Clients and Fapping (also, Vacuum Cleaner Man)

        A domme at the Studio had a little trouble with the management recently.  

         She doesn’t let her clients jerk off.  This made one guy upset, and he complained to the ferocious, terror-inducing Russian manager.  You can guess what happened after that.

        “You don’t let em jerk off?  Ever?” I asked her afterwards, incredulous. 

         “No!  I hate it!  It makes me feel bad about working as a domme!  It’s degrading!”

          “Degrading?  To you?  Maggie, he’s the one fapping like a dumb little monkey in a dungeon.  With a beautiful girl he’s not fucking.  Do you think any man who jerks off around you is not acutely aware of the fact that he is not fucking you?  And he’s out $240.  The only one who looks degraded in that scenario is him.”

           “I never thought of it like that,” she said.

           “You know I do a lot of sub sessions, right?  Guess how many of the male tops I see fap at the end, or even get undressed.”

          “How many?”

           “Almost none.  Because it takes their power away, and they know it.”

           It always cracks me up when I read interviews with prodommes who go out of their way to emphasize to the reporter that most of their clients don’t jerk off or expect an orgasm.   I think these dommes are full of shit, and they’re lying because they’re embarrassed or self-conscious about working in the sex industry.  These prodommes try to portray the Biz as part therapy and part high art form.  It certainly can be therapeutic, and some sessions require a high level of skill and expertise–craft, if you will–but the bread and butter is a drive-through domination session with a man who knows (almost) exactly what he wants, how he wants it, and in my experience, at least two-thirds of the male subs and fetishists want an orgasm at some point in the process.  I understand the impulse to glamorize the profession and make it “reputable” to the outside world by omitting the inconvenient fact that a guy’s boner is involved, but let’s be honest: most people are never going to understand or accept BDSM and fetishes, and when you throw money into the mix and it becomes sex work (“prostitution”), it becomes even more radioactive.  I have a lot of kinky readers, and I bet every single one of them has lost a partner or experienced relationship problems at some point in their lives when they disclosed details of their sexuality.  

       I have seen sooooooo many men jerk off in my life.  I am sure a lot of average guys would not want to go out with me if they knew that, which is yet another reason I don’t tell anyone but my blog readers what I do, but it’s true.  At first it was frightening because, well, do I really need to explain why…?  Then it was weird.

       Now, I just find it comical.  The situation is sort of absurd on a number of different levels.  Look where life has brought us, strange dude in my dungeon.      

       Sometimes, if I had a really good session and established rapport or emotional connection with the client, it’s sort of fun watching him jerk off and knowing that he’s having fun.  I feel a happy for him.

      Boy, if you people only knew all the different ways men have of jerking off!  I’m not just talking about technique here–some men have odd or elaborate methods in place.  Some are so unusual that I wonder how the man is capable of achieving orgasm with a woman during regular intercourse.  I have to run to work and then rehab now, so I’ll wrap it up with the most memorable client-fapping experience of my career: Vacuum Cleaner Man.

      I’ve seen VCM on at least four occasions at all three dungeons.  He is a white guy, late thirties, clean-cut, polite, looks totally normal.

       He brings in a vacuum cleaner that looks like this, only it’s more old-fashioned.  It’s old-fashioned because it is.  He’s been using it to jerk off with for over 20 years.

     He took the head attachment off of it, so it’s just the vacuum and the bendy-tube.  

       His session is always the same: it starts as a role-play where the Mistress plays either a doctor or, more often, a psychiatrist.  He is the patient.  You take notes on a clipboard, with your hair up in a bun, wearing glasses.  He lays on the couch and confides that he needed to consult with a shrink because of some sexual issues he’s been having.  

       “What issues?  Can you elaborate?”

       “I masturbate with a vacuum cleaner.”

       “I see.  I’ve never heard of anything like that before.  Would you be willing to demonstrate this behavior in front of my colleagues so that we can better understand your case?”

        He says yes, so you leave and come back with four or five other ladies.  They all have clipboards and white lab coats or suits on if possible.

        “Please begin,” you say.

        Then, well, he opens his pants, puts his penis in the vacuum cleaner’s hose…and turns it on.

        The first time I saw this, I actually screamed, because I was worried that the vacuum was going to suck his dick off and we were going to have to call an ambulance (I was new and didn’t understand how, uhh, durable the male genitals can be).   Fortunately, the vacuum was very loud and his eyes were closed, so he didn’t hear or see me scream. 

       The reactions of the other dommes are predictable: wow, what the fuck? and/or this is hilarious.  Everyone wants to see this session.  He doesn’t even have to tip the other women, though he always does.  You go in back and say “You guys have to see this!  Vacuum Cleaner Man is here!” and everyone wants to come in.

