Rich, Cheap Male Dom Ripped Me Off (Imagine That!)

       Let me pose this question to the clients of the world: How do you think it feels for me to have to ask you for the money you owe me, or a tip…?

        I’ll tell you how it feels: it makes me feel very devalued and disrespected, and it also makes me feel uncomfortable, and like I’m being greedy and rude (even though I’m NOT). 

         I just had a submissive session with an Englishman.  I know tipping is not part of their culture, so I told him up front that the dungeon policy for any sub session that was more than the very tamest of role-play involved a tip.  Minimum $100 and more if he left marks that last for more than a few hours.  

         He said that he understood. 

          I should have collected the money up front. How many more times am I going to let these fuckers rip me off…?  God, what an idiot I am. 

          But…he was wearing a very good suit, and he’d been here before, and he was very polite in consultation.  But, he was obviously wealthy and 6’4″, which is intimidating. 

          I got topless for this asshole, and let him touch my breasts, which almost never happens.  I got a spanking and a mild caning as well, which is fine, but he got to see my bare ass.  

          He also kept trying to kiss my neck without permission, which is against my boundaries. 

          It wasn’t the worst session I’ve ever had–not by a longshot–but it was a long slog.  There was a lot of skin contact and partial nudity on my part. 

           And then, at the end, he’s dressed in his expensive fucking suit, waiting at the door to leave, and I have to ASK HIM to give him the money that he owes me and that I EARNED. 

           “A sub session where I went topless requires a tip, Sir.”

            Someone, please explain to me why I have to ask.  Why does a man with money to burn make a woman who just gave him an excellent erotic experience ASK for her fee?

           He took out his wallet, which was full of cash, and gave me a $20 bill.  

           I just stared at it.  I wouldn’t take it out of his hand.
     
           What a fucking asshole.  A 5-minute lapdance from a stripper is at least $20.  This guy got 40 minutes topless Margo (and my tits are fantastic, I might add), and I took pain for him, and he wants to give me $20?  What? 

          What it boils down to is: no fucking respect for me or sex workers or the services we provide. 

           In the end, I got another $60, but it’s not what we agreed upon, and it was frustrating and humiliating to have to wrangle with him over it.  

          Now I have a 2-hour sub session coming up with a guy who is actually a very good Dom.  I have to fake an orgasm at least once, which is always degrading, but he’s technically proficient and doesn’t try to fuck me or take off my underpants or ask any inappropriate questions or tie me up.  Doesn’t push boundaries.  I try to look super-pretty for him and get the hair curled and the lingerie all nice.  It’s going to be $600, at least.

        I just feel badly that he’s going to get me emotionally frazzled, with a red ass from the last worthless douchebag. 

        P.S.  I have another big blog post coming up.
          

John’s Annual Background Check

     Many times, I’ve thought about whether to tell the story about my relationship with John, my restraining-order Ex, on this blog.  I’ve written bits and pieces along the way, mostly about his stalking me after I left him.  Eventually, I’ll write about him, but I still haven’t got the emotional fortitude.  

       I do, however, have a SHORT John story that’s worth sharing.  I’m sharing it because I think it’s funny, and also as a warning to nice, normal, mostly-well-adjusted people that there are people like this out there.

       Over the weekend, I paid for a background check on John.  I do this every year (and the first five years after the relationship ended, I did it TWICE per year).  I don’t do the background check to be creepy or invasive–I don’t give a shit what he’s up to, and I certainly don’t try to contact him in any way. I do it so that I know where he is.  I would not feel safe knowing that he lived in the same city as myself.  

        I started out with the Google.  The first thing that came up when I Googled his name is that he is living in a $20 million condo on Central Park West, here in Manhattan.

         Huh, I thought.  That’s weird.  His family had some money–I was with him when he folks died, and they left him a gorgeous condo that had to be sold to share with his brother, and about $1.5 million in inheritance.   That’s a lot of money by any objective standard, but it’s not Central Park West.

         Maybe he got married, I thought.  Maybe he married a really rich woman. I supposed it was possible, even though any woman with that sort of money ought to know how to protect it from a scam artist like John, unlike naive 20-year-old Margo here (I was 20 when I met John). 

         I continued to Google.  I found an online resume John had posted on a professional social-networking site. 

         His official job title…?  “President and CEO.”

          Oh, this is going to be good, I thought to myself, and whipped out the credit card, because it was time for the paid background check.  

