Czarina Cruella von Whiplash (or, On Stage Names)

      Let’s talk about stage names.

      The Studio has a few old back issues of a periodical called The Vault.  If you don’t know what The Vault is, it is a defunct magazine devoted to NYC-based prodommes.  Most of the content consists of ads and interviews with various dommes. 

       I hate to be a bitch to women in this industry, but I have a confession to make:

       I leaf through the magazine primarily so that I can laugh at the stage names and titles some of the women give themselves. 

        I do feel guilty for criticizing someone’s artistic expression, but come on…Czarina Cruella von Whiplash?  “Goddess?”  Really?

       I let the subs at work call me Mistress if they want to, because at work I’m a service Top and they’re paying for the experience.  If calling a me Mistress is a part of his fantasy, I let him do it.  In my private life I’d never let a man address me as his mistress until I formally took him on (but that’s just my personal preference.  Different strokes, and all that).  

        If they ask me how I want to be addressed, I tell them Miss/Miss Margo/or Margo, or Miss Adler if I my intention is to be particularly hard on them.  I also switch and sub a lot, so an authoritative title seems like false advertising.  Many submissive men do not like to submit to women who switch.  It ruins the fantasy for them, which I understand.

       My first stage name was going to be Snow, which I’ve always thought was a lovely name for a girl.  

        The manager of my first dungeon stopped chewing on his ballpoint pen (he’d been taking notes during our interview) and said: “You want something girl-next-door.  Something they can remember.  Trust me.”

         He was right.  Some of these men are not too bright.  They might have money and credentials, but they are still not too bright.  When I started, I was calling myself Margot.  I had to drop the “t” because guys were calling and asking for “Mar-got” (another one told me that my name looked like maggot, which kinda ruined it for me). 

          Women with exotic names can and do make money…but even if she’s Russian, no guy is going to call and make an appointment with Duchess Tatiana Anastasia (the English-Russian mix is intentional).  I’ve also noticed that the more preposterous the title, the sillier and less attractive the domme. 

        “Mistress” is default, but I think “Lady” is quite pretty.  I think Lady is understated and elegant.

        When I’m submissive, I usually call him by his title and last name, at least in bed.  Heinrich made me call him Mein Herr over Abduction Weekend, or when he trained me.  “Master” is an impressive word, but whenever I use it, I think of Igor in those old Frankenstein black-and-whites…”Yesssss Master!”  Oh god.  Wait till you’re a sub in the Biz and some troglodyte male dom rolls in and wants you to call him “Master.”  Try to keep a straight face.  I have to bite the insides of my cheeks so hard… 

           Recently, the Studio hired a new girl who started calling herself…”Porsche.”

         When I heard that, I winced visibly.  I couldn’t help it.

         “Porsche?  Like the car?”  I was hoping it was “Portia,” as in the various heroines in Shakespeare plays (many of the clients would be ignorant of the reference, but even still, Portia is a pretty name).

           “Yup.  Curves built for speed!”

           I didn’t say anything, because it’s none of my business and I also didn’t want to offend her, but what an awful name for a domme.  In addition to being aesthetically bankrupt, it is also career suicide. Our clientele are conservative middle-aged white guys.  When they hear the name Porsche, the first thing that pops into their heads is: “What sort of poor trash hoodrat IS this person?”  Doesn’t matter how pretty she is.  Unless they are into a particular sort of humiliation, they want the illusion that the woman is superior to them…and in our culture includes status and money, or at least education.  The clients don’t know anyone named “Porsche” in thier daily lives. They didn’t know anyone named Porsche in college.  If their teenaged son came home with a girlfriend named Porsche, they’d lock him in the basement.

        Finally: I hate it when a client pressures me to give him my real name.  This happens occasionally during the screening process when I work independently: “I had to give you my name! Why don’t you give me yours?”  Boundaries-pushes do it, too. What’s your name?  What’s your real name?  

       When they do this, I play a prank.  

        I give them the most unsexy, unattractive name I can come up with.

       “Dagmar!” I say, and then helpfully explain: “It’s German!” 

       You should see them wilt, expectations dashed!  Bwaahahahahaha!

         Happy New Year (almost)

        P.S.  I experienced the best Mansplaination yesterday!  See, I have some knicks on the back of my calf from an ugly encounter with a dull razor in the shower.  Just a few small scabs…though they look pronounced because of my pale skin. 

