Punishing the Priest

Well well well, where to start with this one…?

I made another $1k on this trip to San Francisco.  Unfortunately, it was not easy money.

I had three sessions yesterday.  The first was a Roman Catholic priest who really needs therapy, in my opinion.  He had a shitload of shame and guilt about seeing me, and it came out in various ways, starting with the simple act of showing up for his session.

(for the record, I don’t judge a priest who wants to see a sex worker, for wanting to see a sex worker.  They are adult men with natural needs that must be met.)

It shouldn’t be complicated.  I understand it’s in a congested urban area and sometimes finding parking is a challenge if you don’t want to pay big bucks for a parking garage, but come on!  My hotel was in downtown, right off the freeway, and he had my address and room number!

He was 25 minutes late, so I started to text him and email him, asking if he was okay and if he was still keeping our appointment.  Eventually, I got an email from him saying that he was downstairs and his cell phone died, and he “couldn’t remember” my room number.  He was “borrowing” someone’s smart phone.

I went down to look for him, and he wasn’t in the lobby like he claimed! Huh?

Are you full of shit, buddy? I wrote to him.

He materialized 20 minutes later with his cell phone in his hand, wanting to keep the session.  But now, I’m stressed out and rushed, because I had another session scheduled for later in the afternoon.

I kept the session, and I let him have it, once I learned he was a priest.  When he undressed, I saw he was wearing a medal of St. Anthony and also a scapular.

“Wow, haven’t seen one of those in years.  Keeping it real!  Catholic, huh?”

He blushed and looked embarrassed: “I’m actually a priest.”

“No shit? Currently? A full priest? Ordained?”

“Yes.”

I started to grill him a little bit, to see if he was lying.  I asked him about Catholic stuff.   Many years of Catholic school gave me an adequate but completely mediocre education…but boy, did they fill my head with theology.  I know the entire mass by heart, and so, so many prayers.

The dude was legit: seminary, eight years of Latin, six years of classical Greek.

When I ascertained that he was really a priest, I landed on him like a ton of bricks.  Readers will know that I am not a fan.  The nuns don’t make me very angry, but the priests do.  All of them.  It’s nothing personal, I just think they’re awful.  The only ones I have respect for are the ones who devote their spiritual path to serving out in isolated monasteries, with only other priests around.  That’s sacrifice and dedication to God.  I can admire that.   The rest of them are in it for the power.  And we all know what they do with that power.  It’s not a secret anymore.

“You’re lucky you didn’t come to me wearing your collar, priest.  I would have made you fucking eat it.  I wonder if I should make you eat those stupid dog tags.”

I’m not going to lie: I rode that man like a donkey.  I wish I could see a video of that session, because I was in fine form.  He really brought out my sadistic side.  I was extremely cruel.  Usually when I top I’m not that mean, because it’s not my personality, but I was mean to that priest, and it was completely authentic.  I was surprised at how angry I was with him.

I made him go to the mirror and slap himself.  I made him tell me the things that he hated about himself.  He smelled bad, and I humiliated him over that, too (I was surprised—clergy members tend to be pretty fastidious, I’ve noticed.  But this one needed a shower).

“Saint Anthony, huh?”  I mocked as I beat him.  “Let’s hear some prayers, priest.  Let me hear you pray.  Pray to your patron saint for the pain to stop.  Let’s hear it.  Grovel to Saint Anthony, and let’s see if he gives you some mercy.”

I was paddling the shit out of him with my heavy wooden paddle.  I beat the hell out of him.

“You know why I hurt you so much?  It’s because I DON’T RESPECT YOU.”

WACK WACK WACK THUD THUD THUD

“Roman Catholic, huh?  Church that likes to burn women?  Do you have a flock, priest?  Do they know that you’re a filthy degenerate?  Do you make them call you ‘Father’?”

His ass was hamburger.

“You know, there’s a long history of masochism in our holy Church.  They’d falgelate themselves walking on the road to Wittenburg. Does this pain make you feel closer to God?  Do you feel closer to God right now, you pervert?  Are you going to devote this pain to God?  Consecrate it?”

I was bullying him.  I was bullying him hard.  There were tears in his eyes.

But he still had his erection.

