Beluga Eats a Dog Turd

Update: Can anyone help me out here?  What on earth was the point of Beluga’s session?  Where’s the thrill?  The only thing I can think of is that he got off on being considered absolutely repulsive by two younger women.  Did he go home and jerk off, thinking, “I was so disgusting that Margo covered her eyes, and she’s seen it all!”?  Is he luxuriating in his disgusting-ness?
What’s the point?  Does anyone have any insights or thoughts to illuminate the strange case of Beluga?

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WARNING: This blog post contains descriptions of activities that will make you want to projectile-vomit.  It is disgusting.  I am warning you now.  I would not read this as you eat your breakfast.  In fact, I’d advise against reading it, period.  

But…the tale must be told.

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       I met him in the consultation room at the Studio.  He had the physique and overall appearance of a Beluga whale, except that he was not cute.

      A Beluga whale in a very expensive suit.

     There were two parts to his session.  The first was foot and leg worship.  For anyone who doesn’t know, that means that he wanted to touch and lick my feet and legs.

      Unless I know the man well and am comfortable with him, I dislike body worship of any kind and generally don’t allow it.  It’s unfortunate, because a woman’s feet are worth a lot of money in this business, but I just don’t like to be touched by strangers.  I don’t like the sensation of getting my hair cut and I don’t like professional massages, nothing.
       (The interesting thing is that my aversion runs in only one direction: I have no problem at all touching others.  I just don’t like it when they touch me.)  

        Still, I can put up with it for short periods of time, and since the man wanted to keep it mostly below the knee, I agreed to do it.

        Then he made the second request….

       (get out your barf bags)

       He wanted to be “forced” to eat a turd.

       “Sorry, I can’t help you with that.  Would you like to meet another Mistress?”  I stood up to go.

        “Not one of your turds!  A dog turd!”

       I blinked.  A dog turd.  That’s a new one.

       “Are you serious?” I asked.


       “How are we to acquire said dog turd?   Did you bring in a dog turd?”
         Beluga’s brow furrowed.  Apparently this master of strategy had not planned that far ahead.  

         “Could you get one from someplace?”

         I just stared at him.  Do you see any dogs around here, halfwit?

          He sat there, expectantly.  That’s something about rich people: they expect things to be done for them, however unreasonable.  

        Eventually, I said, “If you pay me for the time it takes, I will try to find you a piece of dog crap.”


        So, he paid me for a half-hour session (“I am not looking for dog shit for longer than half an hour,” I told the manager), ran in back to tell the girls oh my God, this freak wants me to go find a dog turd, donned latex gloves, and hit the streets, plastic grocery bag in my back pocket.  A veritable Jason was I, on a quest for the golden fleece. 

        Yup.  Running around Manhattan, looking for dog poo.  Just another day at the office.

       It was harder than I thought it would be.  New Yorkers love dogs–the sidewalks and parks are full of them–but they are pretty diligent about picking up their dog poo.  I almost never see anyone not pick up their dog’s crap.

       It took most of the half hour, but eventually I found some in the gutter a few blocks away.  I asked myself what I was doing with my life, and then bagged it (I think I got a few weird looks) and trotted back with my prize.

       Negotiations with Beluga resumed.

       “Are you sure this is safe?”  Don’t ask me why the fuck I cared more about this freak’s health than he did, but hey, that’s just the sort of person I am.

        He looked at me, confused, as if he’d never thought about that.

       “How do you envision eating this?  Are you going to eat it with a fork or what?  Do I have to be in the room?”

        “You have to feed it to me!”

        My stomach lurched.  I almost barfed right there, on the carpet.

        “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.  I think you should see someone else.”

        “But I like you!” 

        What did I do to deserve this cruel fate?  Did I murder a sex worker in a prior life?  

        Eventually, we compromised: I’d do the session, and we’d bring in another Mistress to actually feed him the turd.

        Let me tell you: that was a hard sale.  I went into the locker room and asked if anyone wanted to feed the guy dog shit.  You’d think we would have been all over it–revenge for all the crappy clients we’ve seen in our careers–but nope.  We just weren’t having it.

