Another Night in the Haunted House

       I just had a dream that I was working at the Studio.  I had a long session.  I don’t remember anything about the session, but when I came out, I was very, very tired.  I walked to the locker room and sat down on the couch.

       My English friend, Betsy, was there, and she was putting her things away in the locker that used to be mine.

       I was tired and closed my eyes, thinking I would take a five-minute nap.  

       When I woke up, it was very late at night and the place was almost empty.  It was very dark and lit only by a nightlight and a lightbulb inside Betsy’s locker.  She was still putting stuff away and talking to some guy standing in the corner.  I don’t remember anything about him.

         “Oh, shit, I overslept!” I said.

         “We’re just about to head out,” she said.

         “I’ll leave with you.  Will you wait just a sec for me to grab my things?  It’s dark in here.  Where’s the light?”

          “They moved the switch over to the manager’s desk.”

          I carefully eased my way out of the locker room and looked for the manager’s desk.  It was supposed to be about twelve feet away, but now it was very, very far away–like on the other side of the room, a hundred yards away.

           I started running towards it, but no matter how fast I ran, I didn’t get any closer.  At last, I gave up, and turned around to go back to the locker room.

           “Never mind, I’ll get my things later.  Let’s get out of here,” I said.

         But then I heard Betsy and the guy leaving without me.  They turned off the final light and I heard the door slam shut.  

          I was left in the darkness alone, and I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face.

Communique from Hicksville

     Life sucks, guys.  It sucks donkey balls.  I’ve been unemployed for almost two weeks and it’s already started to affect my self-esteem.  This is the first time since I was 16 years old that I don’t have ANY job.

      I applied for four positions today.  I have two resumes: the smart one for the office and teaching jobs, where I list all of my academic experience and time spent on data management teams; and the “I-am-not-overqualifed-and-will-not-make-trouble” resume for waitress jobs.  I haven’t worked in a restaurant since I was an undergraduate and I hated it then, but at least it’s cash money at the end of the night, and right now, it’s any port in a storm.  I actually applied for a research project today: a medical manufacturer is testing a new waterproof material for body casts and is hiring people to wear a cast on their leg for 5 days and fill out a workbook detailing their experiences with said cast.  It pays $700 and I would have to use crutches to get around.  If they call me back, you can bet your ass I’ll be blogging that one.

       At night, I check local Backpage and sex worker ad malls.  This is bad.  It is bad for me to do.  I intentionally left New York for a while and went someplace where there would be no opportunity for backsliding.  I did it on purpose because I knew that if I stayed in New York I’d be back on Eros Guide as soon as my money ran out, and I just couldn’t keep living like that anymore–not if I wanted to stay sober and change my life in a way that I could be happy in.  I had to go someplace “safe,” and protect myself from myself, and that’s what I did.

          There are no commercial dungeons here and the fetish section of Backpage has a grand total of four ads on it.  I am pretty sure that the dommes are actually fetish-friendly escorts (nothing wrong with that, of course).  They are wearing bikinis and tacky lingerie.  This is not New York-style domination.  

            The only sex work that I see in this town is working in a strip club (not going to happen) or escorting (too terrifying).  So, I’m safe.  

            Safe, stranded in hicksville, unemployed, and almost broke.  Trying to get a job as a paid guinea pig for a medical company who makes casts.  Fuck. My. Life.

             On the upside, I found an AA meeting in town where smoking is not allowed, and for this, I am grateful. 

             The final chapter of my Escape From New York is forthcoming.  It’s hard to write because it was so painful.  I still can’t believe that I did it–that I changed my life so completely, and so suddenly–but it had to be done.  For my mental health, it had to be done. 

             I talked to one of my domme friends in Brooklyn this morning.  She asked me if I was going to get back in the Biz when I returned to New York.

             The truth is, I honestly don’t know.  Several of my regular independent clients, like Fortinbras and Mr. Wolf, say that they would love to see me again when I return.  I could grandfather those guys in.  Lord knows I’ll probably need the money.   If I keep doing it, I’m going to have to radically change my business model, for my own sanity and peace of mind.  Definitely no more commercial dungeons.  

               But will I even want to work in the industry again, after a few months off?  So far, to tell you the truth, I miss a few of my favorite guys, and I definitely miss the fast money (the money is sex work is almost never easy, but it is fast, and I am going to have a very hard time getting used to money being slow again), but when I was on the airplane and thinking that I would not have to look at any more masturbating wackadoodles or boundaries-pushing assholes or clients out of their mind on coke and booze for a while, I was actually pretty relieved.  