         Well, I was standing in line at the deli to buy pineapple slices.  I love pineapple and eat it several times a week.

        This guy comes up behind me and asks, “Miss!  Hey, you!  How’d you get those cuts on your leg?”

        Women’s bodies are public property.  Men feel entitled to talk about our bodies…to our faces, no less.  Hey you!  Fuckmeat!  Explain your injury to me! 

        “I scraped it by accident when I was shaving my legs,” I said, not looking at him, passing my money to the cashier. 

       “You didn’t get it from riding a bike?  It looks like you got it riding a bike.”

       (The only thing I can say in this fucktard’s favor: the scabs are on the place where you can get torn up from a bike chain.) 

        “No, I got it in the shower when shaving my legs.”

         “Naw.  You got that from a bike.  Right?”

         And there you have it.  This complete stranger knows better than I how I injured the skin on my leg.  He is omniscient, all-knowing…like God.  He was there when I hurt myself.  He knows.

         Oh, to be a man.  To be a man. 

Meet Shlomi Natan Guzi, my Crazy Internet Stalker

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Update 2:15 AM  Shlomi Natan Guzi is angry that I re-posted this blog post and compares my treatment of him to the Spanish Inquisition.  He also says I am a Nazi.  

Oh nos, I haz a Sad. 

Wait till you see the klassy bathroom selfie of him in a tank top.  And the other cock shots.  What will the people at your church say, Shlomi Natan Guzi?  

The best thing of all, though–the thing that slays me every time–is his story of trying to lose his virginity to a sex worker at age 39 or 40.  He failed and tried to re-book with her and SHE CANCELED THE BOOKING!  Canceled it!  Fired by an escort!  Shlomi Natan Guzi cannot PAY a woman to hang out with him!  Bwaahahahahhahaha what a loser. 

I am working on other drafts for blog posts, but it might be a few days before I post them.  I want to leave this one up here at the top to give it maximum exposure.  

What’s it like to have no self-discipline, Nate (never mind, don’t answer that)?  Nate, I am not a Nazi, but every man in my family would kill you like an owl kills its prey: tear little strips off of you and then devour you whole.  You are unworthy of quick dispatch.  They’d treat a chukar with more dignity than you, you crazy internet fucktard. 
                      *                             *                          * 

Nate’s back.  Shlomi Natan Guzi.  I added a new photo here of Shlomi Natan Guzi’s cousin, whose wife had him arrested and got a restraining order.  Wow, Nate, the men in your family are so awesome.  Is there a single man in your family who is not a violent asshole who completely disregards the wishes and boundaries of women?  Gee, I wonder why you can’t get a girlfriend and even sex workers won’t keep appointments with you.  Do you ever do anything other than harass women on the internet all day and beat up your daddy?  God, you are disgusting and pathetic.


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                  *                                    *                             *

Update: oh yeah–this is one of his ISPs.  I’ll post the others shortly.

Shlomi Natan Guzi typically uses Chrome and WinVista.

  217.132.190.237  

Here’s another: 217.132.129.21

                        *                                *                     * 
 HELLOOOOOOO INTERNET!

     I’ve already discussed my crazy internet stalker.  Last time I mentioned him on my blog, I threatened to expose him to the internet public if he didn’t stop contacting me.

      That scared him off for a few weeks…but Shlomi Natan Guzi, of Tel Aviv, Israel, is a compulsive fuckwit with no self-control: he started emailing me again a few days ago.  

      I told him to go away again and again.  I gave him over a half-dozen chances.  I just wanted his relentless, insane, pages-long, disturbed, idiotic, paranoid emails to stop.  

        I think Shlomi Natan Guzi is a masochist.  A real masochist.  I think that he craves to be destroyed.  

       Nate, Nate, Nate…grab your ankles, Nate.  

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This is Shlomi Natan Guzi’s useless cock.  He sent me lots of cock shots.  I’m messing up the image until I know for sure that it doesn’t violate bloggers TOS.  Please email me if you would like a PDF or JPEG of Shlomi Natan Guzi’s worthless penis.  

Oh, he describes his idiotic penis thusly: So, it has come to this: Displaying myself like some piece of meat. Girth 5 1/2 X 7. If I was 6 feet tall, it would be at least 8 for my genetics. The curve makes it fill out every crevice, as if it was wider though.”   