       Beluga upped the ante.  What he lacked in good looks and common sense, and probably in humanity, he made up for in cash.  He took out his wallet and threw in another $200.

        Mistress Lisa agreed to feed him the turd, on the condition that she not have to handle it with her hands, even with gloves on.  We found a pair of chopsticks in the fridge.

       “There’s no way he’s actually going to go through with it,” said another girl.  “He’s just getting off on the threat and anticipation.”

        “I’m not so sure.  I think he’s serious,” I said.  Beluga struck me as a pretty weird cat.

       I started to get dressed for the session when something occurred to me:  this shit eater wanted to put his mouth on my skin.

       I froze in horror, and then ran out to confront Beluga.

      “Have you eaten any turds recently?  Tell me the truth!  Is your mouth clean?”

       He claimed he had not, but I didn’t trust him.  I made him brush his teeth in front of me and then gargle twice with Listerine. 

      My friends, I don’t know how I got through that sober, but somehow, I did.  I don’t want to dwell on how grossed out I was, because the memory of the sensation makes me sick to my stomach, but I endured.

      Undressed, he didn’t look so much like an not-cute Beluga than a very, very fat baby.  He also did this weird thing: he’d nuzzle my skin with his whiskers (he had a short beard).  It was strange, but it was preferable to his mouth.

        Beluga looked up at me: “Does it feel good?”

        Yes, Beluga!  There is no place I’d rather be!  I love it when strange gross dog-turd-eating sea cows molest my legs!  It feels great!  What else would I want to be doing?!

        I did not scream that at him.  I displayed heroic restraint, and merely asked, “Are you serious?”

        “You sure ask that a lot,” he said.  Very perceptive observation there, Beluga.  

        This genius was employed.  Somebody fucking hired this guy.  He’s probably your boss, reader!  Think about that!

         Then it was time for the main event.

         Lisa carried the dog turd in on a disposable picnic plate and picked it up with the chopsticks.   She moved it close to his face.

         Beluga crossed his arms over his chest like a little baby and refused to open his mouth.

        I knew he wouldn’t go through with it, I thought. 

       “Open up!” said Lisa.



          Beluga ate the turd.

          I couldn’t watch.  Thank God, I have no visual memory of the turd entering his mouth.  I covered my eyes with my hands, like a little kid at a scary movie.  


          Lisa let me know when it was safe to open my eyes.

         Beluga had not managed to consume the entire thing.  Part of it was still on the paper plate.  Lisa ordered him to dress and get ready to leave.  She also told him to clean up the remaining turd.

        He looked all confused again.  I’m telling you, readers, this guy was not too bright.

         “Clean it up?  Where do I put it?” he asked.

         “In the fucking garbage can!  Where else?  What do you think we’re going to do with it?  Send it to the lab?  Put it in the freezer?  Put it in the trash!” I roared.  I just lost my cool.  

        (side note: only a clueless man, who never had to clean up anything in his life, would ask how to clean up a dog turd.  You can tell that by the way the very concept befuddled him). 

         We got him out of there.  I ran in back literally cleaned my legs with bleach solution.  Every inch of skin he touched got the bleach.  It doesn’t matter.  I am forever unclean.

        Now the tale of Beluga and his dog turd has been told.

15 thoughts on “Beluga Eats a Dog Turd”

    1. Well, thanks for believing me, but, yes, of course it happened. There is only one fake post on this blog, and it is clearly marked as fiction.

      I don’t want to gross you out (too late, ha!), but guys who do stuff with shit do, in fact, exist. It’s a niche fetish. I don’t have anything to do with it because it’s outside of my comfort zone, but I am approached about it at least once a month.

      “just wow” indeed

      Thanks for reading

  1. Sorry if this offends, but there’s a scene in a John Waters movie ‘Pink Flamingos’ where ‘Divine’ does just that. Picks up a dog turd off the pavement and eats it. You even see the dog dump it, and it’s all done in a single take, so you know it’s not fixed. If you think this is a spoof, Google it.