“I’d drown every one of you in the river if I could.  I’d do it with my own hands.  A little baptism that you wouldn’t rise out of.  Full immersion, like a protestant.  Till you were dead like an unwanted kitten in a bucket.”

WACK WACK WACK

“Do you see the face of God in me now, priest?  Cause I FEEL like God, when I hurt you.  Did you ever wonder why you chose to love a God who is such an awful sadist?  Do you think He loves you?  Think He loved Isaac?  God loves it when you suffer.   It makes his dick hard.  Let me hear you call on God, priest.  Let me hear you pray to God when you have a bleeding ass and a hard cock.”

WACK WACK WACK

“I can’t do that,” he whispered, and he was crying for real now.

No mercy.  Not for these guys.  Sorry.  No mercy in the war against priests.  These assholes with the magical powers who control access to heaven for the rest of us.  Who do they think they are?  Fuck em.  Fuck em up the ass sideways, without lube.  Protestants suck too, but at least they don’t have PRIESTS running around WITHHOLDING AND CONTROLING SALVATION from decent Christians.

Galileo, I thought, I devote this episode of clergy harassment to YOU, homeboy!

The Priest’s dick was still hard, and he didn’t safe out, so I kept going.

“Hear any confessions recently, priest?  Makes your cock hard to be privy to so much information, especially from women, amirite?  People coming to you when they’re scared and guilty, because they need absolution?  They NEED it, so they won’t go to hell?  And they all crave your approval, cause you’re the guy with the magic powers?  Mister Six-Years-of-Greek?  Let’s hear some Greek!  Get Greeky for me, baby!”

WACK WACK WACK WACK

Readers, strap-on is not something I like to do in session (although, natch, I’ve done it…I’ve done it with boyfriends and it was fun, but with clients, it’s too personal), but if I had my big fake cock strapped on, I would be fucking this guy.  I’d be making him blow me.  It would be an episode of Facial Abuse.com.

He came so hard that he screamed at the end.

Then he asked to use the shower.

I did something I’ve never done before, and WOULD never do with almost any other client: I denied him.

“You come to me stinking, you can go back home filthy.  And I know you want to have a shower to wash away the pain of the guilt.  Marinate in it a while.  You ever come to me again smelling like BO and ballsack, I’ll turn you away at the door, and it doesn’t matter how good your money is.  A shower takes less than 5 minutes.”

He left, and I had to scramble to get ready for my next session, which was AWFUL.

More on that tomorrow.

P.S.  Here’s another example of his guilt coming out as hostility: he brought me a bottle of wine.

(Obvs, I could not drink the wine.  I opened it and poured us both a glass, and then didn’t drink from mine.)

“That’s nice!” you say.  OF COURSE IT IS, right….?

BUT…it was a bottle of $2-Chuck.  Two-buck-Chuck.

Now, I would never judge anyone for bringing budget wine.  Or even for drinking two-buck-Chuck!  Two-buck-Chuck can be FINE, but it’s to be drunk at home with your spaghetti after a long day.  I am not a wine snob.  You can get perfectly decent wine for everyday consumption for less than $10 at your local Trader Joe’s.

BUT…you do not GIVE a bottle of $2-chuck as a gift.  You don’t.

You can bring budget wine, less expensive than $20 or even $16 depending on where you live in the country….but if you can’t afford that much for a bottle, you SHOULDN’T BE GIFTING A BOTTLE.  This isn’t Christmas Secret Santa at the office!

I know priests don’t make a lot of money, at least at this Priest’s level.  But they do not live in poverty, and, if he wants to give wine as a gift, he can pony up enough for decent house table wine.

He bought that bottle to me as an expression of his insecurity and disrespect.  He didn’t drink any himself, but gave it to me.

One of My First Ads….

One of my first sex work ads…I found it in my files while I was cleaning out this computer….

 

(Please keep in mind that while it sounds like I’m bragging, this is an AD.  I’m a terrible salesperson, but I have to write ads promoting myself)

 

My ancestors hail from a cold snow-blasted place, and I look it. I am a tall red-haired beauty with classic Northern European features, blue eyes, and excellent skin. 

