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.
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.
It’s like passing through a veil.
I don’t know how to end this blog post.