    In any event, if this was not a pretty common – if to my way of thinking disgusting – fetish, why do we have a name for it – coprophilia?

  2. Dear Miss Margo,

    Wow! They don’t pay you enough, that’s for sure.

    As to why this gentlemen pays a woman to feed him dog shit, I have a few thoughts.

    My guess would be that this man feels disgust at his own sexual desire. This is a painful state for him. He feels some sort of visceral disgust whenever he is sexually aroused. This is a pre-verbal, nonrational response, not part of an internal monologue. If he could verbalize it, maybe he wouldn’t have to act it out. Whenever he encounters a woman, he feels arousal and disgust at the same time – the two feelings so intertwined as to be indistinguishable. This is my hunch based on my own experience using scenes to act out combinations of desire and anger, desire and fear, desire and disgust, desire and horror.

    The scene gives him temporary relief from the disgust. Instead of being at the mercy of whomever he encounters (any woman can excite sexual desire and disgust in him), he controls the action. He decides when and how he will be aroused and disgusted. This brief control over an uncontrollable emotional response gives him a sense of power over an aspect of his life that causes him great discomfort.

    Maybe seeing you disgusted frees him as well. You feel the disgust instead of him. Therefore he can feel sexual desire without the ever present internal disgust, which is externalized in the fantasy. He cannot accept his own feeling of disgust at his sex drive, but it is an ever present force in his life. He pays you to make the invisible force that torments him visible. You feel the disgust for him, allowing him to feel unsullied sexual desire if only for a moment.

    My own experience with this sort of thing is that there is a temporary relief, like draining a blister.

    Eating dog shit seems extreme to me. Also dangerous. I vaguely remember reading somewhere that dog shit can contain worms and other parasites. I’d also guess that this gentleman has gotten more and more extreme with his play. Whatever action used to produce the requisite feeling of disgust stopped working as he grew accustomed to it and he had to move up another level. Where he will go from here is anybody’s guess.


    1. An interesting interpretation, but maybe this extreme behaviour could be viewed slightly differently.

      It’s possible that what Beluga man is enacting is a particularly bizarre form of adoration.

      The narrative that he’s telling himself is based on a genuine desire to abase himself in order to worship at the feet of a beautiful young woman. Hence the foot worship as a preliminary. He sees himself as a sort of knight out of a courtly romance, worshipping at the feet of his mistress before confronting the monstrous and disgusting for the sake of the lady.

      Thus he leaves his revolting Beluga ugliness behind and becomes the courtly champion of a fair damsel.

      The foot and leg worship is consistent with this, and the whole scenario has a kind of perverse logic to it.

      “Look at me!”, he says, “This is what I am prepared to do for YOU”. (The plaintive cry of “But I want YOU” is significant here.)

      What’s perverse about the logic of this narrative, is that he’s so locked into it that he can’t see the counterfactual evidence, namely the very real disgust of the lady for whom he is performing this act of heroic self-denigration.

      In an odd sort of way, though revolted, I sort of feel sorry for the schmuck. It can’t be much fun being a Beluga whale if you’re a human. You have nothing to offer in return for love. None of those things which are most befitting to a man. You are truly a ‘Mann ohne Eigenschaften’.

      Money can buy you anything except what is really worth having in this life.

    2. Nice to have you join us, Dr. Freud…er, John!

      You know, I should have just asked him “Mr. Beluga, may I ask WHY you want to eat this dog turd?” It might have been a little forward, but, given where we were, it would not be an unreasonable question. Besides, a lot of people like to talk about their kinks with the domme, because they never get a chance to share in everyday life…

      “My own experience with this sort of thing is that there is a temporary relief, like draining a blister.”

      Oh, definitely. I see this all the time. They come in all wound up and leave serene, after the release of tension. Even if there is no orgasm involved. The Doms, subs, fetishists alike.

      Finally: there is no way that eating that dog turd was healthy. Hopefully it came from some rich lady’s $2000 designer purse puppy that was up to date on all its vaccinations.