         The one that tells you the truth

        The one that I should’ve run the minute I started to get serious with him, because it would have saved me years in an absolutely hellish relationship with a narcissistic con artist who makes the Surgeon look like Boyfriend of the Year and Outstanding Humanitarian.  The one I didn’t run until my lawyer did it for me, when I was selling all my shit and moving to a secure, undisclosed location because I was worried John was going to blow my fucking head off.  The background check that showed that John had lied about many things in his past, including where he had worked, where he went to school, and whether his ex-wife had a restraining order against him.

          The background check is a little pricey, but I recommend it.  I will run it on every man I get serious with in the future.  I learned how important it was the hard way.

        Annnnd…..two days later, the results came back.

        John does not live on Central Park West, and he is President and CEO of nothing.

         He is unemployed, or self-employed (doing what? he can’t practice law in California!), and living in a very modest tract house in Truckee, California.  He is a ski bum who sponges off his relatives. 

         Now…nice, normal, mostly well-adjusted readers will be asking themselves: Why would he lie?  Why is there fictitious, self-aggrandizing information about him on the internet?

       Because he’s sick.  Because he’s pathetic.  Because he’s trying to control appearances.   Because he’s meeting women out there in Truckee, and telling them that the house he’s living in is a rental (which it is! HA HA!), and he actually has a $30 million condo on Central Park West, in New York.

       And they will believe him, because it’s on the internet, and he’s got business cards, and correspondence with law firm letterheads on it, and he obviously grew up in New York.  I mean, until it happens to you, you just don’t expect people to fabricate huge parts of their personal history out of thin air.  

         You don’t expect someone to look you in the face and lie to you.  Especially when you mean them no harm, and are being honest with them.

         Learn from my mistake, Ladies.   The background check is your friend.  Men like this are out there (and, to be fair, I’m sure there are women running these cons, too).   

        Don’t let a man like John happen to you.

       P.S.  This is petty, but I admit it: I derive tremendous satisfaction knowing that he is broke, because I’m sure that he finds that humiliating.  WHAT A LOSER. 

Epitaph for My Father

     The last time I talked to my mother, I asked her, out of the blue, if she had any idea if my father was still alive.

      “He emailed me and said that he was moving back to (his home state).  He asked me if I wanted any of his furniture.” 

       My father is going back to his home state to die.  There is no other explanation.  As shitty as my home town is, nobody in his right mind would leave it to go back to the place my father was born.  I can’t be too specific, but: think of the most backwards, knuckle-dragging state in the Union, that is also naturally ugly to boot. 

       “What did you tell him?”

       “I wrote him back one word: NO.”

       When she said that, I felt a distinct sense of pride.  I have had an eventful life, for good or bad, but liberating myself and my mother from him and his influence is one of my greatest achievements.  He was a strange and talented man, in some respects, and he gave me a high IQ and an appreciation of culture.  Ultimately, however, I can also say this about him: he contributed nothing but terror, misery, and financial distress to anyone who had a personal or even professional relationship with him.  I do not exaggerate. With the exception of the military and Peace Corps, he was fired from every job, abandoned by every friend, and disowned by every family member…including myself, who at one time loved him beyond morality.

      That is my epitaph for my father, Franz Adler. 

      I wonder who he is going to be staying with when he moves back to his home state.  He has to be doing this with help; he can’t afford to relocate on his own.  It has to be a distant relative, although we have almost none here in the US.  That, or a VA hospital. 

       Whoever they are, I would warn them if I could.  They are in for a very ugly surprise.  He can be nice for short periods of time, but he does not need human company, and, in the end, every relationship to him is a matter of exploitation or worse.  I’m sure that by this point he looks like a sad, broken-down old man, but he remains, at heart, a killer. 

       His newest victim(s) will discover this at their own expense. 

Steven

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     I used to date a veterinarian who immigrated to the USA from New Zealand.  I met him when I brought my birds to him for their annual checkups and vaccinations, and I was intrigued by him.  He was new to New York, so we made small talk about all the things to do here.  The next day, I took his business card out of my wallet and asked him out to dinner via email.  

      “Steven” was an interesting case.  I did not find him handsome, although many other women certainly would.  He was slightly overweight, with tightly curled hair and a ridge on his brow that I think of as the “cro-magnon” ridge.  

       Steven was definitely not a cro-magnon.  What attracted me to him was his intense focus on my birds as he examined them.  I could see him assessing them, looking underneath their tiny colored feathers to imagine what was beneath.  He handled them carefully, with respect, even Monster, who is a total asshole who bites the shit out of you whenever you touch him.   People are always at their most attractive when they are doing the activity they love best; whatever it is they are born to do, whether it be cooking or fixing machines or teaching.  Steven was a born animal physician. 

        We went out to dinner, and after three dates, we commenced a six-month relationship.