Sadomasochism is the definitive aspect of my sexuality.  Perhaps because I practice it in my private life, I approach my sessions with uncommon enthusiasm and generosity of spirit.  My clients comment favorably about my graciousness, sexual and intellectual curiosity, technical expertise, and attention to detail.  I am not a harsh, bullying, “angry” type of domina.  I seldom raise my voice in session as I do not believe that I should have to scream to compel obedience.   My manner is controlling and firm, but ladylike.   Like a competent prison warden, I consider gross displays of brute force to be vulgar and a hallmark of amateurs.  I WILL control you, however, and I am very interested in understanding what makes you tick.  I intend to know you very well….

I am an excellent submissive and am happy to help you explore your dominant or sadistic fantasies.  As a Sub, I am well-trained in protocol, obedient, possessed of a high pain tolerance, and desirous of exceeding your expectations and demands. 

Single and Doomed (But Wealthier!)

I’m back from San Francisco again.  This run was not as lucrative–I had two guys flake out on me–but I still pulled in over five hundred in profit after subtracting hotel and travel costs.  That’s more than I made in a week at my stupid office monkey job.

The sessions were mostly unremarkable.  My first client was an elderly tenured professor from Chicago who paid me a truly awful backhanded compliment.  He told me that I was “too smart to be doing this job.”  I wanted to murder him.  That really upset me, it made me want to cry afterward, because it was so insulting to me and the other women I care about who do sex work.  Do you know how many sex workers I know who have advanced degrees?  I didn’t go to super prestigious schools, it’s true, but the Ph.D. program was a Tier 1, and there is nothing wrong with my brain.

Anyway, I sent him an angry email afterward, because I just couldn’t let it go.  He wrote back, but I haven’t opened it.  If it’s anything other than an apology, it’ll just ruin my day.

My final session was notable because the guy had an absolutely ginormous penis.  I honestly have never seen anything like it, and you know I’ve seen plenty of dicks in my day.  I couldn’t believe it.  It was the size of my lower arm.  I wish that I could have taken a picture.  And the funny thing is, he was a little guy!  He was smaller than me! 5’7″ and thin, and he was a total geek, I mean a computer science major for real and he looked just like an extra for The Big Bang Theory!

He was, of course, inordinately proud of his anaconda, and was angling for compliments.  I told him what he wanted to hear, but it was all lies.  I don’t want to have anything to do with a penis that size.  It is completely impractical.  Three cheers for 6-inch cocks, that’s what I say!

I stayed at the Sir Frances Drake hotel because I got a great deal on priceline.com!  It was fun inside–the decor had an Elizabethan theme, and I was really geeking out on it.

I miss the dungeon and I miss my sex worker friends.  Working by myself is very lonely.  I can do it for a couple days a week, but I don’t think it’s good for me.  I’ve stepped up the therapy with the Jungian (I’m really warming up to this guy, I think he’s very caring and devoted to his craft, which is all I can really hope for in a temporary therapist–I just hope he doesn’t start to sleaze on me, because the last thing I need in my life is another sleazy male authority figure) to two times a week so that I can process the isolation and the weird.  I just need to stay focused on making the money so that I can get back to New York this summer!  I’m moving into a new apartment in June and I’m going to get a NEW BIRD!  I want a Jardine’s or a Meyer’s!  I sat in my hotel room at night, surfing the bird ads and crying a little bit because I miss my birds and I’m so lonely.

Let me ask a serious question: while I’m still a sex worker, does it mean that no man will ever love me?

Maybe I should try a little dating this summer.  I’ll have my own place again FINALLY, so I can show my face again on the singles market.  The dating pool in this stupid town is, well, stupid–it’s one of the reasons I knew I had to get out when I was growing up–but there’s the university, and if you stick around that, there’s always some potential!

Maybe I should have hooked up with a guy on Tinder while I still had that hotel room.  What happened to my sense of adventure?  I used to be the biggest player I knew!  I had the Surgeon as my main squeeze and then at least three other guys in rotation!

Fuck it: that’s going to be my plan when I go back to SF to work next week–I am going to go on a date with a hot man after I’m done with the sessions!  “Hot man” = hopeless intellectual way too old for me, as that is how I get them.  Bonus points if he’s a married scumbag, because I’m a total creep magnet.

I’m putting up an ad on Cragislist SF!

Back to Work: Updated!