    3. Hi, Tony!

      It’s no mystery why clients who like body worship enjoy it: it is an expression of adoration for them, as you said. A lot of them are also lonely and crave touch. And it just plain feels good (for them). Strippers make most of their money giving lap dances for exactly this reason.

      I tried not to show that I did not enjoy having him kiss my legs, because unless the guy specifically asks for humiliation, the professional thing to do is to pretend that you enjoy it. And some dommes really do enjoy it, they ask for foot massages and back rubs from slaves all the time. It’s just too intimate for me for whatever reason, but I’m weird like that.

      But you know something interesting that just occurred to me…? As you know, I do a lot of sub sessions, and it doesn’t gross me out or feel “too intimate” to be manhandled or physically moved around the room in those situations. Now, why the heck a back rub is too personal, but a spanking is not, is probably something I need to discuss with my shrink.

      I guess calling him a Beluga in this post was cruel. I’d never critique a man’s looks to his face, and I try not to do it at all, because I don’t think it’s right to criticize people for things they can’t control. And as I’ve said on this blog a million times, I really don’t care what clients look like (as long as they’re clean).

      He did not seem self-conscious of his appearance, or being naked, at all. They almost never do. I get one who is shy of it from time to time, but it’s rare. Men just don’t have the same insecurities about their bodies that women do; it’s not part of their cultural programming. I’ve had a lot of partners, and I can think of only one who didn’t want me to see him naked or getting out of the shower.

      If Beluga’s on the dating market, the turd-eating is considerably more problematic than resembling a certain white ocean-dwelling mammal. And maybe money can’t buy you love, but believe me, in this town, it can buy you an excellent facsimile. I am frequently hired to perform emotional labor.

      “That which exists for me through the medium of money, that which I can
      pay for, i.e., that which money can buy, that am I, the possessor of
      money. The stronger the power of my money, the stronger am I. The
      properties of money are my, the possessor’s, properties and essential
      powers. Therefore, what I am and what I can do is by no means
      determined by my individuality. I am ugly, but I can buy the most
      beautiful woman. Which means to say that I am not ugly, for the effect
      of ugliness, its repelling power, is destroyed by money.”

      I’d bet anything that Beluga would not trade his wealth for either a soulmate (assuming he doesn’t have one) or to be the handsomest 30-year-old on the planet.

  3. I should have been borne a dominatrix…because I don’t think this is really that big of a deal. So you feed a guy dog shit; it’s not like it’s a live mouse or something. What do you care? Lots of ladies feed guys their “brown”; though dogshit is indeed bad, is it really much worse than that?

    (Disclaimer: I have never eaten shit of any kind, but I understand that others do.)

    I think it’s a pure humiliation thing, plain and simple. It’s even more humiliating than the kind from the domme because it’s not even from “the goddess”. He probably likes the humiliation, and two dommes double the humiliation for him, I’d guess.

    As for the clean up part, I think he was confused because he was ordered him to “clean up the remaining turd”, which is very close to his initial forced feeding fantasy. I think what he really wanted you to do was to force him to clean it up by eating the remainder, or put it in his pocket, not by having him throw it in the trash. That was the source of his question — he was hoping for more domination, I think.

    1. HAAAHAHAHA I love this. After all the psychoanalysis and historical references and talk of loneliness in life, Downlow says, “Let’s cut the horseshit.”

      I actually think you’re right. I can’t think of anything more humiliating than eating a dog turd off the street in front of someone (well, I probably could, but I don’t want to think about it). If I had the wherewithall to think of it, instead of unprofessionally freaking out (but I just couldn’t bear to look!), I would have said something along the lines of him not being worth of human shit. Only dog shit.

  4. Yuck!

    (I was going to mention Pink Flamingos too but someone beat me to it.)

