The Scheme for a New Job

So: the Job.

People against sex work often nag discourage childe “remind” us that we “can’t do this forever!  Eventually nobody will want to buy what you’re selling!”  I’ve heard this a few times–always from therapists, never from clients or other women in the biz, because we know better.  A person can, in fact, do various forms of sex work through middle age and presumably beyond.  I used to be insecure about getting older in this industry, thinking that it would be harder for me to find work, but I needn’t have worried: my money hasn’t been affected at all.  Even when I was working out of a commercial dungeon with women in their early 20s, I did just fine. A lot of guys like very young women and will not deviate from that, which is fine, but they are by no means representative of the entire client base. I know women in their late 40s and 50s who are very successful, moreso than I have ever been, and these women are not serve a niche market.  Especially in prodomming, there is a lot to be said for experience and looking like a convincing authority figure.

As long as I maintain my face and figure, I could do sex work for a very long time.

The reason I want a new career is that I need a job conducive to starting a family eventually.  For me, sex work ain’t that. I also need a job where it will be easier to maintain my sobriety.  All alone in an anonymous hotel room/rented dungeon space for days at a stretch on tour, cut off from the world except for sex worker Twitter and email, is not a great place for me to be.

If I want to raise a child, I need stability and a reliable, steady source of income.  Kids cost a fucking fortune, so the job has to pay well.  The Collector has a fortune, but without him, I will need to provide everything.  I never had much material ambition, but there is a certain standard I want to achieve and be able to maintain before I even consider having a child.

I’ve settled on a new career: court reporter.  It’s an AA degree, which means I could be done in two and a half years and start work right away after I get my license. I am done with the big leagues–I don’t want another grad degree.  An associate’s, though, I could do.  The pay is good (well, I think it’s good–court reporters in NYC make $80,000/year), the job is in high demand, and I can do it as long as my hearing hold out.  I wouldn’t even have to work in the courts, because there’s other work for freelance stenographers. Best of all, court reporters are essentially self-employed (and I love being self-employed!), so I can work as little or as much as I want to.  This would be important when the child is young.

I’ve found the college I want to attend.  I want to start in the Fall.  It’s accredited and NCRA-approved.  The program is online (they have a brick-and-mortar campus, but it’s in another state) and while I’d much prefer to learn in a physical classroom, I see no reason why I can’t do this online.  I’m a bit intimidated because this is unlike any education I’ve had before–this is a technical degree that requires me to master a stenograph machine and its attendant software programs. It also requires some native talent for the machine, which I may or may not possess: if I can’t perform with the necessary speed and accuracy (and some people can’t, try as they might), I can’t get my license..

This is what I want to do.  It is not my dream job, but it is a good job performing a necessary social function in an environment that I would not hate to be in. It is something that I could be proud to be.

This is Plan A.  My backup plan is paralegal, another degree I could knock out at my local junior college in three semesters after I transfer credits.

Now I have another problem to address: paying for school.  Court reporting college is expensive, and I am very reluctant to go into debt for $40,000.  Almost all of my college was paid for through scholarships and fellowships.  I can’t do that here.  Without the Collector’s money to fall back on, I have to do this myself.

Which brings me to the next part of my plan!  I’ve been scheming!  Scheming about how I’m going to pay for this!  And it’s sex work, natch.  A new kind of sex work!

Is it a hair-brained scheme?  Is it spectacularly ill-advised?  Or is it feasible?  Indeed, I ask you, WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

You tell me!  I’m writing about it in the next installment.

New Update: Dad Material? New Career!

I had to give up my old apartment, which is a crying shame.  It was an attic apartment in an old Victorian house, close to the river and in a great neighborhood.  It had a sloped ceiling in the living room and big trees in the yard and two raccoons that would peek in the window at night.  It was also nice and QUIET (as I age, I am slowly but surely turning into a true noise crank).  I liked it there.