        It takes him maybe 30 seconds to a minute.  Yes, he comes into the vacuum unit.  Don’t ask me why the fluid has never interfeared with the mechanical function (maybe it has….let’s not think too much about this).  

         Then he puts it back in his pants (I’ve peeked and it doesn’t look any the worse for wear) and leaves.

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?


                        *                          *                       *

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.

                      *                          *                         * 

       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.

       “Yes!”

       “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.”

       “Great!”

        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.

        “No!”

        “DO IT!  OPEN UP!  YOU DID NOT PUT US TO ALL OF THAT TROUBLE NOT TO EAT THIS TURD!  YOU ARE GOING TO EAT IT!  OPEN UP!  RIGHT NOW!”

          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.  

         “GROSS!  THIS IS SO GROSS!  TELL ME WHEN IT’S OVER!” I begged.

          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.

Political Theater (Tales from a Submissive Intern)

      When I was a sophomore in college, I won a summer internship for a certain politician.  I won’t say which politician, but I will say that he’s important enough that I list the internship on my CV even though it was unpaid and all I did was clerical grunt work and make Starbucks runs for the lower-level staff (I was too irrelevant to get the politician’s coffee.  Like one of his heroes who was also a power-drunk bully, LBJ, he liked to humiliate employees he was angry at by making them get his coffee.  These people were adults with JDs and MA’s).  

       If I told you who this man was, you’d freak.

       Well, one day his secretary sent me into his office with some paperwork for him to sign and a glass of icewater.

       He had a beautiful office.  It was big and always dark and cool inside, and I’m sure that all the wood was endangered hardwoods.  He had a huge state flag and a US flag with tassels on it.  I used to like going in there and fantasizing about coming back to work there once I was finished with my education.

      Well, when I came inside, I saw that he was on the telephone.  It wasn’t a cell phone.  It was a real, heavy phone with a coiled cord.  It was the OFFICIAL PHONE.

       He gestured at me to put the paperwork in a plastic inbox on his desk.

       Then whoever he was calling on the phone picked up…

       (and my heart is starting to beat quickly just remembering, a decade later)

         ….and the politician teared into him.

         He was furious.  Fucking furious.  He was snarling at this guy, his voice was loud, he was cursing at him and calling him a treacherous son-of-a-bitch  and asking him if he thought he was going to get away with it?  Going behind my back?

         To this day, I have never seen anyone act that way.  I’ve seen the Surgeon turn on the abuse 100% of a few other people, and it was shockingly ugly, but this politician takes the prize.  I’ve seen men get into confrontations and yell at each other (usually in bars), but they usually just look like big morons.  

        This man did not sound like an idiot.  He sounded like God.  He probably felt like God.  

        I was terrified.

        I wasn’t the only one: I could hear his victim on the other end of the line.  Begging for a chance to explain.  Begging.  This was a grown man.  He sounded like he might be crying.  I’d never heard a man cry in my life


       The politician took the man’s job away and effectively destroyed his career.  He was unemployable.  Four months later, he’d have to move out of the state.

       (Now that I’m older and have been around a bit, I have to tell you, I don’t think that it’s legal to terminate someone like that.  I’ve never seen an employee treated that way.  Ever.  And I’ve been a research assistant.)

       The politician slammed the phone down so hard that it fell off its cradle.  Then he seemed to become re-aware of my presence. 

       “The water,” he said.

       I looked down and saw that my hand was shaking so badly that the water was splashing out, all over my hand and onto the carpet.  There were ice cubes on the rug.

       “I’m sorry,” I squeaked.  I thought he was going to scream at me.  I felt like I was about to have a panic attack.  All of my muscles were tight.

       I’ll never forget what he did next: he leaned back in his big leather chair, put his hand underneath his chin, and smiled at me.

       Sadists are happy when they feel their power.  They really are.

      I told him that I’d bring more water, turned, and practically ran out of his office.

      I bolted straight for the bathroom.  The private one, with the lock on the door.  I went there because I was upset, and I was raised not to show strong emotions in public.  I didn’t want anyone to see me upset.  That would be improper.

      I locked the door behind me, put the water glass down by the sink, sat down on the lid of the toilet seat, and hugged myself tightly. My heart was pounding and I was shaking all over.  I thought I might throw up.  I kept hearing the snarl in his voice, and all that anger.  The power in it.

      And the terror on the other end of the line.

      I was clenching my thighs together, and something happened.  I’ve never told anyone this story, because it’s embarrassing and very personal, but I will tell you now:  I had an orgasm.