              I dream about the Studio almost every night.  Some of the dreams are not good and all of them are weird.  I honestly think I might have some PTSD.  

               I marooned myself in Hicksville to save myself from myself, and now I’m sitting at this shitty little desk dumbing down my resume and C.V. because education is kryptonite to these anti-intellectual motherfuckers and I’m applying to jobs like “lab assistant” and “High School Substitute Teacher” and looking at Escort backpage ads asking myself “Would it really be that bad?  I have given a million free blowjobs.  If I got paid for it, what would be the harm?  Would God strike me dead with a lightening bolt or something?  Is it really any worse, or any weirder than, say, pretending to be a coked-out Englishman’s mom and bringing him to the doctor for a sex-change operation?”  Most of my property (what remains of it, anyway) and my birds are back in New York and people pray in the AA meetings here (which is their right, but boy do I miss my Atheist AA) and crosstalk is allowed and encouraged and there are lots of old geezers who have been sober for 40 years complaining about how AA has changed.  It drives me nuts when they do that.  Hey Gramps: you don’t own it.

          My friend Drug Monkey says that I’m just going through a rough patch right now and things are actually looking up in my life because I made an important change, but I don’t know if I see it.  I feel lonely and discouraged.  I know I am being hard on myself because two weeks of being unemployed really isn’t a very long time.

           The music in all the stores and restaurants is Country Western and the same Classic Rawk that the Baby Boomers have been listening to for the last fifty years.  Jesus Christ, guys, could you shake it up a little?  How many times can you listen to the same fuckin songs?  Put the Pink Floyd down, man.  I’m only half your age and I’ve already overdosed on this shit.   Good lord. 

            And with that, I’m off to AA.  TWO meetings tonight, TWO.

            Things will get better.

             And I will not–WILL NOT–put an ad up on Backpage.

The End (Part III)

    First, I want to say that I read everyone’s very kind and supportive comments about my blog and my decision to quit at the dungeon, and I appreciate every one of them.  I meant to reply to them each individually, because I found them touching, but I was too emotional to do it right away.  I will try to finish that soon.

                     *                                *                               * 

     I was an emotional wreck my last week at the Studio…but not, for the most part, in a bad way.  I was grieving.  For better or for worse (mostly for worse, but hey, it wasn’t all bad), the Studio had become a pretty big part of my life.  In a way, it became a sort of addiction.  It has a very unhealthy organizational culture–the most unfriendly dungeon I’ve worked in by a longshot–and there is a constant revolving door of crazy psycho bitches and dommes with Queen Bee personalities.  The clients, as readers will know, are all over the map.  The Studio is a zoo.  I might as well have worked in Arkham Asylum for two and a half years. 

       At the same time, it didn’t feel real to me.  It felt like living and working in a movie set.  It felt like it existed outside of the City, outside of society…hell, outside of planet earth.  When I was there, nobody knew where I was, or who I was.  I was off the grid every bit as much as the clients who would come in for appointments.  Paradoxically, the isolation made me feel safe.  Life in the Studio is in a sort of suspended animation; it’s static.  The cast of characters and the specific scenarios change, but it’s all variations on the same theme. The drama and craziness disgusted me at times–some of those women acted like being a lady was beneath them, I swear–but some of it was also very entertaining.  The job was dangerous and emotionally traumatic at times, but, I must say, it was never boring.  

       But, it became toxic to me.  

       If I had to put a date on it, I’d say that I started to wear out–to change–shortly after my Ex, the Surgeon, made his House Call last Fall.  

       He showed up unannounced, slammed the door in my face when I tried to close it, and sexually assaulted me.  I didn’t write about it on this blog because it was too personal and also because I was afraid of him and his lawyers.  I was also very confused.  It’s really a mind-fuck to come to terms with the fact that someone who said that he loved you could do that to you. 

       I thought that I shook it off in a few weeks.  I hired a lawyer and talked about what happened in therapy and I wrote it all down.  I thought that I processed it.  I didn’t have nightmares about it or anything.  I thought it wasn’t that big of a deal.  It’s certainly not the worst thing that’s happened to me in my life.  It’s not even the worst thing that he’s done to me.  That’s what I was telling myself.  It was fast.  He was out of my apartment in fifteen minutes, twenty tops.