Well, the Collector was threatening to buy the house my apartment was in (yes, the entire building) if I didn’t stop “hiding” from him (and maybe hiding shouldn’t be in quotes because I was, in fact, hiding).  He’s shown up at my door before and it was pretty awful.  I’ve had a lot of experience with boyfriends who just come over break the door down (or, in his case, let themselves in with secretly-made copies of my house keys) and it was giving me a lot of anxiety, so I moved.

I think that we’re done.

Which brings me to the next topic…and it’s awkward….

Something has happened to me in the last few years.  I started to think I’d like to eventually have a baby. 

I’m a shocked as you are.  I never wanted children before.  I felt strongly enough about it to put it into my online dating profiles. I am at a loss to explain why I changed my mind.  The only thing I can think of is that there really is something to that old trope about the biological clock: I’m in my late 30s now, and I no longer have a seemingly unlimited period of fertility ahead of me.  My mother went into menopause early.  It occurred to me that if I want a family, it’s something that I will need to plan for.  Not immediately, but in the foreseeable future.

I told the Collector about it and he suggested that I freeze my eggs.  He even offered to pay for it.  I was blogging while this was going on, but it was too personal for me to share online at the time.  I took him up on his offer and started going to the fertility clinic.  It was one of the most expensive gifts a man has ever given me, but I took it.  I had to go to classes and sign a lot of legal paperwork and inject myself in the abdomen twice a day, and then some of my eggs were harvested and frozen.  They are floating in a vat of liquid nitrogen.

A year and a half later, our relationship had grown, and he told me that he wanted to be the father.  He said that he always wanted to have a daughter. This is a huge thing for me.  I mean, can you imagine it?!  I thought about it.  I’ve been thinking about it for a long, long time.  On paper, it sounds great.  He’s twenty years older than me. How many men his age are willing to have a new baby?  Wow, aren’t I lucky that I found a guy like this?  Look at all the things the Collector could give a baby!  It would have every material advantage!  The best education money can buy!  The best health care! It would live in the most exciting city in the world!  It would have two high-IQ parents!  It would probably be good looking!

The Collector had one restriction: he wants me to wait till I’m 40.  Which is fine!  I have more work to do on myself.  I need at least two–and preferably three–years of unbroken sobriety before I even THINK of actually becoming a mother.

But I couldn’t commit to it.  I kept pulling back, and asking myself if the man was really Dad material.  His relationship with his elder son is not too great.  And how could we have a child and keep practicing our sadomasochistic relationship?  And am I ready to be domesticated?  And he’s controlling, what about that?  His kinks push the envelope sometimes, even with me (never thought I’d say that!).  What if the relationship goes bad and a kid is involved–how on earth would I ever get away?

The Collector says I’m afraid of being happy.  Is he right?

I know that before I have a kid–if I have a kid–I need a few years of good sobriety, and I also need a well-paying, steady job.  I’m not saying that sex workers can’t or shouldn’t be mothers–I know many who are!  But I think it would be best, for me, if I had a straight job.

During my time in rehab, I decided to make a career change.  But first, I’ll have to go back to school.  I’ll be going back to sex work in a few months in order to make money to cover tuition, because it’s going to be expensive and I won’t have the Collector’s help to pay it if I’m not with him.

I’ll tell you all about my new career plans in the next update!  And also more about why I’m worried about marrying the Collector.  Also, my ideas for doing sex work–I am going to try something new that will work around my rehab and recovery program.

Things Clients Have Said to Me

The following are a sample of things clients have said to me.  My thoughts are in italics.

“Does your family know?”

So rude.  Does your family know?

“What does your boyfriend think of all this?

“But what if your future husband found out?”

After the session and his ejaculation, when suddenly seized by shame and remorse: “You shouldn’t do this anymore! You should get a normal job, like at a restaurant or something.”

Side note: I get awful vibes from men overcome with shame who act close to panic after they have an orgasm.  I think they’re potentially dangerous when they’re in that state of mind. Handle with care.

At the end of the session, which was a 3-ring circus and involved an orgasm on his part:  “I want a refund.”

So go make a complaint to the Better Business Bureau!