Barf! Barf! Barf! Barf!  BARRRRRFFFFFF….!  I wouldn’t touch your penis if it was the last dick on earth, you crazy fucktard!

Shlomi Natan Guzi’s useless peen…more pics to follow! ALL OF HIS COCK SHOTS WILL BE ONLINE!



    This is Shlomi Natan Guzi’s drunkard father, who is a retired jeweler.  Nate was arrested for domestic assault on his dad, as you all will read in the emails I’m about to post online.  Nate, Nate, Nate…would your dad like having his image posted on the internet like this, Nate…?  Especially since you live in his household rent-free, you overgrown man-child? 

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This is Shlomi Natan Guzi’s cousin, Nicole.  She is a reflexologist living in NYC.  He says that her father is a slumlord, and owns property in Brooklyn.  I can’t vouch for that, but that’s what Nate says.

      Nate expresses his intention to marry her (Nicole) in several emails.  I’m sure she will love to read all about it (sarcasm).  Because what girl couldn’t do better than Shlomi Natan Guzi?

     Nicole, I must admit that I feel a little badly about posting your image on the internet.  Nate gave it to me.  I know you didn’t do any wrong by me.  Please email me if you read this and want it taken down. 

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This is Nate’s sister, with her children and his dad.  I decided not to show the childrens’ faces.  Nate says lots of unkind things about her and her ex-husband, as you are going to see….

     This is the invitation to some event Shlomi Natan Guzi claims to have recently attended.  I’m not quite sure how he could have done that, since he’s on parole and usually parolees can’t leave their country, but who knows.  Maybe it’s different in Israel.  

      Nate wanted me to meet him there in a hotel room, as you will all soon be reading…

      Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Hear that, Nate?  That’s the sound of me laughing.  For realz.  

      Meet you…in a hotel room….NOPE.  You got fired by a sex worker, Nate.  I’ve sessioned with half the dirtbags in New York, but I would not be in the same room with you if you paid me.  How does it feel to be fired by a sex worker, Nate…?  Never mind, don’t answer that!

     Oh, by the way, Nate, everyone at your bank is going to get a copy of your insane emails, too.  

      ….including Dagnija Seglina, whom he claims is the account manager at his bank.  

        His emails contain multiple references to his account manager.  He wants to have sex with her, even though she is married. You will read all about his bizarre fantasies shortly.  He sent me her photos.  Sorry to post your photos online, Dagny.  Email me, and I’ll take em down.

        Oh, she is getting all of your crazy e-mails, too.  I have her email address.  

        I shall be considerate, and send them to her in a zip file so they don’t clutter her email box.

        Nate, I like how you said that you acted as a tour guide for Dagny and her husband when they visited you….

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Dagny with Husband.  Nate really hates her husband.  Nate says he would like to physically assault her husband, as you will be reading allllll about shortly….

    Here is a cut-and-paste of some of Nate’s professional correspondence.  I have no fucking idea why he forwarded this to me, but then, I have no fucking idea why he’s emailed me hundreds of times, either, especially since I asked him repeatedly to stop doing so….

      Poor Rihards Struka.  He’s going to get all of Nate’s crazy emails, too.  Sorry, Herr Struka. 

Dear Shlomi,

It is important that the beneficiary recipient is you and beneficiary 
bank is Dukascopy Bank. If this is indicated correctly, we should 
receive it. Are you able to obtain swift message copy for this transfer? 
In this case we could try to track the money.

Regards,
On 10/1/2013 11:26 AM, mryang37@hushmail.com wrote:
> —–BEGIN PGP SIGNED MESSAGE—–
> Hash: SHA1
>
> Dear Rihards,
>
> Here’s the deposit slip in hebrew, but it’s self-explanatory in
> that the amount was for 16,000 USD.
>
> Best regards,
>
> Shlomi Natan Guzi
>
> On Tue, 01 Oct 2013 11:13:23 +0300 “Rihards Struka”
> <rihards.struka@dukascopy.com> wrote:
>> Dear Shlomi Natan Guzi,
>>     Dagnija is out of the office, therefore I am writing you. We
>> haven’t received any funds in the past week from you. Could you
>> please provide a copy of the payment order?
>>     Best regards,
>>     Rihards Struka
>>
>>     Account Manager
>>
>>     Skype: rihardsstruka
>>
>>     Tel.: + 41 22 799 48 59 (direct)
>>
>>     Tel.: + 41 22 799 48 88 (office)
>>              Dukascopy Bank SA
>>              ICC, Route de Pre-Bois 20
>>              1215 Geneva 15
>>              Switzerland
>>
>>                               tel: +41 (0) 22 799 4888
>>              fax: +41 (0) 22 799 4880
>>              http://www.dukascopy.com
>>              DISCLAIMER

    Annnnd….I think that’s enough for now.  I have to work on getting the Tumblr and WordPress sites up so that I can post alllllll of Shlomi Natan Guzi’s emails online.  It’s going to take most of the night and allllll day tomorrow, I am sure….

