Welcome to the Doghouse!

     I have a ton of chores to do today, including the laundry, floors, and obligatory cookie-baking, butttttt….just had to share this one.

      Last night’s session was one for the record.

      Before I begin, I want to state that I am not trying to make fun of this guy.  I am merely recording his behavior.  He really was this weird.

      Yesterday I was at the Studio and about to leave for the evening (of course) when the Russian manager came in and asked me if I could do an outcall.  He was safe.  She knew him.

      “Well, I guess.  What does he want?”

      “Talk to him yourself.”  She handed me the telephone.

       Some sissy crossdresser coked out of his mind (I am so glad I have never been interested in drugs, besides the awful peasant alcohol.  I could never work nights).  

        My heart sank.  Crossdressers are a lot of work.  I certainly don’t mind working hard for my money, but they are high maintenance and emotionally exhausting and most of them want to share offensive and/or silly fantasies about being degraded as a woman, which always sticks in my craw.  I feel that if I’m going to be that objectified, I ought to be getting paid submissive rates.

      BUUUUT….the coked-out crossdresser promised to tip well, and I needed the money (the story of my life), so I threw a bunch of stuff into a gear bag and started to get dressed in back.

      “Has anyone ever had a session with ‘Trixie’ at the UN Plaza?” I asked the other women in the locker room as I put up my hair.

       “Get the money up front and hide it and make sure he doesn’t steal it back,” said one.

       “Wait till you see his apartment,” said another.

       “You don’t have to bring an outfit.  He has things for you to wear,” said another.

        Oh God.

        Hopped into a cab and turned into a private driveway by the UN headquarters.  Trixie’s apartment was in a gargantuan highrise with views of the East River and the UN Headquarters.  The lobby was vacant inside except for the concierge and enormous arrangements of lillies and orchids.  

       I was wearing a suit, which is what I almost always wear when I go on outcalls, but I still always feel uncomfortable getting by the doorman in doorman apartment buildings.  Hotels are another story–they don’t bother me at all, because the staff have seen everything and they are in the business of discretion.  Doormen in apartment buildings have more responsibility to provide security for the residents, and they check you out a little more.  

      Just take a deep breath and remind yourself that you do not, indeed, have a blinking red neon sign over your head that says I AM A SEX WORKER AND I DO NOT BELONG HERE.

       This doorman was not a dick.  He buzzed me right up.

       “Have you ever been here before?”
      
       “No.”

       “Follow the red carpet to the elevators.”

        So I did.  I took pictures with my cell phone.  I tried to make it look like I was texting.  I’ll try to post them later.

         It was creepy-quiet in the place.  I don’t know where all the UN people were.  Probably snug in their beds, like most responsible adults who are not prodommes or coked-out crossdressers.

         So, I find the right elevator and ride it up to the 10th floor, and then I’m walking down the hall, peering at the doors to find the one where Trixie lives…

        …and this door opens right beside me like something out of The Shining, and that is how I meet Trixie.

         “Mistress!” he screamed, pulling me inside and slamming the door.

         Hold onto your hats, folks, things are about to get WEIRD.

        Guy was about my height with a blond wig and huge black sunglasses.  He left the sunglasses on throughout the session.  He did this, I am almost positive, because he did not want to be recognized.  Miss Margo, pro-domme to the Stars!

       He was also wearing this weird black outfit that looked like a bodysuit/leotard with spanx over it and a corset and an open-cup bra.  He had tits.  Not implants, they just looked like fat man-boobs…but they were, I daresay, larger than mine. 

       Oh, and he had a black leather collar with huuuuuge black spikes on it.  Very heavy metal.

        He offered me some champagne, which I declined, and then he offered me cocaine, which I declined, and then he offered me ecstasy, which I also declined.  

      I took a look around his apartment, and I realized what the other women at the Studio meant when they said it was “special.”

       It was huge, with a wonderful view of the river.  Fresh floral arrangements.  Nice furniture.  Looked like a woman had decorated the place.  There were expensive-looking oil portraits on the walls.  You know when the painting is so expensive that it has a fancy frame and those special lighting fixtures over it that keep it constantly illuminated in just the right way?  There were lots of those.

      And then…there were the knick-knacks

      Knick-knacks.  Like, the crap your grandma picks up when she goes yard-saleing.  

       Let me give you an example: on the coffee table, there was a delicate Asian vase, and sitting right beside it was a large, clumsily rendered ceramic Scottie dog with a red bow tied around its neck.

       In fact, there were garage-sale-quality ceramics of dogs all over the place,  including a really ugly Dalmatian umbrella stand by the door.

       And there were framed photographs of a white Jack Russel terrier.  That’s fine.  I have a photo of my old dogs on my walls, and Parrot, too…but this man had a dozen photos of the Jack Russel.

       (There was no evidence of a real dog–no hair or dog dishes or doggie beds or toys.  I guess the Jack Russel was dearly departed.)

       He took me to the bedroom, which was easily the size of my apartment, and turned on the porn.  I hate having to endure clients’ porn.  But whatever, I’m there to work. They can watch whatever they want to.

       He gave me a latex outfit to change into (thank god it was a 2-piece so I wasn’t struggling with it in the bathroom all night) and paid me.  I counted the money in the bathroom and hid it in a secret compartment of my gear bag.

       “There’s a lady feeding the dogs in the next room!  She might come out and say Hello!” Trixie screamed through the door.

        (There was no woman.  There were no dogs that were not ceramic in that apartment.  I am sure of it.)

        The session was the typical tedious crossdresser sissy horseshit.  Do all these guys download their programming from the same sissy computer software program?  They all have fantasies about being “whores” and sucking cock, and they always want the domme to be their pimp.  I realize that I’m in the business of fantasy fullfillment and I really do try to be non-judgmental, but do you know how tiresome it is for me, a real-life woman and sex worker, to hear this zillionaire old white dude at the UN Plaza parody my life and sexuality for me (as he understands it to be)?

       He kept his cocaine in a little jar shaped like a dog.  A glass jar shaped like a dog.

       His phone kept beeping.  I’m sure he had to give a talk about fucking Crimea this morning.  “HANS VERE ARE YOU VE NEED TO PLAN FOR DE MEETINGK!”

       He hired me for two hours and we finished up in an hour and a half, so YAY.  I’m sure he hired another domme because I wouldn’t use drugs with him.

       I made $350 after management took its cut.  That included a tip, which Trixie was gracious enough to provide.

       This isn’t the best-written blog post because I’m in a hurry, but I just had to share.  That apartment!  


One thought on “Welcome to the Doghouse!”

  1. Hi Margo

    You are at least the fourth prodomme I have read over the years who has said that sissies are the biggest pain in ass in the business. Many of them said that they actually enjoy crossdressers, but that sissy subset are too much work and too emotionally needy. Many wrote that they refuse to see them anymore or that they charge extra to do so. I have never really understood the fantasy myself. I guess I like my s&m more bare bones, so to speak.

    Do you have an idea of why his apartment was so “schizophrenic”?

    Take care of yourself

    Mike

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