“Can I get a discount?”

“Are you clean?”

New client comes out of the bathroom with a very solemn expression on his face.  He holds out his hand and shows me three red pills that I’d left on the bathroom counter.  “What are these pills?” he asks me.

They’re cinnamon altoids, fuckstick! 

“So, are you at this job because you use drugs?”

“But what if the children found out?” (Dungeon was a block away from a daycare center and a park.)

“You must have had a very hard life.”

Some men see sex workers as broken flowers, crushed by the cruel cruel world.  My question is: what sort of person believes that and then decides to book an appointment anyway?

Client is a coked-out idiot pouring sweat in ill-fitting women’s lingerie with a dildo up his bum: “Does this turn you on?”

Client wants to masturbate in front of all the women in the dungeon, but doesn’t want to pay them to be there: “I’ll put on a great show for you! You’ll love it!”

Yes, I am sure it is as entertaining as Cirque du Soleil. You could do it on Broadway. 

“I want to speak on the phone before we meet so that I know we will be compatible with each other.”  After being told about my telephone rates: “I can’t believe you want to soak me for every little thing.”

When I explain that I’ll be happy to have a dinner-date session with him for my reduced social-rate fee: “I will not pay you to eat with me.  That’s ridiculous.”  When I explain that I am here to work: “It’s a pity that you hate what you do so much that you have to call it work!”

Client who brought a LOADED GUN to session: “Don’t worry, I’m harmless.”

“You girls sure make a lot of money.”

Upset new client wants an explanation for why I won’t fly alone with him in his small airplane to his vacation cabin in the middle of nowhere in Canada: “But why not?  I’m paying you!”

Indeed, why not?  What could go wrong?

“How did you get those bruises on your back?”

Hmmm….you are a masochist and I work in a dungeon.  Think about it, guy.  Think about it real hard. 

Update: I’m Back!

I’m back with big, big news!  Lots of things have changed, and are in the process of changing around here!

Yes, I was off the internet for more than a year.  It sucked, but I had to do it.  I was Working On Myself™.  I was Doing Me™.

The first thing I did was check myself into residential treatment for alcoholism.  This time, I decided to throw in the proverbial towel and do it right–a long-term stay in a secure environment.

I had several reasons for wanting to be institutionalized.  The most important reason was that I’ve been struggling with quitting drinking since about 2011.  I’ve had periods of sobriety that lasted for 3, 6, and even 9 months, but I had many relapses, too, and every significant relapse was getting worse.  Alcoholism is a progressive disease/affliction, and a few years ago my body started going on strike.  When I drink now, I end up physically addicted very quickly and back in the hospital in a matter of days.  This unacceptable state of affairs had to be addressed as seriously as possible, which, for me, meant rehab.

Another reason I went was–let’s face it–I needed some time away from the Collector to get my head on straight and decide what I wanted out of our relationship and, importantly, whether or not I was likely to get it.  The Collector and I were discussing, umm, I think it’s called “taking the relationship to the next level” in women’s magazines.  So I did what any right-thinking woman would do when offered the chance for domesticity with a fascinating sadist who is, ostensibly, the man of her fondest nightmares: I ran away like my hair was on fire “just for a little while, while I get sober” and checked myself in to a secure, undisclosed location.

I also knew I needed to ask myself the burning question, “What am I doing with my liiiiiiiiife?”  And not just in some vague, existential way as I lay on the bed of an anonymous San Francisco hotel room in my leather domme gear, waiting for my client to show up and wishing I’d asked the staff to empty out the minibar when I checked it.  I mean seriously asking myself what I want out of life, and then deciding what I need to do to get it.

So I went to rehab, and then, after some time with the Collector, I went to another secure, undisclosed location that was like an apartment complex or community for recovering addicts.  I lived there for months.  I did a lot of volunteer work with the homeless and then women & children leaving abusive relationships.  I did that for months and it turned in to a job.  It was temporary–I knew I’d quit when I was time to move on–but it gave me something productive to do and a routine while I got more sober time under my belt.  It also gave me a lot of time to think about what I want to do next.