       Anyway, maybe I didn’t get over it at quickly as I thought I did.  After a few months, I started having a lot of weird, bad feelings about it, and intrusive thoughts.  The quality of my life deteriorated and I started to isolate more–never a good idea for an alcoholic.  I also used to have at least a few casual boyfriends at any given time.  Internet dating and fucking for sport were my primary recreational pastimes for years, even after I (mostly) stopped drinking.  I had a lot of fun with it.  But after the House Call, I really shut down, I didn’t even try, except for that sailor I picked up during Fleet Week.  I’ve never dated so little in my adult life.  I’d be crazy to deny that there wasn’t a connection between that and what the Surgeon did to me. 

         Anyway, I digress.  My point is that my emotional health wasn’t very good, and I was mentally weak and vulnerable, and my life was becoming increasingly less well-rounded.  Then I put myself in the surreal pressure-cooker sanitarium that is the Studio, and, yeah, I started to feel sick and unhappy.  And angry if someone tried to push my boundaries or pull some sort of a fast one on me.  

        When I told the Russian manager that I was burned out and I decided (just like that!) I needed to quit there, I immediately felt better.

        Then I started to feel sad, but it was a normal, healthy sort of sad.  Like I said, it was grieving.  I’ve been doing this off and on since 2008.  That’s a lot of experience. 

         I had five more shifts, one of them the double shift I described in “Burning Out.”  It was a lucrative week for me–I went out with a bang, doing between two and five sessions per shift.  A lot of my regulars came in to see me.  Many of them expressed relief or approval at the fact that I was moving on.  One of them, a Math professor who must be at least 105 years old, gave me an extra $100 and said, “You are excellent, but, for your sake, I am glad that I will never see you here again.”  I’m still deciding how to feel about that.  It sort of pissed me off, to tell you the truth.

       Over the course of three days, I gradually cleaned out my locker.  I kept the best lingerie and my most expensive fetish gear, the leather dresses and steel-boned corsets that cost hundreds of dollars.  I kept the shoes.  The rest of it, I sold or gave away.  If you have a session at the Studio this month, chances are that the domme is going to be wearing a piece of my gear, because I had a LOT of stuff.  A LOT of stuff. 

       I made personalized goodbye cards to give to the women there whom I liked and cared about.  I also gave them little gifts.  They threw me a goodbye party.  I got a very nice, but bizarre, card signed by everyone in the dungeon.  I sort of want to frame it and hang it on the wall, but I don’t know how I’d explain it to company.

       It was a difficult week.  Change is difficult and painful, even good change.  I’d work the day shift at the Studio and then come home and pack up my property into cardboard boxes.  

       Some of the boxes were going into storage.  

       Some were going to UPS to be shipped across the country.

       It was killing me to do it, but I understood this much very well: if I was going to take a break from the Biz, I’d have to leave New York to do it.  In New York, there is too much opportunity for backsliding.  I needed to focus on my health, my sobriety, and my emotional well-being…and I wanted to get away from the Surgeon for a little while.

       I had to get out of town.

       To Be Continued.


Shame On You, COPS

    Margo Note:  This is an old draft that I’m publishing while I try to finish more recent work.  I wrote this late last Fall.

                         *                           *                                  *     

 I was watching an episode of COPS.  I don’t watch much television, but when I feel like it and COPS is on, I almost always watch it.  I watch it for impure reasons, I admit–rank voyeurism.  I watch it for the spectacle and the drama.  I am consistently amazed at the trouble so many of the subjects manage to get themselves into, and all of the spectacularly poor examples of decision-making. One of my all-time favorite episodes involved a guy pulled over for speeding 90 MPH down the freeway in an unregistered vehicle–the tags on the plate were expired.  The cop asked for his license, and it turned out to be revoked.  When the police searched the car, they found two huge duffel bags of marijuana in the trunk.

       I almost fell out of my chair.  Because you know, if I was on parole, I’d decide to transport hay-sized bricks of pot, and I’d transport them in an unregistered auto, and I’d also drive 30 MPH over the speed limit.   MAKES SENSE.

       But I digress.