      This is his last email to me, sent this morning.  It’s only a cut-and-paste, but you’ll all be able to download and distribute his emails in pdf and jpeg forms soon enough (and I know you can’t wait!).  

       Also, please keep in mind that I have no relationship with this person and have asked him repeatedly to stop contacting me.  He has repeatedly stated his intention to move into my apartment and be my sub…ha, ha…ha…ha


Why are you so tough on me? If you wanted me to stop emailing you, you would have said so 6 months ago or something, but no, you planned all of this, and it was your intention to destroy me and have some case build up. You want me to come over and be your sub for 3 months or what?  

I just got through the last meeting with my probation officer, and I can leave the country now, but due to the ACA act, I can only stay for less than three months. I have no criminal record in the states, and the domestic violence bullshit(I was defending myself, for I’d never attack a defenseless person) is my only claim to being a criminal. If you’re interested, just name your terms, otherwise go ahead and do what you intend to do. It’s your prerogative.

     Yes, Nate, it is, indeed, my prerogative.

What Would You Do for $1200?

     As I write this, I feel like absolute shit…but I am $1200 richer than I was on Friday.  It’s all going to the landlord, but I made the rent, and I did it in a day.  This was a huge relief, because with the semester over and my teaching jobs suspended, I am supporting myself exclusively via professional sadomasochism, and in this industry, you never know what business will be like. 

       I still feel like shit.  

       I probably shouldn’t admit this, though I will to my AA sponsor later today: if there was hard alcohol in the kitchen at the Studio last night, I would have relapsed.  I actually went to look for it.  I felt like my mind was coming apart.  I was shaking all over.  

       I was in session, or preparing to go into session, for seven hours yesterday.  I was required to smoke cigarettes in two of them, which made me feel very ill.  I had my first client twenty minutes after I got out of bed.

        Let’s take this one at a time.

         I slept in the Studio overnight.  We have linens and cots in the back.  I’d had a session with a (coked out) client at 4 AM, and there was no reason to go home to sleep when I’d just have to wake up in six hours and come back to work.

          I hate sleeping in that place, however practical it is.  I don
t believe in ghosts, but that place is haunted.  

        Haunted by the Ghosts of Sessions Past.  

        I have awful nightmares when I’m there.  I sweat through the bedsheets.

        The manager woke me up to let me know that I had a session in twenty minutes…at 10:30 AM. 

        And the motherfucker showed up early.  He showed up in ten minutes. And he was in a hurry.  He had to catch a plane.

        I did not have time to put on whoreface.  I barely had time to brush my teeth before I put the six-inch pumps on my feet.  I put on lipstick and mascara.  The manager told me that I needed to brush my hair.  I put it into a bun. I did not have time to hairspray the strays.

        I took a glass of icewater from the fridge.  There was a half-empty bottle of cheap white wine on the same shelf.  

         I stared at it.

         Then I went into session.  To his credit, the client was nice.  

          I had to smoke cigarettes.  I had to catheterize him.  

          I do not like smoking.  Catheterization is a huge power trip, but I do not really like doing it, either, because it is so intimate and because I am not a health care professional and I feel that doing it is dangerous, however careful I am.  The Studio is not a sterile environment.  I feel that I am being irresponsible.  And I am smoking while I am catheterizing a man.  Jesus fucking Christ.  I just got out of bed after a night of terrible dreams.  I am trying to concentrate.  I am wearing a latex nurses’ uniform.  I am smoking.  I am in hell.

          The session was two hours long.  He was happy.  He tipped me $60.

            The next guy was waiting for me as I finished with the first one.

           It was the same room, too.  I was rushing to clean it.  I hate rushing the cleaning.  I was sweating.  I still had not eaten.