Update:  I’m home safe.   Highlights from two days and three nights in San Francisco:

Cuckolding fantasy client did not allocate his time well, and we had to reschedule the session because his flight was late coming in to SFO.  I know he’s good for it because he paid a deposit for the session and also bought me that dress.  So, I’ll see him next week.

One of my clients LEFT HIS WRISTWATCH ON THE DESK.  I didn’t notice, but he called me frantically about an hour after he walked out the door.  Sure enough, there it was.  I looked at it; it had an inscription on the back.  I bet his wife bought it for him.  I locked it in the hotel room safe so that he would be safe for him, and he picked it up the next morning on his way to work.

I was ripped off by a shady motherfucker.  I should have known he was up to something, because he seemed nervous–but clients often seem nervous before a session!  I thought he was just a weird young guy without social skills with women.  The session was gross, it was a lot of body worship, and you know I really don’t like body worship, but I put up with it–since I’m only doing this two days a week, I’m trying to take every session that I can as long as the client passes screening and doesn’t ask for anything outside my boundaries, it’s not like in NYC where I would encourage body-worship clients to see another mistress at the Studio!  So anyway, this guy….he gave me the money in an envelope, and when he was in the bathroom, I put it into the safe.  I opened it and peeked inside, and it was a substantial stack of money.  But I didn’t take it out and count it!  I was stupid and violated the first rule of sex work: always get the money up front!

And you KNOW what happened next!

When he left, I immediately took a shower to wash his slobber off my skin (and watching him jerk off for an hour was fucking hideous and the images are burned into my brain.  Therapy, yes, I need it!).  Then I took the money out of the envelope to put it with the rest of my cash.

That motherfucker.  In the envelope were two $20 bills on top of a stack on $1s.

I flipped.  I blew his phone up.  He didn’t answer and it started going straight to voicemail.  He’s BLACKLISTED on every blacklist I have access to, and he’s lucky I don’t post his information right here!  If you’re a sex worker in the Bay area and you’re reading this, contact me at piecesofmargo@gmail.com and I will tell you who this person is!  He’s an ugly fatassed disreseptful Indian guy with an ugly useless penis!  So gross!  He tried to kiss me on the mouth, too!  Your penis really is gross, dude.  I have seen a lot of wangs in my life, and that one was totally in the bottom 10%.

I stayed two nights at the Hilton.  Hiltons are boring-as-hell business hotels, but they are totally anonymous and huge, so they’re good places to work out of.  They charged me $20 for a pay-per-view movie (Intersteller!  It was good!) and the internet was really expensive, too.  Expensive internet is bullshit!  I hate it!  Why is internet free at Starbucks and Motel 6, but $24.99 at the Hilton?

10 AM client was interesting.  He looked like he’d been in a car wreck or some kind of accident (I didn’t ask, because that would be rude), because his face was scarred, and he had scars on his shoulders, too.  His body was muscular and very dense, very masculine.  The interesting thing was that even though he looked rough, his movements and mannarisms were very graceful.  Delicate, even.  I found the juxtaposition between his ugliness and grace intriguing.  He was very sensitive and considerate: he brought me hot chocolate from Starbucks in the morning.  He was a very impressive sub.  Good client, I liked him.

After hotel costs and travel expenses, gasoline, and money for the parking garages, I still cleared over $1600.  YAAAYYYYYYYY!

The only hard thing is that I’m doing this all by myself.  It’s really isolating to work all alone in the hotel rooms.  At the Studio, I had domme friends, and it was great for support and camaraderie (not to mention all the drama and hijinks!).  Now it’s just me in the hotel, IMing my internet friends.  At least there’s sex worker Twitter!

I’m getting my own apartment the first of June.  I’m apartment-hunting now.  And I’m also going to get A PARROT!!!!  I can’t get another Senegal, because it will hurt my heart too much to see a bird that looks like Parrot (Parrot RIP).  But, I will get a Jardine’s or a Meyer’s, if I can find one at a bird rescue (I don’t think it’s right to buy parrots from breeders.  I got Parrot off of Craigslist when her old owner wanted to re-home her).