       He treated me well.  He had his neurosis (as do we all), but he was a healthy man.  He was, however, still in a lot of pain from a recent divorce.  His wife ended the relationship a year previous.  I could perceive that he wasn’t over it, nor did I expect him to be.

        I was, of course, dating the Surgeon at the time and I had to plans to change that.  After several months, Steven was startled to learn that I wasn’t monogamous.  He’d assumed that we were.  My natural view is that until you have the DTR (“Defining the Relationship”) discussion, where you commit to each other, both partners are free to do whatever the hell they want.  I just met the guy eight weeks ago–what does he expect?

         Anyway, I hurt him.  He was one of those guys who latches on, and he liked me more than I liked him.  The person who cares the least controls the relationship.  I liked Steven, and I always did what I said that I would do with him, but even still, the relationship was recreational for me.  I never came close to falling in love with him. 

       I enjoyed studying him, though, and I learned a lot by comparing him to the Surgeon.  I noted that although both were physicians, the Surgeon was by no means a healer, but Steven was.

      I remember one night I was with Steven while he was making the rounds at his hospital.  He took out a huge Macaw in order to feed it its medicine.  

       A Macaw, if you don’t know, is an enormous parrot–probably the largest kept as pets.  They are magnificent animals, and they have tremendous, sensitive beaks that can break a walnut or sever a person’s finger.

     The bird, understandably scared, freaked out and turned on Steven, biting his lower arm.  It broke the skin.  Deeply.

      Steven hissed air over his teeth in pain, but did not flinch.  He got his hand on both sides of the bird’s head to stabilize it, and waited till it calmed down.

       “That bird bit the shit out of you! Are you okay? It’s mean!” I said.

       “The animal is never at fault,” he said.  “The animal is never at fault.”  

       It occurred to me then, out of nowhere: This man would be a good father. 

      One time, we were at his apartment close to Central Park.  I was sitting on his couch and he was laying down with his head in my lap.  I think it was the second week of our relationship.  We were talking about his past, his life.

      He had a framed photograph of a parrot on his wall.  I asked him who the bird was.

       He said that the bird was his and his ex-wife’s, and when they divorced, his wife wanted the bird, so he gave her up.  He didn’t want to fight over the bird, even though he loved it.

      He started to tear up.  Actual water came out.  This was weird to me, because the men in my family don’t cry. 

       I bent down and kissed his forehead, and then held him for a long time.  I said, “It’s okay, Steven.  You did the right thing.  Your bird will always love you.”

      When I sat up again, he looked at me.  He looked at me the way he examined my birds the first time I met him.  He saw me.  He really saw me. 

      “You’re such a kind person,” he said.

       I’ve always remembered it.  It was one of the most meaningful compliments I’ve ever received in my life. 

       But I kept Steven at arm’s length.  I liked him a lot, and I like to think that I appreciated him, but I wasn’t that attracted to him.  I found him interesting. I gave him a lot–got to know his colleagues, listened to his work drama, nursed him through a cancer scare–but I wasn’t really there.  

        He dumped me, which was a complete surprise (he did it via text-message, too, which was completely uncharacteristic for him–I think he was trying to treat me with the same casual indifference I’d been treating him.  The text, which I’ll never forget, said “It’s been fun, but we’re done!  Adios!”  I almost fell off my barstool.  I texted back: “Did you just break up with me via a text?  Keep it classy, Steven!”) .  I had zero expectations out of him. It was a dinner-conversation-sex relationship.  Most men would kill to have that sort of relationship.  Hell, they PAY me to do it now (we have BDSM and not sex, but you know what I mean). 

       I wasn’t very hurt when he broke up with me, just surprised. I don’t know why I couldn’t fall in love with him.  He didn’t capture my imagination, probably because he didn’t want to kill me.  I did learn from him, however.  

       I hurt him, and I do feel badly about that. 
       

“Because I’ve Abused You”

     We were in my bedroom, on the bed.  

      The Surgeon was on top of me, drilling into me.  He’d placed a pillow over my head, presumably because he wouldn’t have to look at my face, but possibly because he fantasized about smothering me to death with it.  In the future, whenever I thought about going back to him, I’d tell myself: remember the pillows.

      He was having difficulty achieving orgasm.

      “When I leave, I’m going to turn off the lights, and you’re going to stay in bed.  You’re going to stay in bed and cry.  Do you know why?”

        “Why?” I asked, from under the pillow.

         “Because I’ve abused you,” he said.

         And with the vision of that event in his head, he was finally able to come.

          How do you think that made me feel?

         When he left, he turned off the lights.

         And me…?

         I stayed.  I stayed for two more years.