spidey Sense went off and all the hair on my arms stood up, like with Mel.  

    Such as: “I had to take 15 with the cane and after each stroke, I had to recite my lesson.  Such as: ‘I’m stupid and I shouldn’t have an opinion.’ ” 

     And: “It was wrong to steal the jam.” 

    Yes indeedy.  Just another day at the office.

      He also had these elaborate fantasies about his Mistress’s sexual relationships with other men.  That sounds like standard-issue cuckolding stuff, but these were weird, and some of them involved common male misperceptions of female sexuality.  I think that his “Mistress” was actually the person he wanted to be.  I think this guy has serious transexual leanings, even though he presented himself as quite masculine.  Which is fine.  It just makes him pretty unusual, in my experience. 

     The only thing that disturbed me, a little bit, was that his concept of love and human relationship was kinda warped (like I’m one to talk, ha ha!).  

     “It defined who I am,” he said.  “Once you’ve been a slave, you can never be anything else, really, can you…?”

      He meant it as a rhetorical question.  

      Food for thought, boys and girls.  Food for thought. 

      Remember what I said in the last post, about children being slaves?

      “She only beat me for my own good.  She did it to teach me lessons and improve me.  So I’d be better,” he said.

       I’m sure that’s what his mother told him.  And when you’re a child, you want to believe it, because accepting that your parent hates you is unacceptable.  

      He didn’t tip, which is sort of rude for a 2-hour session, but since I did almost zero labor (aside from the emotional labor, of course…but he did 80% of the talking), I have nothing to complain about.  And it was a fascinating session.  Not entirely pleasant, but fascinating.  

       He likes me and wants to see me again.

      “Do you think I’m very normal, Mistress?” he asked me at the end.  

        The question threw me.  I couldn’t tell whether he was asking for more humiliation…or validation and comfort.  

        I picked the safest option.  This was not a decision you’d want to make the wrong choice with.

         “You seem quite all right to me, sweetling,” I said.

        When he came back to normal and was putting on his jacket to leave, he said that he was going to stop by the Disney store and get something for his little kid.

        “I love playing make-believe and games with my kid!” he said, lighting up inside.  It was actually quite charming and touching to see.  “I really try to be a good father.  I could play games with my kid all day.  My wife says that I’m like a kid!”

        Emotionally, in some ways, he is.  He’s stuck.  


       I would never, ever hit a child.  But that’s no guarantee.  My parents almost never hit me, and I grew up to crave terrible violence.  

       Finally: After the session, I was changing my clothes to go home.  I was wearing the shorts I’ve been mousehole-searching in.  One of the other dommes saw the welt marks.

       “Holy shit!  How’d you get those?  Why?”

       “Because she likes it,” leered the manager.

        I told her about the twerp.

        “Do you like it? I hope you got a good tip!”

        “I didn’t like it from that guy, but I liked putting him in his place and the $400,” I said.

          “Girl, you are crazy,” she said.


      Insomnia strikes again.  Let’s cheer ourselves up!  I love these videos.  If you’re an academic, click on the link College Misery and share the joy. 

A rubber band?  Really?

I did catch a student using the water bottle, though.

And “America,” by Jon Stewart and the Daily Show team IS NOT A TEXTBOOK!

Flakes for “Snowflakes,” or special snowflakes.  “I focus on the grade..the only thing that’s real.”  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I love how this prof is drinking and googling his students’ papers.  “Joyce Carol Oates uses an allegorical figure…”. HAAAHAHAHHAHA