*                               *                              *

 

I’m about to leave for San Francisco again.   I have a 2-hour session booked for tomorrow morning at 10 AM, and I need to get there early to prepare for it, so I’m going to my hotel tonight.   I wish I had access to a dungeon–I’m emailing a few local Dommes to see if I can rent their private facilities, but they have no idea who I am or who my clients are, so I don’t blame them for being leery.  What I did do this time was spend the extra cash and reserve a full hotel suite instead of just a room, so that I have more space to work and furniture to work with.

I’m only working two days this time, instead of three, and I’m capping my hours of sessioning at four.  I’ll make an exception if one of the foot-fetish clients from last week wants to see me again, or if I get a last-minute request for a session that’s super fun and easy, like straight spanking or a domestic discipline scenario (I remembered to pack the good leather belt, the wooden hairbrush, and the new bar of Ivory soap this time.  And my satin robe.  Cause you know angry Mommy has to put you in your place wearing her satin robe, it’s like a national law or something, lol).  I am only doing domination, no switching and no submission.

I have a session Friday afternoon that sounds kinda interesting: an elaborate cuckolding humiliation roleplay.  It’s all talking–I don’t touch the guy or do anything to him besides carry the fantasy through discussion.  Which means it could be great, or it could be a total grind depending on whether the back-and-forth is easy.  He has very specific dress preferences: I need to be wearing a certain type of black cocktail dress and black leather high heels.  I told him I’d get the dress, but he’d have to pay for it, so he sent me the extra money via GiftRocket and I picked up the dress at Marshall’s this afternoon.

I’m bringing my laptop, so I might be blogging (and, oh yeah, if this run is as lucrative as last week’s, I am going to throw out that heavy, wheezing, dying Wal-Mart Acer and buy a new machine!).

I come back on Saturday afternoon.  On Sunday, I have my addiction-recovery therapy group, and then later that afternoon I am going to see this guy I met a few days ago, an old Jungian psychologist.  I could not find a practicing Freudian in this town, so I decided to check out the dark side, as it were.  This guy’s website cracked me up.  All the other therapist websites I visited had hokey photos of people crossing bridges, fall leaves floating on water, baby plants bursting through soil, shit like that.  This guy had a graphic of the moon during an eclipse.  I started laughing.  RAD!!!

I am very leery about having a male shrink.   I’ve never had one before.  I mean, the last thing I need is a sleazy male authority figure in my life (Heinrich asked, sarcastically, “What could go wrong, ja?”).  I’ve viewed them with skepticism ever since my father’s psychiatrist asked me out on a date.  When he was at work in the hospital.  In his fucking office.  While my father was institutionalized.   No shit, the scumbag DOCTOR asked me out to dinner and to go skiing (and if you only knew what he’d just diagnosed my father as having!)!  I should have reported him to hospital management and also his professional organization, but I didn’t.  I was very young, only 22 or 23, and I didn’t know what to do.  I was also kinda stunned about the situation my father was in.

Okay, I have to leave now.  It’s time.

I took one of my leftover Antabuse, even though the doctor told me not to take them anymore, because I know that I am putting myself into a situation where I could be tested.  I know the neuropathy is bad, but I would rather have numb shins than relapse.

I also brought the owl PJs Heinrich bought for me, so that I can wear them in my hotel rooms at night.  Even though he is unhappy with me.

Back from the Bay

Sorry it’s taken me so long to update!

My trip to San Francisco was a financial success.  When it was all over and I did the math, I made $2400 in profit–that’s after I deducted hotel and travel costs.

I think that I pushed myself too hard, however.  I don’t like to do more than two or three sessions in a day, because they are often very emotionally draining, and a lot of them require a lot of preparation and clean up.  All but the easiest sessions take planning.

But I really pushed myself, especially the first day I was there: six hours of sessioning.  I staggered them with an hour in between, but it just wasn’t enough downtime–the clients were like a herd of cats, some arriving early and stressing me out with their impatient text messages, some taking twenty minutes in the shower afterward.  I was doing costume changes (and sometimes showers) in between the sessions, not to mention wiping down all the hotel room surfaces and spraying down all my gear to keep in clean, and emptying the trash and putting in new trashcan liners, because what guy wants to see piles of used latex gloves and used CBT clothesline in the trash when he meets me for the first time?  Ditto for the used bath towels!