       I was watching a COPS episode.  Parrot was sitting on my lap and I was feeding her microwave popcorn.  The COPS episode was set in Kansas City.  I’ve never been to Kansas City, so I’m not sure what neighborhood it was filmed in…it looked quasi-urban; run-down small brick houses and bright green overrun lawns with lots of crabgrass.  Weeds sprang up from the cracks in the sidewalks. Strip shopping centers with gas stations, liquor stores, and payday loan centers.  I could hear the hum of insects, cicadas and locusts, in the background.  It looked hot and humid. 

     The police were doing a vice sting on street-based prostitutes.  The footage showed undercover cops driving up to the women, negotiating with them, and then inviting them to hop into their cars, where they were driven a few blocks away and arrested by the waiting police force. 

      It was really fucking depressing.  I felt ambivalent about what I was watching–I hated seeing the women get popped when they weren’t really hurting anyone.  The police, I felt, could be better used elsewhere, but they were still only doing their jobs and enforcing the law.   And I hate to see ANY sex workers get arrested merely for working or trying to work…but if I lived in that neighborhood and they were trying to work in front of my front lawn, well, that would make me uncomfortable, what with all the men coming and going.

       The women did not look good and they did not look happy.  It was 11 AM and most of them were wearing sweat pants or jeans and flip-flops or sneakers.  No makeup.  No manicure.  Hair not done.  They looked like what they were: desperate drug addicts.  

      This is The Awful Truth: in this day and age, the only sex workers who work on the street are among the most marginalized people in society.  These women had nothing.  It was terrible to see.  I cried a little bit watching it.  When the undercover cop pulled up in front of his buddies and flashed his badge, the women either swore and then endured the arrest stoically, or burst into tears.  None of them fought or became abusive.  A lot of them said that their kids were waiting for them back at the apartment or hotel room.  A few of them begged to be let go.

      A sad, sad show.  A fuckin sad show all around.

      Leave it to some douchebag cops to make it even sadder. 

      On camera, the undercover cops were smoking and talking with each other about what they were saying with the women to get them into the car.  They started talking about prices.  I guess the going rate for a blowjob was $30-$40.

       The cops decided to have a contest and see who could get the women to agree to the least amount of money possible.  It was like a joke to them.  They let the camera film everything.  They weren’t ashamed.  They were laughing. 

      One cop picked up a woman and haggled her down to $20.  It was all caught on tape, even though her face was blurred (thank GOD).  She was angry and uncomfortable and offended and didn’t want to do it, but agreed in the end because she “needed the money.”

       She didn’t fight when they put the cuffs on her, but she did turn to the cop and hiss, “You’re not a good person.”  The hatred in her voice was memorable. 

       I hated those undercover cops, too.  I wish I could ask them: what was the point of humiliating those women like that…?  Why did you have to be so needlessly cruel?  The entire situation is sad enough and you know you’re about to unload a shitstorm of legal and financial consequences on their heads.  You don’t need to fucking have fun with them at their expense on top of it all, you smug assholes.  

        I never forgot that episode, and I don’t like to watch COPS so much anymore.

Burning Out (Close to The End)

    Miss Margo Note:  I wrote this on the 10th, I believe, but I didn’t publish it.  I was too shy and I also felt ashamed to admit that I relapsed and had to go to the hospital.  It’s an honest blog post, though, and not a bad piece of writing, and it documents my thoughts and feelings at the time, so I think it’s worthy of publication.  I still have a lot more to write about my last days at the dungeon and what I’m doing now.  Don’t worry, this blog is not going anywhere and I have no intentions of stopping it.  I actually have plenty of other tales of Dungeon Drama and Crazy Dommes to write about, now that I’m out of there and don’t have to worry about one of the mean girls finding this blog and shanking me in the locker room. 

                                                    *                                               *                                           *

  This is the truth.

        It’s 5 AM and I’m sitting on the couch in the locker room at the Studio.  I’ve been here since 11 AM yesterday.  I am wide awake and I hate it here, but I’m afraid to go back to my apartment for some reason.  I will have to go back soon to care for my animals and do what needs to be done. 

        I did five sessions while I was here this time and made approximately $1800.  I need to count the money, but I don’t want to look at it now.  It’s in my purse in my locker.

       It is my most profitable day here.  

       It is also one of my last.