I’ll talk about more changes in my next blog post, but, for now, I can tell you that I’ve been completely sober for over 13 months, which is the longest time I’ve been without alcohol since I was about 20 years old.  I’m going back to school for a career change, and you want to stay tuned, because paying for school is going to be a huge pain in the ass if I don’t marry the Collector. And there is more!  Lots more!

But I’m back, and I’m healthy, and I feel great!

Since transparency is a new regime value around here, I wanted to post more pictures.  I still can’t show my face in photographs, but here’s a sketch the awesome femdom/BDSM artist Sardax did of me, which should give you an idea of what I look like, after all this time:

 

I’m Back (on a limited basis)!

This is just a quick blog post to let my 8 readers know that I’m still alive.  I am sober, physically healthy, and psychologically sound.  I feel pretty good, all in all.  Rehab is a huge drag, but I’m glad that I committed to it.

I’ve spent over three months sequestered from my job, family, relationships, and the Collector.  Now, -rather than returning to my life, I’m opting to re-introduce myself gradually. I want to do this right, and never have to do it again.  I am too old to waste any more of my life struggling with this.

I’m living in what is essentially a very structured sober-house environment with a few other women.  I hate having roommates, but I am not ready to be alone again yet and I am not in a position to make a decision about moving in with the Collector.

I have a crappy straight job whose only redeeming quality is that it provides routine and leaves me too tired to be upset, or disappointed with myself.  I volunteer at a shelter for women and children.  My goals this summer are pretty small: start writing again, get as physically fit as possible given my work schedule, and be patient with myself.

And stay sober, of course.  I don’t anticipate any problems with that–I’m on naltrexone, in intensive treatment, and am almost never alone.  I’ve also committed myself to the process.

I have much more to write, but I can’t do it now.  I WILL have internet access one or two days a week now, so I’ll be able to update this blog.  I’ve gone through my drafts and picked out a dozen decent ones from the archives that I intend to finish and publish starting next week–untold dungeon tales from NYC, reader mailbag, relationship stuff, book reviews.

I can also read and respond to comments.  I’ve just started reading the ones left for me since I went offline in February.  Thank you all for reading, and for all your thoughts, input, and support.  It really means a lot to me. Till next week!

 

I can’t put it off any longer (not that I’ve had much time to put it off at all–this shitstorm of consequences rained down on me just a few days ago).

My 8 readers, as always, deserve The Awful Truth.

I have to go back to rehab.  AGAIN.  Because I relapsed.  AGAIN.

I have been accepted into a rehab facility in town (my home town).  The Collector threw a fit because he knew it would keep us apart and he wanted me to go to Smithers. I know what he’d do.  He’d cruise from physician to physician who had anything to do with my case, looking for the weak one and charming the nurses.

Probably a resident, but one never knows.

Next is WHY. My mother, and others, want to know WHY.

There is no why. One can pan it down to a relentless urge towards self-annihilation, but what we are looking at is a genetic heritable disorder.  I have never met an addict (and I’ve met plenty) who was happy, unless they were inebriated.

I am, simply, tired of fighting it. My addiction has followed me like a tin can tied to a dog’s tail for ten years now.  I get sicker every relapse. Incredibly, I have reached late-stage alcoholism in my mid-30s.

I am going to be away for some months.  The place that I am going to sounds like a prison, and I do not relish it.  But maybe a prison is what I need. I don’t think that modern psychiatry knows how to effectively treat addiction, and that scares me.

Maybe six months in a structured environment will be enough to reset my brain chemistry. At this point, I’d be willing to try anything short of ECT.

I think that the time alone (well, aside from the other junkies and the staff) will also give me time to ruminate about my relationship with the Collector, and whether or not I want to make a family with this man.

The blog is staying up, but I won’t be able to update it for a few months, unless I get a pass to use my PC somehow, which is unlikely.