            That one’s a blur.  It was very physically demanding, though.  Singletail and all this equipment.  It was a fucking 3-ring circus.  I am a clumsy girl.  I can use a singletail proficiently but I do not like to do it in high heels when I am hypoglycemic. 

             I did something I almost never do: I ended the session ten minutes early. It wasn’t hard.  He was excited and I encouraged him.

             No tip.  Whatever, just go away.

             Get out of the latex outfit.  Ugh.  People who love latex LOVE it, but I’ve never cared for it.  Give me metal or leather any day.  

              I wanted to take a shower and wash my hair.  

             Nope.  No rest for the weary. 

             No rest for the wicked.

               He came back for me.  

               The Weirdest Session of 2013 came back for me.

               All that I can say is that he was not evil, like Chopin or the Attorney.  

             He was, however, crazy.  And he wanted to talk.  And talk.  Not talk with me (he kept trying to get personal information out of me, but I kept deflecting and lying, which was  stressful) necessarily.  But to talk at me.  

           Being in such close proximity to his craziness for three hours was very emotionally taxing. 

           I live-tweeted some of it.  Thank God for Sex Worker Twitter.

           Some of the things he said to me (I almost ended the session a few times.  I couldn’t deal):

          “You are an empty shell of a person.  I am a reflection of you.”

          “You will die alone and empty, like me.”

           “No one will ever love you.”

            “You smoke that cigarette like a penis.”

           He told me about his one and only girlfriend from 5th grade.  I had to wear the black ballet flats that came off of his dead mother’s feet.  He would talk about her and compulsively touch the shoes each time.  He talked to me about the nervous tick he developed when his mother “was widowed.”  He told me about collecting snow globes.  He told me about wanting to die.

          He wanted to extend the session for two more hours.

          “What’s your real name?  What’s your real name?  I masturbate constantly.  I am going to go home and masturbate in those shoes.”

           I couldn’t do it.  I felt like my mind was breaking apart.

           I handed that baton to another Lucky Lady.  

           I retreated to the office and started to tremble.  I was shaking all over.

           Then I went to the kitchen to look for booze.

           We were dry.

           I went to the locker room: “Does anyone have liquor?”

           “I have beer in my locker.  It’s warm, though.”

           “No thanks.”  I can’t drink beer.  I hate the taste.  Thank GOD.

            I got out of there and cashed out.  $1200 in a day, and I earned every fucking penny.  Every penny.

           I was so exhausted that I just collapsed into bed.  I didn’t wash my face, nothing.  I slept in my contact lenses.  

           But I made my rent.  In a day.
       

Welcome to the Gun Show

     My uncle, an ex Marine and retired police detective, taught my brother and myself how to shoot.  We’d drive into the desert and set up targets–phone books and soda bottles at first, and eventually paper rifelry targets once we achieved proficiency. 

      The first gun I learned on was a .22 bolt-action rifle from Walmart.  It was a Ruger.  It was a thing of beauty.  I was a very good shot–better than my brother, though that could be due to the age discrepancy.  Shooting is the only sport besides swimming that in which I’ve possessed a natural affinity.  

      Everyone in my family owns guns, including my father, that paragon of positive mental health and good parenting.  Technically he should be disallowed from carrying because he’s been institutionalized, but my home state is very, well, gun-happy.  They are not going to let a few domestic violence charges and suicide attempts impede an honorably discharged veteran from exercising his God-given right to bear arms.  

      Laugh or cry?  Laugh or cry?  Laugh, so you don’t have to cry!

      My mother, a tiny blonde lady who volunteers to clean her Church on Fridays, owns a shotgun.  I have handled this weapon with my own two hands.  If you shoot someone with it at close range, it will blow them in half. 

        My Uncle rolls around with an armory in the back seat of his car.  The good news is that he doesn’t drink and he is actually quite responsible. And a very good shot.  As long as the car doesn’t catch on fire, nothing bad will happen.

         My first gun was a .32 Smith & Wesson long-nose revolver.  It is a thing of beauty, with a lovely wooden grip.  My brother bought it as a gift for my birthday.  We got it from a pawn shop by the grocery store. I had to sign a paperwork saying that I had not formally renounced my United States Citizenship and that I did not intend to use the gun to kill anyone, and that was that.  I was 19 years old.

        The people in my home state are armed like Arabs.  You know when you seen crazy Arabs on the news, shooting at the sky whenever they’re at a wedding?   Or a funeral?  We’re like that.  Shoot when you’re happy!  Shoot when you’re sad!  SHOOT WHEN YOU’RE ANGRY!