       Something has changed in my mind.  I don’t know what happened, but I just can’t cope with this shit anymore.  The last session I had this morning was with a coked-out Englishman.  He was a nice, polite (one thing I have to say about the English–they are barbarians when they drink, but otherwise, they have excellent manners) fellow who wanted me to pretend to be his mother, even though he was at least 15 years older than me.  I got dressed up like Hillary Clinton.  He pretended to be about 14 years old, and a sullen, defiant brat.  I took him to see another Mistress, who played a “doctor,” to consult with her about his behavioral problems.  

        We “drugged” him and then “decided” to fix him by strapping him down to a table and giving him a sex change operation.  He would be better if he was a girl.  The client had an entire script written out.  We pretended to amputate his genitals, while he begged “Mummy” not to let it happen.

        How do you think that made me feel…?  I know it’s just pretend, but fuck, man, that is some sick shit and I didn’t feel good doing it.  I know I am responsible for the consequences because I participated of my own volition.  Nobody held a gun to my head.  I didn’t want to do it, but I did it as a favor to my friend, the “doctor,” who didn’t think any other Mistress in the Studio tonight had the talent and fortitude to do the session correctly with her.  

       That’s a compliment to my acumen, but it’s also a testament to how far I’ve fallen down the fucking rabbit hole.  “MISS MARGO CAN HANDLE THE WORST OF THE WORST!”

 I’d already had four other sessions, two of them where I was submissive.  Underneath my Hillary Clinton outfit, bruises were springing up like mushrooms after a Spring rain.   My skin hurt(s).  I didn’t have time to process the beatings in my mind.  I don’t give a fuck about physical pain and I never have, but there is something strange about being in a room with a total stranger who wants to hurt you.  I didn’t use to perceive it, but something happened, and now I’m sensitive to it. 

       I find my father wherever I go.

       I relapsed last week and went on a bender.  I hated it and I was miserable.  When I stopped, I threw up constantly and then had a seizure when I was alone in my bedroom.  It terrified me and I went to the ER.  I walked there at 5 AM.  

       I can’t finish this.  I thought that I could, but I can’t.


The End (Part II)

     When the Russian manager told me to get out, she wasn’t firing me.  She was concerned.  I was terrified of her my first year at the Studio, but over time we developed rapport, a bit of a relationship. She likes me and, more importantly, she respects me, which is a hell of a lot more than she can say about most of the people, both women and clientele, who come to the dungeon during her shifts. 

      “You need to look after your health.  Get out and go have normal life.  I been in zis business 22 years.  You think I don’t know?  Go and don’t come back.  Don’t come back, Margo.”

       She was looking me right in the eyes, across her desk.  She has a daughter my age, and a grandchild.

       “It’s killing me,” I whispered.

       “Yes.”

       I sighed, slumped back in my chair, and said: “One more week.  I need to say goodbye and I need to make as much money as I can.”

        Then I got a piece of notebook paper and wrote down the names of all the clients I did not want to session with ever again.  These included blacklisted/fired clients, like Dave and Chopin and that freak with his dead Mother’s shoes, and also the guys I consider to be my “clients of last resort”–the guys who are not quite bad enough to terminate, but whom I don’t like and usually only see in times of financial distress. 

         I slid the list across her desk.

         “Don’t book me with any of these ones.  I don’t have the strength to deal with them right now.  I don’t care what they try to bribe.  Tell the rest of my regulars that I’m leaving and they need to get their asses in here.”

           She nodded and said okay.  Readers probably won’t understand, but this was very graceful and sympathetic behavior on her part.  One of the shittiest things about working in a commercial dungeon is the pressure management puts on you to see any client who comes in the door who is not transparently dangerous, armed, or asking for sex or illegal activities.  Ultimately, the women all have the right of refusal, but if you do it too often, management will be pissed at you and start messing with your money.  It’s not decent, but the dungeon isn’t a socialist co-op.  All management is exploitive. 

          “Can you still do submissive sessions?”

          Good question.  Sub sessions pay a lot better and it’s truer to my personal power identification, but they’re also more dangerous and taxing, both physically and emotionally, and I was running on empty.  You know when the red fuel light lights up on your dashboard when your tank is almost empty?  I felt like that.  

           “Sure, as long as I can interview them myself.  And I’m going to charge the fuck out of them.  And if any of them tries to molest me, I’ll just snap and kill them and then you’ll have to call Vlad in Brighton Beach to come dispose of the body.  I have no more fucks to give.  But try to get Mel in here for one last hurrah.  He’s a sick bastard and he’ll hit me like a truck, but I trust him and he’ll be good for at least $600.” 