Please don’t give up on me.  I’ll be back to writing as soon as I possibly can.  I will journal in rehab (even though I HATE writing by hand…but when you gotta write, you gotta write) and I may publish those as blog posts later.

Wish me luck.  You know I have always appreciated you.

Margo

A Shameful Memory

I’m going to write about something that I did wrongly years ago. I’m sure that it will sound like a minor thing, but I have never forgotten it, and every time I think of it, I’m ashamed of what I did.

I can confidently say that I would not do it today.

I was in my early 20s, and flying into the airport in Oakland. The airline had open seating.  I was late, and running to the gate with my luggage and gear bag.

I boarded the plane and saw an empty seat right in the front, where I like to sit, next to a young man who had to be a teenager or about my age…

…who had a malformed face.

Something was very wrong with his nose. It was very enlarged, red, and bulbous, and the skin was red and bumpy. He also had a cleft palate.

Otherwise, and I remember him clearly, he was well built and well dressed.  White guy in jeans and a button-down striped shirt, brown hair.

We made eye contact.  He saw me looking at the seat.  It was one of two seats left on the airplane.

I recoiled–mentally, but not visibly, I hope.  But, my choice said it all: I ran to the back of the airplane and took the last seat. By the toilet.

I have never forgiven myself for that. This poor guy has been rejected by girls, and probably by society at large, his whole life, and he sees a pretty girl get on the airplane, and she would rather take the last seat by the smelly crapper than sit by him?

He was the only one who sat alone on that flight. I imagine he’s sat alone his whole life. I cannot imagine why he hadn’t had a Recon-Plastics surgeon even partially fix his face. Then again, maybe they had, and it used to be worse. Or maybe he came from some awful country in Europe like Maldova.  Not that our health care system, especially before Obamacare, was stellar.

I would not do the same thing today. I do believe it is instinctual to recoil from deformity, because our brains are hard-wired to be pattern-seekers, and when we see something that is not typical, it shocks us.

Mature, humane people know how to process it and treat the other person with common respect.  Also, how to not be a “savior” and presume they can’t do things by themselves, especially making a big show of it in public. Infantalizing them.

One thing sex work has taught me is how to empathize with people. I’ve had clients in wheelchairs, clients on crutches, amputees, deaf clients, clients on SSI who saved up to see me.  Clients in wheelchairs. Clients who were mentally disabled.

Much worse: clients who were psychopaths.

I cannot forget how I rejected that man in the airplane. I know readers will think this blog post is trivial, but, to me, it’s not.

Men and Their Weird Penis Obsession (My Personal Experience)

I thought long and hard before blogging about him.  I’ve been considering it for years, in fact. It’s a very private matter, and I don’t know if it’s appropriate to write about it online.

But, it’s been years, and there is no way he is reading this blog. Time has moved on.  Also, the story is very funny.

Allow me to preface this: I have never met a man who was not obsessed with his penis. Every man I’ve ever been with has been preoccupied with his cock. At work, I have been paid to humiliate men over their penises (or, alternately, to praise them).  I have been paid to watch men masturbate…FOR AN HOUR.

I myself, in contrast, do not think about my vagina unless I am using it in sex or masturbation or it has a yeast infection or UTI. Contemplation of it takes up very little thought in my brain.

That said, let me tell you the story of a boyfriend who was COMPLETELY NEUROTIC about his junk.

He was (is) otherwise a highly intelligent, accomplished man in a rarefied field. I wish I could tell you how we met, but that would be TMI. Cute–slightly overweight, but cute. Also, only three years older than myself.  I am almost never attracted to men in my age range.

I was still in grad school, and very impressed with how he did his job.

I asked him out via email.  The rest is history.  I can seduce any man who isn’t committed to his significant other. It’s part of my job. Also, men are easy.

He was also a very kind man. He never said a cross word to me, except to express anger at my being late a few times and worry about the fact I could imbibe a swimming pool of cocktails and still function, walking around.

I could have married this man, but we didn’t quite “click.”  Still, I cared about him very much.  He was also newly divorced–only one year out–and he was still in  a lot of pain.