        When Obama was elected, the town sold out of ammo.  My brother, an otherwise sane and intelligent young man, is convinced Obama is coming for his guns.  I cannot convince him otherwise.  He votes Republican because of the guns.  My family are otherwise Roosevelt Democrats. 

      My brother hunts.  I honestly do not like to think of the number of animals he has shot out of the sky.  There are taxidermy specimens all over his house, including a bear he killed with a crossbow.  Poor thing (the bear).    

    I completed an 8-hour course in formal firearms training to earn a concealed carry permit.  It was taught in my living room by a retired marine who, for reasons which remain obscure to me, brought along his German Shepard.  The class cost $185. Then I could pack heat anywhere I wanted, except for campus and government buildings.  And I was drinking at the time.  GUNS IN BARS!  GOOD IDEA!  WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

         Did I ever tell you that half the professors in my Department had concealed carry permits?  It’s true.  We couldn’t wear the guns to school…but we had them.  We’d talk gun shop in the faculty lounge.  My Chair was a civilized, cultured man with a beautiful house decorated in a nautical theme.  He was a ferocious Right-wing hawk and there was a picture of himself shaking hands with Donald Rumsfeld on his desk.  He owned an arsenal that he showed off to me when I visited his home for the annual faculty BBQ (I brought my famous homemade man n cheese with bread crumb topping.  I hadn’t developed the anorexia yet.  I saved that for the Ph.D. program). 

        My brother wears his gun to Walmart.  He wears his gun to bars (at least he stops at 2 drinks).  He wears his gun to Dunkin Donuts.  He wears his gun to the hospital (but not to the VA hospital–that would be illegal!) Why not?

          I have a photo of my Uncle in Vietnam, moving sandbags.  He has a rifle on his back.

          I have a photo of my father shooting a massive piece of artillery at the Army base in Frankfurt.  A true Cold War classic, this photo.  Especially since he’d hang with the Fam on his off-time. 

         Laugh, or cry?  Laugh, or cry?

         Laugh so you don’t have to cry.

MERRY CHRISTMAS (NOT!) 2013

     This video features my favorite muppet, Beaker.  Beaker is just like a screwed-over research assistant.  I like that he is freaked out and anxious all the time.  Beaker is my Muppet Mascot. 

     Today I am going to see The Wolf of Wall Street (movie, not a client, Jesus) with a girlfriend.  I’m gonna celebrate Christmas like the Israelites.  

“He Used to Do That to Me!”

     Like his predecessor, Joseph Stalin, my father had a sense of humor. 

     Several times when I was taking a nap as a child in my father’s house, he would change into all-black clothing and put a ski mask on his head.  

      Then he would get a butcher knife from the kitchen and wake me up by poking me with something.  I’d wake up and and see this strange man standing over me, holding a knife.

      I doubt that I have to describe my reaction…though, after the first few times I came to recognize it as a trick, and so he ceased doing it. 

       I told my mother this story for the first time a few years ago.

       “He used to do that to me!” she said, eyes wide in recognition.  “He did that to me a few times when I was in the shower!  Scared me to death!  It happened to me, too!”

         Well, I told the story to my analyst–my father’s joke and my mother’s reaction. 

        She looked appalled. 

         “Margo, that is not a normal reaction.  Your mother’s reaction was not normal.”

        “What do you mean?  She said that it happened to her, too.”

       “I know, but the reaction shouldn’t be ‘he did it to me!’ but ‘I can’t believe that bastard did that to you! That’s terrible!'”

        “Really?” 

         “Really.”

        I don’t know.  So confused. 

The Most Violent

       I was at my first dungeon, about two weeks in, when I had my first professional session in which I was to play the submissive role.

       Nothing about the man alarmed me in consultation.  He was a clean-cut white guy in a very good suit.  He carried an umbrella with a fancy handle carved into the shape of a hawk’s head.  I remember enthusing over the umbrella, and he handed it to me and let me examine it up close.  He told me that he picked it up at an umbrella store on Madison Avenue.  I was unaware, at the time, that such places existed.

      He was the eldest client I’d seen thus far, two weeks out of the gate.  He was older than my parents, who bore me late in life. He had to be past sixty-five.  I thought this made him “safe.”  I mean, how often does one hear about senior citizens attacking women?