            “Okay,” she said.  Her voice was sad, but she said, “I am happy for you, Margo.”

           Then we went back to the lounge to watch the World Cup.

          To Be Continued

                         

The End (Part I)

      So much has happened.  I don’t know where to start.

      I’ve written quite a bit, actually, but the drafts are rough or rambling, and I couldn’t finish any of them.  That ought to be one of the formal diagnostic criteria for alcoholism: the inability to finish anything.

       I relapsed and went on a bender.  When I tried to stop, I had a seizure.  I was alone in my bedroom.  I bit the insides of my mouth and bled on my sheets.  It hurt.  All of my muscles and joints hurt for days afterward.

        Terrified, I limped to the ER.  I thought they were just going to examine me and give me some benzos and send me home, but they kept me for two days.  I am grateful for the medical supervision, but the hospital was pretty awful.  Among other things, my bed was next to a crazy homeless lady’s who watched horror and action films on her TV nonstop (she also screamed nonstop, and at one point had to be strapped down).  I’d wake up to the sound of screaming, gunfire, and things blowing up.  It was nightmarish, but not as terrifying as the medical bills are going to be.  

        I was discharged and went back to work.  Between all the IVs and the bruises where blood was drawn, my arms looked like I’d been shooting dope.  An incompetent nurse had even managed to collapse one of my veins.  I was sitting in back spackling the Dermablend onto my arms when one of my friends asked if she could “borrow me” for a second.  We went to one of the rooms in back.

        “What is it?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

         “Are you okay?  You look unwell.”

         “I am unwell.  I relapsed, had a seizure, and spent two nights in the hospital.”  I didn’t give a fuck who knew. I was not ashamed.  I was beyond that. 

         A normal job would have sent me home, but readers of this blog will know that my secret job is not exactly “normal.”  I was verbal and ambulatory and in the dark I didn’t look so bad and the men were calling for me and I was looking at tens of thousands of dollars in hospital bills for two nights in triage on an Ativan IV drip listening to people being murdered and a screaming schizophrenic, so I stayed.

         The Dermablend just wasn’t cutting it, so I went down to the sex shop on the corner and bought myself some black mesh full-length sleeves to wear on my arms.  PROBLEM SOLVED.

       Something happened to me inside over the next few days.  I might write about it in greater detail when I have the emotional fortitude, but right now, I’m still tired.  All that I can say is that I hit some sort of wall.  I was emotionally depleted.

        I sat down with the Russian manager and told her that I was burned out.

        “We are going to miss you very much, Margo, but you need to get out of here while you still can and have a normal life.  Get out of here and don’t come back.”

        To Be Continued.  So much more to write, but I’m tired, and I want to go back to sleep.

Father’s Day Session 2014

       Miss Margo Note: Sorry the format of this one is all screwed up.  I wrote it in MS Word and had to cut-and-paste it here, and that always messes up Blogger.)

     Last night at the Studio (Father’s Day) was a shitshow the likes of which I have seldom seen.
      
A man came in, and he stayed for eleven hours.  ELEVEN. HOURS.
    
   I was with him for three of those hours, and I would do anything to undo it.

        It was 2:00 AM when he booked me, and I was just finishing up another session.  Readers will know that I hate to work that late at night.  Nothing good happens in the sex industry after 10 PM, and even in the best of circumstances I am a morning bird and not a night owl.  It causes me distress to be awake at that time of night. 

         I needed the money, though, and the other dommes who saw him told me that he was “easy.”

         He paid, and I changed into a tight black leather dress and boots, refreshed my makeup, and went in.

        I almost had a heart attack. 

        He looked just like my father.  They could have been brothers.  The same fine, golden blonde hair.   The same blue eyes.  The same complexion and the same luxurious mats of body hair. The same fucking face, I kid you not, like the love child of Marlon Brando and a German Elvis Presley.  He looked just like my fucking father.  I mean, their driver’s license photos could be exchanged and nobody would question it.

         He was sitting on the couch in a frilly pair of women’s underwear. 

        I almost screamed.

        “Wow,” he said.  “You look just like me, only beautiful.”

       When I heard his voice, I knew he wasn’t my Dad.  The client had a New York accent.  Then I saw the blue tattoo on his arm, and that made me feel better, too.  My father hates tattoos and thinks they are for degenerates (how ironical) and prisoners.