Two of the sessions were foot sessions.  Normally I don’t like those, because my feet are ticklish and I just plain don’t like the feeling, but on that day, they were optimal!  Easy peasy!  Lot of foot worship, lots of talk about feet, and some trampling (I used the computer chair for supports as I walked up and down on them, and  then the wall), and that was that.

The others…look, there were too many to give you a blow-by-blow account.  They were all nice to me, though, except for one Portuguese guy who seemed to be having a bad day.

It was over by 7 PM.  I didn’t clean up after the last session.  I just took a long, final shower, took the extra sheets off the bed that I’d used as a barrier, and collapsed.  I did send Heinrich a text message telling him that I was okay.  That was it.

The next day I got up early and started getting ready.  I had to drive to a new hotel for a 12 noon session, but the new place wouldn’t let me do an early check-in.  I was there at 10 AM and couldn’t get into the room.  I kept the heat on the front desk, which I’m not very good at (yeah, some domme I am, right?), but it was no dice.  They claimed full occupancy because of a convention.  My client, an engineer whom I was actually very much looking forward to meeting, waited for half an hour and then walked, because he had to get back to work.  I felt awful about it!  I apologized profusely and offered him 50% off of the session fee if he rebooked–that’s the best I can do, right?

I checked in at 1:30 and did three sessions that day.  The most notable one was an Indian gent, a victim of the colonial English boarding-school system, who wanted to be caned.  I cannot begin to tell you how much money I have made over the years off of the victims of corporal punishment in British schools!

I collapsed again, then woke up and traveled to Union Square, in San Francisco.  And I did it again.  More.

My emotions were all over the map: I was very exited, even exhilarated, to be doing something that I knew that I was good at.  When the envelopes of cash started piling up in the hotel room safe, well, that felt great, too.  And it felt good to be out of town…especially when I got to beautiful downtown San Francisco, which is my favorite city on the West coast, and which I hadn’t visited in years!  The hotel rooms were beautiful and some of the sessions were a lot of fun.  I’d been a little worried that I might have lost my touch.

On the other hand: the constant stage fright that comes from meeting a client for the first time.  I’d screened all these clients, so I knew who most of them were, or at least that their references from other sex workers checked out, but they were all new to me.  Some I’d corresponded with extensively via email, and some of them I knew from a short paragraph of session requests.   But I didn’t know them, and in the back of my mind, I was always wondering if the man who walked through the door would be dangerous (on the second day, I started hiding the money in various places is the room, that if he made me open the safe and robbed me, he wouldn’t get all of it).

Then we have Heinrich, who was, shall we say, in a bad mood.   I’ll get to that later, but you don’t really need me to spell it out of you, reader.   He was saying exactly what you’d think he would be saying.

I traveled home, got some exercise, and settled down, trying to decompress.  It was a very intense three days.  My first sessions since last July (unless you count that old guy I sold my ballet flats to on Craigslist)!  But, I thought that I was fine.

Fine, really.

Nope.

Out of nowhere, I started to feel very, very weird inside.  Bad, weird feelings.  I felt scared for no appreciable reason.  Then I was beset by an intense and totally uncharacteristic feeling of paranoia.  I became worried that my mother knew exactly where I had been, that she found out on my computer, and she read my blog, and any minute she was going to call me out of my bedroom and tell me that she knew I was in San Francisco prostituting myself, and that my brother knew, and so did everyone else!

?????????????
The Wages of Sin

(Because, you know I told them all lies about where I was going and what I was doing!  I said that I was going to tutor the GRE at UC Davis and to visit an old friend from my undergrad days who moved out to Sacramento!)

And then I thought: Oh my God, what am I doing?  Heinrich says I’m lost and out of control and he’s right and nobody will ever love me!

I didn’t freak out–it wasn’t quite as bad as the panic attacks I had from time to time when I was in the pressure-cooker of my Ph.D. program–but I felt very bad, friends.  Very bad and weird inside.

In another time, I would have drank.  I didn’t do that, I’m happy to say.  Instead I just sat with it and waited it out.  The bad feelings are terrible sometimes, but if you wait long enough, they eventually go away.

….and so they did.  I had a very rough night, but when I woke up in the morning, I felt much better.   Not 100%, but much better.