SO, getting back to the moral of the story, I go to use the bathroom early in the relationship, and found Enzyte laying out on top of the toilet tank.

Okay, weird.

My primary concern was that a man with a huge brain who had a top-flight education could believe Enzyte could make his dick larger. If big-dick pills actually worked, every man would be huge. Every rational person knows it’s snake oil, just like big breast cream in the past.

Here’s the thing: there was nothing wrong with this man’s penis.  There was nothing for him to be insecure about. It was bigger than average–not enormous, but bigger than average–and it always worked right. Not that I discriminate against men with ED. I’ve dated them, happily.

Then, a few months into our 6-month romance, he starts to ask me about whether I’ve had lovers with bigger penises, and if I liked the sexual experience better.

“Your dick is bigger than average. If it was larger, it would make me sore,” I said.

“But how many have been larger?”

I became exasperated. “I am not going to catalog all of the penises I have seen. Yours is great. What’s the problem?”

He asked this over and over again.

A month later: “I became paranoid my wife was watching porn, and saw bigger cocks than mine.”

I wanted to bury my head under the pillow.

“If she’s watching porn, all she wants to do is get off in three minutes and turn it off. She’s not comparing your penis. She’s not even thinking of that! Jeez!”

She would not have married you if she found you inadequate!

THEN–here’s the kicker–I was sleeping over at his apartment and he had to wake up early to go to work.  I kept sleeping under the covers.

A few hours later I received a phone call. He asked me to get something important for his work out of a gray bag in the closet, and bring it to him, a few blocks away where he worked.

I obliged, of course. Always happy to help.

I opened his closet, and there were three grey bags.

I swear to God, I was not snooping.

I pulled out the first grey bag and opened …

…a penis pump.  I recognized it because I saw it in this movie:

I am not making fun of him. I never do that, unless a person is a complete asshole. I just didn’t understand.

I put the penis pump back in the bag.  I never said a word. I rummaged in the others until I found the tool he was looking for.

I was still dating the Surgeon, which ultimately caused the demise of the relationship.

My First Teaching Experience

I have the writing bug again, and insomnia.

This post is going to be boring, but the tale must be told.

Let me tell you about the first time I taught. I’ll never forget it.

I was 24 years old, and teaching American History and Culture. I had a scholarship–I’ve always been a scholarship kid–and teaching was my obligation, and my aspiration. My dream job has always been to be a teacher.

I was dirt poor and living in a very tiny studio in a house the neighbors called “The Crack Shack” because it was so run down. I did not have a suit or a blouse and skirt to teach in. I could not afford to buy luxuries. My stipend (which I was very grateful for) was $900 a month.

I had a very conservative black cocktail dress. It came up to my throat and went down to my knees. It was the best I could do.

It was sleeveless, and form-fitting. I was also wearing short heels and a pearl necklace my mother gave me. My hair was in a French Twist.

I cannot tell you how many hours I spent obsessing over the syllabus and my lecture.

When I came into the classroom I had a complete panic attack. Speaking in front of an audience? I thought I was confident, but what the hell?

(I can do it now, no problem, but it was a shocker to me then!)

I started to write my name on the board. Administration had assigned me an old-fashioned classroom with a green board and chalk. No smart classroom for me! Not even a piece of WWII technology like the overhead projector!

This is the funny part: I started trembling. It was precisely how one of my professors said when I consulted her about teaching: once the adrenaline hits your system, you’re done. Nothing you can do but wait it out.

,My handwriting was shaky, bended, and started to shrink. “Instructor Margo Adler” reduced to tiny letters.

I saw two football players giving me the old up-and-down as I stood there, writing. God, I can’t completely blame them because men can’t help themselves, but I felt very exposed and they turned out to be awful students anyway.

It did not help that this was the worst group of students I’ve ever had. I’m not blaming them, but I’m serious. There was one guy in there who happily talked about the material, because he actually read it. The rest were mute.