        I went forward with the session.  I am a professional, after all.

       The only good thing that I can say about it is that it involved no physical effort: he was coked up (of course!) and drunk (of course!) and all that he wanted was a baby-sitter.  He hired another Mistress (thank God!) and just wanted to sit there and play with his nipples (GROSS!) and talk about his problems and not be alone (understandable, but very depressing).

         “Hey…what’s your ethnic heritage?” I asked him, early on, because oh my God, did he look like my Dad, especially in the dark, and it was still freaking me out.

         “German Catholic.”

           Oh my God, I thought.

          “You’re so nice. You ladies are the best!” he’d say, and grab at my hand.  He wanted to hold my hand the entire night (morning?).  His hand was huge and rough.  I asked him his profession.

            “I’m a welder, but I used to work on oil rigs.”

            My paternal grandfather’s professions.  I swear.  That is he did.  It’s what HE DID.

          He kept asking for more vodka.  He asked me to go find him more cocaine.  I told him that I don’t use cocaine and I am a square and I don’t know how to get it, which is true.

          The client was suffering from major sexual and identity crises.  He was a cross-dresser, but he felt deeply ambivalent about his fetish.  Some cross-dressers do it as a way to feel closer to women, because they love women.  Cross-dressers aren’t my thing, but I respect those guys.  They are nice and cool and make good (if high-maintenance) clients.
           
This client was not like that.

            “DO YOU THINK I’M GAY?”

             “Well, I don’t know,” I said, noting his wedding ring. “Cross-dressing is not necessarily a gay tendency.  In fact, I don’t know that gay men actually do it anymore, at least since the 1950s.  It’s mostly straight men who do it.   Even if you are gay, there is nothing wrong with that!  Why do you think you might be gay?”

           He told me that he went to gay bars and has sucked cock at least 20 times.  And, for what it’s worth, I believe him, as he was weeping the entire time.  And asking for more vodka.

             “IS THAT GAY? AM I GAY?”

          Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do in this situation?  I think it’s absolutely possible to have a few homosexual experiences in your life and still be straight.  I think it’s possible to be attracted to transsexual M2F and be straight.  I think it’s possible to have a Forced-Bi scene with a domme and still be straight.  Or cuckolding.  If you are going to a gay bar to hunt for penis, though, entirely of your own volition, well, yeah, you are at least a little bit gay/bisexual.   I certainly wouldn’t define another person’s sexuality for them, but that is how I view it.

           I told him all that, and then I said: “Stop torturing yourself.  Why are you putting yourself through this…?  If you enjoy sucking cock, you enjoy sucking cock, and there’s nothing wrong with that.  You have to negotiate it within your relationships, but there’s nothing bad about wanting to do it.”
       
  He started to cry again.  He cried the way I usually do: tears leak out, but the face doesn’t change.

          I just felt so fucking bad for him.  I know it’s a client, and he’s out of his mind on drugs and booze, but I just couldn’t handle his anguish.   Here he is at 3 AM in panties on a couch in the dungeon asking total strangers if he’s gay.  This is sad.  This is sad shit.

         I said, in my domme voice, “DO NOT TOUCH ME.  I ONLY TOUCH YOU.” 

           Then I reached over and gave him a big hug.

         I meant the hug.  I would never have touched him, I was so freaked out about how he looked like my Dad.  This was one of the weirdest sessions I’ve ever had in my BDSM professional career (is at redundant?), but he was suffering.  I couldn’t bear it.  I couldn’t bear to see it.

           He really started crying then.  But then it was: “Don’t leave me!”

            He offered to take me to Key Largo.   He wanted to extend our session.

            More vodka, more blow.  Fuck, what am I doing here, it’s 5 AM, what.  This guy is crazy. He’s self-destructing in front of my own eyes.  I can’t take it. He talks…and talks…and talks.

            After three hours, I bailed.  He wanted to extend.  The Russian manager tried to pressure me into it.  No.  He was paying with a credit card…not even cash.  I’ll get the money in 2 months.

         Then we go upstairs, because the Mistress I was in session with wanted to talk to me while she had a cigarette.

          There was another domme there who flipped the fuck out.  I mean, FLIPPED HER SHIT.  Fucking 5 AM and this woman FLIPS OUT for NO REASON. 