      It was one of my first ones.  I didn’t become orgasmic until I was 20 (but I sure made up for lost time, eh?).  

      I probably hid in the bathroom for fifteen or twenty minutes.  Then I composed myself, smoothed my hair, and went back to work.

       If I was four or five years older, a more mature, sophisticated woman, I would have been fucking that guy before I left that internship (or afterward, if he had the self-restraint to wait until I was safely out of his office).  Guaranteed.   When I want a man, I take him.

       But I was very young and inexperienced, and I didn’t know how to approach men yet, so I didn’t.  I behaved myself.  He wrote me a short, nice little letter of recommendation with the state seal on it that I have hanging on the wall of my bedroom office next to my degree from that school and the certificate of membership in my professional organization.  I have a picture of myself shaking his hand in front of the flag, which I will presumably hang on the wall of my office at work, once I have a real office and not a fucking adjunct instructor’s time-share.  

       Now that I’m older and more experienced, I wonder about the incident from the politician’s point of view.  Why did he do that in front of me?  It was inappropriate (if there is one word, ever, to describe my taste in men, it would be that: inappropriate).  

     Did he simply not give a shit that I was there?  Was he trying to scare me?  Was he showing off?  I was just an intern from the local state school.

       I think the smile at the end was a clue.  He liked seeing me scared.  

        I’d bet my last dollar that little spectacle made his dick hard.

       He’s still in office.  A very effective politician, and a notorious, notorious asshole. 

That Awkward Moment

      That awkward moment when you’re sitting in group therapy with the rest of the losers in Rehab, and the lady next to you is complaining bitterly about her ex-husband divorcing her to be with a girl your age.  

       Another woman jumps in: “I hate it when men do that!  It’s not fair!  I just hate it that an older man with a little money can get a 25-year-old.  He doesn’t even have to have a lot of money.  Just some.”   

       You just sit there awkwardly, staring at the floor, feeling like there must be a blinking neon sign above your head that says “HOME-WRECKING WHORE.”  

       Yup.  It’s an ugly fact of life for women, and the resentment is, I think, completely reasonable.  It sucks.  It sucks shit through Hefty bags.

         Buuuuut…men have their own Hefty bags of shit to suck in their lives here on Spaceship Earth, too.  The last thing I want to do on this blog is go, “But what about TEH MENZ? They suffer, too!” BUT…I think that the resentment women feel about the guy running off with the much-younger woman  is probably comparable to the resentment men feel about women tending to prioritize men who have wealth and high social status.

       I don’t have a ton of sympathy for men, but I’ll give em sympathy for that.  That must really suck.  

       (It also must suck for a man to be short.  I’ve never understood why, but a lot of women I’ve spoken to just will not date short men. It’s a deal-breaker for a lot of women.  Me, I don’t care about that…maybe because I’m as tall as a man myself.)

        If I was a guy, I’d either die a little inside or have a rage-stroke every time I was reading a woman’s online dating profile and saw that she’d checked the box that said “I prefer only to be contacted by men who make more than $200,000/year.” (when I was on match.com, there was, indeed, an option)  Especially if the woman checking the box was just an average chick with no education and an average, boring job.  I’d be screaming at the computer screen, “Bitch, you have two kids from a previous marriage and you work at a Honda dealership!  Who the hell do you think you are to tell me I’m not good enough?”

         Yup.  That’s got to sting.  

          Do men discuss this phenomenon amongst themselves?  Surely they must.  I am not privy to those conversations, but I have seen high-status men with very attractive partners sort of gloat about it or rub it in around other guys.  The Surgeon got a huge kick out of it (though, to be fair, he is sort of an asshole).  He was so smug about it that it was actually a little embarrassing.

        Another point to be made, tangentially, about all of this: the power of looks. 

       Talk about unfair!  I think everyone gets fucked over, somehow, by the overwhelming human preference for beauty.

       I can’t stand to look at myself because I’m sick in the head, but I know that I am objectively good-looking.  My face and figure have been my fortune in life.  Since I’ve been an adult, and especially since I moved to New York, I have been stunned–fucking stunned–at the number of very wealthy, powerful men I have gained access to just because I was good-looking and willing to fuck them (and the brains to keep my mouth shut about it), or even just be seen in public with them.  For a woman, youth and beauty are hard fucking currency.  They’re money in the bank for men, too, but I think that good looks mostly just help men get laid a bit more often and make people in general treat you a little better.  A woman can totally transform her entire socioeconomic status if she’s beautiful and plays her cards right.  Men have given me economic support, access to their experience and professional resources, and a hell of a lot of expensive entertainment, just because they wanted to have sex with me.  I know that I’m pretty fun in bed, but let’s be honest: I would not have gotten any of those things, or been around any of those men, had I been ugly. 