       He wanted to spank me with his bare hand.  He was experienced.  And of course, he knew that I’d keep my underwear on.

       Well, okay.

        He tipped me up front.  $50.  If I’d known what was coming, I would have charged at least an extra $200…or not done it at all.

        But I didn’t know.  I was green, green, green.

       Which, I was to learn, was typical of his MO.  He stalked the dungeons looking for new girls.  After you’ve been in this industry for a little while, you know what that means:

       Predatory scumbag looking for women without firmly established boundaries.

       Fucking management.  I can’t believe they sent me in there without warning me.  Because this guy was well-known.

       I put my money away and returned to the room, and I was startled because he’d stood up…and he was much taller than I’d guessed when he was sitting down.

        Then man was huge.  6’4″, at least.

        I’ll never forget what happened next: he approached me, as I stood there nervously in my corset, bra, and heels, and looked me right in the eye.  Smiling.  He was forcing a lot of direct eye contact.  And once you’ve been in this industry for a little while, you know what that means.

        I kept looking away, but there was nowhere else to look.  The room was full of mirrors, and I was suddenly very self-conscious.

         What the heck am I doing here in this room with this strange man, wearing these clothes..?  I asked myself.

         Ah, yes.  My first moment of clarity in the Biz.  Today, I call these moments “What am I doing with my liiiiiiiife?” moments.  
         
          He stared me down, got up close and personal, and then (get this)–

          He put his huge, long-fingered hands underneath my hair and cupped my skull, turning my face around towards his.

          Then I registered something else that alarmed me: his hands were hard.

          What?  What was a businessman his age doing with hard hands?  What the hell was going on here?

          Oh boy.  I had a lot to learn.  

           But that was okay…because my teacher had come to my house.

           “You are a very pretty girl,” he said.  He did not say it as a compliment.

           You know what I felt like…?  I felt like a maiden in a Grimm fairy tale about to get eaten by an ogre.

           I tried to look away because I couldn’t stand to meet his awful hungry eyes, and got another look at myself in the mirror.  Ah yes: how did I get here, and what am I doing with my life?

          He flipped me over as if I weighed no more than a bag of feathers and started to beat my ass.  No warm-up, no warning, no safe word, nothing.

         I felt like I was in the room with a dangerous animal, like a gorilla.  There was no communication or connection.  It was plainly obvious to me that he was going to do what he wanted when he wanted to do it.  And he was fucking strong.

         It occurred to me that he could kill me.  Then my mind went blank.

        I was just hanging on.  Yep.

       The good news was that it was over with fairly quickly–if it lasted ten minutes, I’d be surprised.  

        But ten minutes can be a long time.  It can be a long, long time.

        I screamed.  It’s a good thing I did, because it seemed to excite him, and that probably made it end more quickly.

       I assume he came in his pants, but I really have no idea.  I was too afraid and trying to stabilize my body to pay much attention.

       He stopped as quickly as he started and pushed me away.  I stumbled in my high heels and fell on the floor.

        He did not try to help me stand.  He adjusted his necktie and smoothed his hair, and asked to use the restroom.  I got to my feet and led him there.  My whole body was trembling.

        It was not the worst spanking I’ve ever taken–not by a longshot.  

        But it was one of the most violent. 

       What did I make from that experience…?  $140?  It happened around the start of the semester.  I probably used it to buy textbooks.

Merry Christmas to MEEEEEE!

Read More

  I bought myself a Christmas gift: an authentic WW2 Soviet Leather Ammo Pouch!  Because sometimes a girl gets tired of carrying around a handbag.  I friggin hate having to carry a handbag all the time, but women’s fashions don’t have many pockets, and when they do have pockets, the pockets are often insecure and her wallet and cell phone fall out when she sits down.  

     It’s like a cool fanny pack.  I can wear it on my belt when I wear jeans. Cause you know what else is cool?  Not losing your stuff.  

      My Ammo Pouch is almost exactly like this one:

 


Directions to The Olive Garden

    So, I finish the shift at the Studio, don my sneakers, and commence running home, because I always like to stretch my legs after a 6-hour spell at the dungeon unless it’s too cold outside to be comfortable…

    …..annnnd, in Midtown, a couple stops me on the street.

      They ask me for directions.

       TO THE OLIVE GARDEN.