         (the only thing I can think of is that the client was here for 11 hours, and she didn’t get any of that money, even if it’s on a credit card.  That, or she was on drugs.)

            SCREAMING SCREAMING SCREAMING

            Nope.  Nope, nope, nope.  All the nope.  Nope, I just work here, dude. 

          I ran to hail a taxi cab.  The morning was bright and sunny, perfect.  About 5:30, maybe 6 AM.  There were people on the street walking their dogs.  Jogging. 

           All this….normalcy.

            It’s like passing through a veil.

            I don’t know how to end this blog post.

Reader Mailbag: Creepiest Client?

       “So….who’s the creepiest client you’ve ever met?  What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever been asked to do?”
                           —Voyeuristic Vanilla Creep Gawking at My Blog

        Your question suggests that you may lack a little worldly perspective and empathy, Sir.  It is completely normal to be fascinated by people and sexual practices you find “weird,” but it’s not very nice to objectify anyone to their face like that.  I write this blog mostly as a therapeutic exercise and a vehicle for self-expression.  I find it flattering if any reader finds the content herein entertaining or titillating (though God knows, in my mind, the number of truly “sexy” posts is less than 5%), but I’m not here to be your dancing little hoe-monkey.  If you want wank-fodder on demand, go to a real sex blog or literotica.  Or pay me. 

          But, I’m answering the question anyway, because it’s actually a GOOD question.

         The Attorney takes the cake because he is the best, most technically proficient sadist I have ever met, and he is also total sociopath.  You’d have to meet him to understand.  Actually, you’d have to session with him to understand, because he presents as normal and apparently functions just fine in everyday life–marriage (though I do wonder about that), education, career.  Read my last big post on him (“Ladies, Avoid This Man”) and keep an eye out for the bastinado box.  And his little jaunt to Little Rock.  My initial attraction to him is something I’m still untangling in therapy, because he’s terrified every other pro-sub I know who has met him, and I was ready to dump the Surgeon for him.

          The mental case (who, incidentally, works as a mental health care professional) who wants you to wear the shoes off his dead mother’s feet is #2.

          The freak (but UNDERSTANDABLE freak) who pretends to be the little sister that he and his dad molested in the basement is #3.  

          Suburban South Jersey Dad who gave me his daughter’s Confirmation dress to wear and took me on a little-girl father/daughter field day before beating the shit out of me in his study (see “The White Dress”) is #4.  I still can’t finish that story.  I was fresh off the fuckin boat when I met that guy, too.  

         That brings us to #5, whom I’ve never written about on this blog.  A new weirdo for the edification of my readers.  And you know I respect most of my clients, and do not like to call them weirdos, but this one really is a weirdo. 

            He is more than weird.  He is on the spectrum of being a serial killer.

          He calls himself a “hair fetishist,” but he’s much more than that.  I don’t think the label fits.  

           He hires three women at once: a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead.  He positions the women in chairs, sitting down, as if they were sitting in chairs in a barber’s shop.  They are instructed not to move or speak in any way.

            Then he takes a huge bottle of cheap hair gel and pours it onto their hair and styles it into a very high ponytail.  

             Then he attaches cheap plastic barettes, like the type of barettes you can buy at the grocery store for little girls–the colorful kind with bows on them.

              THEN he applies makeup.  Ugly, cheap makeup with loud colors–like blue eyeshadow and hot pink blush and crap with glitter in it.

             Finally, he takes out a bunch of really cheap, garish plastic jewelry that looks like it came from the $.99 Store, such as dangly earrings with pink disco balls on the ends, or necklaces made up of plastic blocks.  The jewelry looks like parrot playtoys. 

           That’s it.  That’s the session.  In case you were wondering, I REFUSE to do it.  Not enough money on earth. 

            That level of obsession and objectification is one step away from murdering a girl and cutting her head off so that he can take it home with him and do it FOR REAL.  He gives of creepy-creepy-creepy vibes, too.  He does not pass for normal. 

            In my overall experience in this industry, what do the creepiest of the creeps–meaning, the most transparently sick-and-pushy-about-it–tend to have in common…?  I’d say: an obsession with their unresolved incest trauma histories, an inability to see women as human (should’ve been a huge red flag for the Surgeon, but, what can I say), and the sort of mental illness that turns hostile and outwards, whereas most perfectly decent mentally ill people focus on themselves and hurt the others around them only incidentally.