      The education and the fact that I have a few brain cells to rub together helps, without a doubt.  These men don’t want to be embarrassed in public or around their colleagues by a bimbo when she opens her mouth.  I’m white trash, but I can pass myself off as bourgeois. (As an aside, that is the advice that I give to pretty young women whose retirement plan is “marry up:” get your fucking education.  No rich guy is going to marry you if you don’t have at least a bachelor’s degree.  He might love you, might keep you as a mistress or a girlfriend, but to marry you, he has to be able to integrate you into his life.  If all of his family and friends went to college–and they went, believe me–then you need to go, too.  Beauty school ain’t gonna cut it.  A woman at the Studio managed to reel in a zillionaire, and I’m begging her every time I see her to make him pay for her education and go back to school while he’s still around.  He’s married, so it’s not going to last.  The education is the only thing he can invest in her future, unless he’s stupid enough to knock her up.  Which could happen.  Some guys will do anything to get out of wearing a condom.  It boggles my mind.

      “Guilt-trip him with it!  It’s the least he can do for you!  You’re wasting time and youth on this married douchebag who makes $10 million a year! Believe me, he’ll want you to go back to school!  It’ll assuage his guilty conscience about running around on his wife and kids!  Suddenly, his cheating is an act of benevolence cause he’s helping the girl with her tuition!  What an act of selflessness!  He is the gracious benefactor of the Cheating Asshole Scholarship Fund for Homewrecking Whores with Self-Esteem Problems!  What a guy!  Nobless Obligue, or whatever it is! He gets to get out of feeling like a scumbag!  And you’re indebted to him and he doesn’t have to worry about you calling the wife in tears when you’re drunk at 3 AM!  See how that all works out?  The Surgeon covered me for two semesters, and it was the best thing he ever did for me!  And it’s fucking Rutgers!  It’s not even that expensive!  Get your ass back in class, woman!”  I wail.  

       If she doesn’t do it, in ten years, she’ll wish she had.  Because beauty is ephemeral.  Education lasts a lifetime and it is the only thing in life that nobody can take away from you.  If you’ve got the credentials, you’ve got the credentials forever

        I don’t know where I was going with this, so I guess I’ll end it with another awkward moment:  when you trip in the subway station and you drop your bag and it explodes with all this sex worker stuff: condoms, CBT rope, clothespins, nipple clamps, and a riding crop.  Extra points for a dildo.  Double extra points if the dildo is attached to a strapon harness.  

        Occupational hazard.

        I had to take my sex-work bag of gear to Rehab the other day.  I stared at it guiltily the entire time.  It was like The Tell-Tale Heart, except that it was The Tell-Tale Gear Bag.   But that’s okay.  At least it’s not booze.  

Dear Clueless Client

Dear Clueless Client,

      Yes, I’m looking at you, rich old guy who comes in to see me for a 30-minute session twice a month and who always asks me if you can give me oral sex.

       I can’t really call you an asshole, because every time I turn you down, you immediately back down, apologize, and the session goes on, your good mood unaffected.  You never pout or turn hostile when I reject you, and you keep coming back to see me, so, well, I guess you’re an alright guy.

       I just want to explain something to you.

       I don’t blame you for wanting to give me oral sex.  I find the request a little irritating, but I’m not offended by it.  Can’t blame a man for trying, I guess.

        What I do find offensive (not to mention confusing) is your cluelessness.  Somehow I just don’t think that you’ve thought this thing through.  

         Bear with me here:

         For a half-hour session, I make $60.  That is nice.  It pays my cell phone bill.  Thank you.

         However, there is not a self-respecting prostitute in New York who is not in the throes of severe drug withdrawal who is going to accept oral sex for $60.  It’s not going to happen.  

         I would respect you more if you went to your wallet, took out three bills with Benjamin Franklin on them, and asked me then.  I would still tell you no, but at least your request would make sense to me.  Because every time you come in, I am scratching my head, wondering what universe you live in where you think a prodomme could be bribed to let a stranger lick her pussy for half an hour for $60.  I think I would have an easier time wrapping my mind around Einstein’s Theory of Relativity than whatever it is that is going on it your brain when you make that request.  

        See you next week.

        Miss Margo

        P.S.  Just in case anyone is wondering, he is not one of those guys who only asks because he gets a thrill out of being rejected.  If I let him, he’d do it in a heartbeat.  He’s earnest.