       This is what I want to know: who the hell comes to New York City, one of the culinary capitals of North America, and wants to dine at the Olive Garden?  Why does the Olive Garden even exist in NYC?  I don’t get it!  

        Don’t get me wrong–I’m not besmirching the Olive Garden.  For a chain restaurant, the atmosphere and quality of the food is just fine.  The unlimited salad is always very crisp and tasty and they always give warm garlic breadsticks, nom nom NOM.  I loved the place when I was a teenager and didn’t know what good food was.  Again, that is not a backhanded compliment to the Olive Garden.

       But who the hell wants to eat at the Olive Garden in NYC?

       And why…?

       That goes for Domino’s Pizza, too!  You can get the best pizza in the world outside of Italy in NYC!  A thousand pizza joints, ranging from gourmet to $2 hole-in-the-wall “eat while drunk at 3 AM” restaurants (especially if you believe in women’s lib!)…and people want to eat Domino’s?   

       Why?

       Another thing that I do not understand about New Yorkers is eating fish on a bagel.  

        Bagels are delicious.  I never knew what a good bagel was until I moved to New York.  Where I come from, you buy bagels in a plastic bag at the grocery store, and they are shit.  New York bagels are fuckin fantastic.  

        But they put fish on the bagel.  They call it “lox” (or smoked salmon.  Not sure if lox is salmon.  It could be.).  

        Fish.  On a bagel.

        FISH ON A BAGEL.

         The first time I saw that, I almost barfed on the floor.  I mean, what are you people thinking?  Fish on a bagel?  It’s 8 AM, dude!

        And fish…?  Who eats fish, anyway?  Maybe in the summertime, fry up a fingerling trout…but really?  Fish?

        “May I have honey on my bagel, Sir?” I asked the counterman at the deli.

         “What?”

         “Honey!  I want honey on my bagel, please.”

         “That is not something that goes on a bagel.  We don’t have any honey.”

        This blog post is kinda stupid, but I felt like writing this morning.

The Adler Family Menorah

     My mother’s house is the cleanest house I’ve ever been inside.  Even rich people don’t have houses as clean as my mother’s house.  You really could eat off the floors.  It’s that clean.

       It is also oddly decorated.  

       Among other things, she has a shrine to FDR and John F. Kennedy (first Catholic president).  And a shrine to Elvis.  And her dog (which is growing alarmingly fat) has a St. Francis medal on her collar and her dog bed.  She took the dog to church to be blessed by the priest before she brought it home as a puppy.  

      Last year, when I went home for Christmas, I walked into the kitchen and found a huge honkin silver Menorah on the kitchen table.  

       It was huge.  I do not exaggerate.  It overwhelmed the table.  It looked like it was looted from Solomon’s palace or something.

       “What the hell is this?  Are we Jewish now?” I asked.

       “What do you mean?” 

        “Why do we have a menorah?”

        “What’s a menorah?”

        “That thing on the table.”

         “What?  The candalabra?”

        “That’s not a regular candalabra.  It’s a menorah.  It’s Jewish.”

        “Jewish?”  My mother’s voice was bewildered, as if I’d said it was Martian.

          “Jewish!  They use it in Church!”

         “I think you’re confused,” said my mother.  That’s what she says when she thinks I’m wrong about something.

        I went to the bookcase and took down one of the encyclopedias that I used to write papers back in 8th grade.  I opened the page to the entry on menorahs.  Sure enough, there was a big photo of a menorah.

        I showed it to my Mom.

        “Oh,” she said.  Then: “Well, I like it anyway.  It’s pretty.”

        “Where’d you get it?”

          “A garage sale.”

          “Mom, I don’t think that it’s very nice to appropriate people’s religious objects.”

         “I paid $40 for it!  I’m keeping it!  How do you know about this stuff, anyway?”

         “I saw it on TV,” I said, but in my mind I was thinking about the Surgeon, back in New York, and the expression on his face the time I asked him why he didn’t have a Christmas tree. 

         “Momma, how would you feel if some Hindus brought a statue of the Virgin Mary at a garage sale because they thought it was pretty, and planted it in their garden?”

          “But I have a statue of the Virgin Mary in my yard!”  (It’s true.  She does.)

          “That’s not the point,” I said.

          “I’m keeping it.  I like it,” she said.

           And so the hugeass honkin silver menorah remains in my mother’s house.  

           I hope this story doesn’t offend anyone.  She means well.  

                Happy Holidays.