    Years ago, there was a post on Max Fisch by a sub about a session he had with a very well known and very respected mistress. He described being made to leave her studio, find a dog turd and come in and eat it. It was not a negative review. The post caused a huge reaction, with most people attacking the mistress for making him do this and describing the health issues. After a few days, he revised his post and claimed that it didn’t actually happen, but I think everyone by that point thought it did happen and he was just protecting the mistress from the online abuse. — Michael

  5. To be fair, I’m the parent of three (wonderful) children, two of them girls. I’ve been puked on, spit on, peed on, and pooped on by those darlings when they were infants. I handled my “soiled” clothes than you can imagine. To this day, my son is incapable of getting more than half his pee in the bowl…I have no idea why, and he’s 17. No one likes to use a bathroom after he’s been there, no one. But someone has to clean it up, and as a guy, more times than not it falls to me.

    And wait til you’ve had the dog chew up and spit out a few diapers and a few used tampons, and had to clean up those messes. Need more dog shit? Come to my back yard, or my driveway, I’ll get you a year’s worth ( the dog loves to shit on the driveway; you can actually see him smile afterwards).

    I really don’t understand the chopsticks thing at all. You went out and picked up dog shit with a latex glove and a baggie. You’ve already handled the stuff, what’s one more final journey? Double, or triple, glove and feed away!

    For the record, I never understand why NYer’s pick up the dog shit with a plastic bag. They actually handle and feel the stuff. Ugg! When I had a dog in the city, I’d carry newspaper, and as soon as the dog assumed the poop position, and was committed, I’d flip some newspaper under her butt, and let the newspaper catch the droppings. Then I’d fold the newspaper in half and drop it in a nearby waste bin. I never once felt the poop, and it never touched the sidewalk.

    Love the blog!

  6. “That which exists for me through the medium of money, that which I can
    pay for, i.e., that which money can buy, that am I, the possessor of

    Ha! Just when I thought it was safe to comment, she hits me with Marx’s Economic and Political Manuscripts.

    Yes, he’s right, money is power and can buy you anything, or at least the simulacrum of anything.

    His words strangely echo those of modern consumerist ideology – you are what you can buy, so go out and buy. If you can’t afford to buy, you are a ‘loser’, a nobody, a bum.

    But oddly (is this an example of Marxist dialectic at work?) he says, or at the very least implies, something completely different at the end.

    “If we assume man to be man, and his relation to the world to be a human
    one, then love can be exchanged only for love, trust for trust, and so
    on. If you wish to enjoy art, you must be an artistically educated
    person; if you wish to exercise influence on other men, you must be the
    sort of person who has a truly stimulating and encouraging effect on
    others. Each one of your relations to man — and to nature — must be a
    particular expression, corresponding to the object of your will, of your
    real individual life. If you love unrequitedly — i.e., if your love as
    love does not call forth love in return, if, through the vital
    expression of yourself as a loving person, you fail to become a loved
    person — then your love is impotent, it is a misfortune.”

    Wise words.

    So we have gone from a Beluga whale and a dog turd, to profound questions of humanity and alienation.

    Only on this blog, folks.

    1. Hi Tony,

      In this essay, Marx merely observes the relationship between people and money under capitalism. He does not *endorse* that relationship, which is why his closing remarks, which you have quoted, do not constitute a reversal or contradiction. If there is any opinion about the morality of the relationship between people and money in this essay, it is that money excuses the evil of their wickedness and the stupid of their idiocy:

      “I am a wicked, dishonest, unscrupulous and stupid individual,
      but money is respected, and so also is its owner. Money is the highest
      good, and consequently its owner is also good. Moreover, money spares
      me the trouble of being dishonest, and I am therefore presumed to be
      honest. I am mindless, but if money is the true mind of all things, how
      can its owner be mindless? What is more, he can buy clever people for
      himself, and is not he who has power over clever people cleverer than
      them? “

      He’s not saying that rich people can’t be stupid, only that money negates their stupidity, and places them, status-wise and power-wise, over others.

      This guy left a middle-class life to be a loser philosopher and writer who couldn’t set up shop in his home country. That he turned out to be the most influential thinker of modern times should be an inspiration to loser academics everywhere.

      And he was definitely a Romantic.

      Yup, dog turd to alienation! MY BLOG HAS IT ALL!

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