I deposited all my money in the bank and bought my mother some nice presents for Mother’s Day.  I got her one of those clear plastic bird feeders that attach to the window with suction cups, because she likes to watch the birds in the yard:

birdfeeder2
Momma’s new bird feeder

I also bought her one of those expandable garden hoses that you see advertised on TV all the time.  I have no idea if it’s a good product or not.  She says she wanted it.  And I got her flowers and a gift certificate to the local movie theater.

After I did that, I started to make a few phone calls, because I knew that I needed some help.  I don’t want another bad-feelings paranoia attack like I had when I came home.  That way lies relapse.  I cannot start drinking again.  I feel like I’ve finally turned a corner on my sobriety, after years of trying, and I cannot make that vulnerable.

I needed to find a new shrink, because, right now, the only people on earth who knew that I was doing sessions in San Francisco are a few internet friends…and you, the readers of this blog.

And I needed to find a new shrink before I went back to the Bay Area to work.

Next, on Pieces of Margo:  I doctor-shop for a sex worker-friendly therapist in my stupid little town!

Mistress Margo Makes Money

One more day here.  I’m still in Silicone Valley, and about to go to Union Square.  I have a session at 11 AM and another at 1 PM.

Heinrich is upset with this, and with me.  But the fact is, I’ve made $2k in two days.  That’s money in the bank.  I’m not sitting at home depressed and anxious.

I think he likes to think of himself as Sir Save-A-Hoe.  “I have redeemed this former prostitute and made an honest woman of her.”

Union Square next.  I haven’t been to downtown SF in years!

Back in the Biz: San Francisco

I may as well ‘fess up: tomorrow morning, I’m getting up at 4 AM to travel to the nearest very big city to do some professional BDSM.  Mistress Margo is coming out of retirement.

I’ve know I was going for a few days now, but I didn’t blog about it because I hadn’t told Heinrich, and I didn’t want him to learn about it by reading it on my blog.

My motivations are entirely financial.  I am compelled by necessity.  I have applied for 42 jobs since late February, ranging from legal assistant and research analyst to part-time receptionist and data-entry clerk.  Five interviews.  Two potential employers told me that I was over-qualified and that I ought to “aim higher.”  One told me that he was sure I would “do well.”

Aim higher, at what?  Do well at what?  All that I’ve done since grad school is teach undergrads, tutor, and assist other professors with data management or research projects.

I have sold a few minor articles and I also landed a job editing manuscripts for academics in South Asia.  The editing job is nice, but it is not full time.   The semester is almost over–I have one more check coming in, and then it’s done.

I check the job ads every morning.  I’ve applied for awful shit that, if you’d asked me two years ago, I would have sworn I’d never do, like write executive summaries for a bio-science lab that does fucking vivisection.  Office manager for a dentist.  The only reason underemployment has not driven me totally stircrazy is that Heinrich has me writing all the time.  That, and a gym membership.

I’m fed up.  It cannot go on.  I still intend to get back to NYC this summer.  I have earned and saved money for that, but it’s not enough.   I’m done with editing manuscripts at the kitchen table, waiting for the phone to ring and hitting the refresh button on my email.  It’s fucking intolerable.

So, last week I started to search.  Where, in the sex industry, could I ply my former trade?  There is no market for New York-style prodomming in this town (which is why I came here, in my Escape from New York.  Oh, THE IRONY!  JOKE’S ON MARGO!).

I did my research, found the market, and put up new ads.  I wanted to see if there was any interest.  There was.  Not like in New York, but there is work to be had.

I put off talking to Heinrich about it for as long as possible.   I knew he would be against it.  But the fact is, I have to live, and he does not support me.

I have a session tomorrow morning at 11 AM and another one at 12:30.  Another one in the late afternoon, unless he flakes.   I’ll also work the next day if I can.

It’s a completely new market for me.  New market, new clients–I can’t even fall back on my old regulars.

And I’m working all by myself.  I don’t even have my New York sex worker friends for the support and camaraderie.

But I am refreshed, recharged, and well-rested.  My head is clear and in the right space.  I am secure in my sobriety.  I am ready to work again.  Heinrich and I worked out a few things–I won’t be subbing for anyone.

Tomorrow is going to be a very long day.  Hopefully, it will also be lucrative.

I’m bringing my laptop.  I might be blogging from my hotel room.

San Francisco, here I come.