Well, not totally mute: one gave me a really shitty evaluation at the end of the semester: “Miss Margo is a very poor communicator,” among other poor observations.  She was pissed that I gave her a B-, and I was being generous.  She deserved a C.  “I need to get into law school and this doesn’t look good on my transcript!” Yeah, sorry, your analysis of The Yellow Wallpaper was wrong. In order to be a lawyer, you have to write well.

And I know it’s not just me, because my next class loved my ass (I had two classes, back to back). I stabilized in the Teacher’s Lounge and got some advice from the professors.

What they said boiled down to: “Wait until you stop trembling. They’re not going to bite you. You know what you’re talking about.  You’re the one in charge!”

I went in there with an attitude: These kids are not going to intimidate me!

You have to go in with an aura of loving authority.

This relates to my prodomme work.

Give them credit for participation in class discussion. Discern the shy ones who know the readings from the ones who don’t talk because they didn’t study. Any effort should be rewarded. Not saying someone who doesn’t comprehend the material should get at A, but if they work, they deserve credit.

Slackers can forget it. I have failed several plagiarizers. I go absolutely batshit over plagiarizers. Paraphrase is a fine art. You can’t just steal someone else’s work.

Half the teenage scholars I flunked would have gotten a pass if they just put quotation marks around what they stole.  That and a citation, and you’re golden.  I have written hundreds of essays, and when I was lazy and under a deadline, I would jack a whole paragraph just to take up page space. Very poor scholarship, but at least it was honest and true.

That is my first teaching experience.

 

About Hobbyists

Let’s talk about “Hobbyists.”

Hobbyists, for those who don’t know, are men who frequent sex workers and then review and gossip about them online.

They usually hang out on a website called The Erotic Review, but there are other sites–I think one is called ECCIE.

Unfortunately, I have reviews of The Erotic Review. The reviews are all positive, except for one guy who was pissed that I fired him (I’ll get to that in a moment).

The bad news is that the reviews make the Hobbyists know about me and make a booking.

I have NEVER met a Hobbyist who was not a douchebag. Sad, but true. Every one has bargained with me, tried to get free time, tried to get me to dine for free with them at mediocre restaurants, bragged about their reviews (a veiled threat that they would post a bad review about me), etc…

The worst of the lot was a man in NYC whom I saw when I was working as a proSub.  He is one of the reasons I do not work as a proSub today (that, and the Collector would kill me).

I was brand new to working as an independent, meaning working outside of a dungeon, which is why I put up with him for five sessions. Today, I would fire him after one.

First, he complained that I asked for the money up front.  I absolutely deplore having to ask for the money.  An honest client leaves it on a counter without saying a word the minute he walks in, or you visit him.

“It ruins the romance!” he said.  Yes, this is so romantic.  Did I mention he was fat, old, bald, and plain?

Second session: brags that he’s written “almost 100 reviews” on The Erotic Review, and wants to write one about me. Is angry when I tell him I have a no-review policy.

Third session: wants me to dine with him for free at a cheap Korean BBQ place. I really needed the money from the session, so I agreed, and endured two hours of dinner. At least, to his credit, he bought me two cocktails.

(I will eat with a client for free if they are an established regular who supports me.  I will eat a burger with a guy who helps pay my rent. I will also eat for free with a client who wants to take me to a super fine-dining restaurant like Per Se.  Today, I will NOT eat for free with an internet rando who wants to get a pizza. Or cheap Korean BBQ.  Sorry, not sorry, my social date rates apply!  $100 for dinner!)

Later that night, while I was nude except for a thong and tied to the coffee table, he said, “This no-penetration thing isn’t going to work for me.”

I said in my ads–I was very explicit–“No sex. Fetish, fantasy, roleplay only.  I do not get fully nude.”  I posted these ads in BDSM and FETISH categories of the sex worker ad malls, NOT the escorting sections. I was very clear.  

“Uhh…I said no sex,” I said, trying not to freak out, in my tied up vulnerable state.

“How about a dildo or butt plug?”

Oh my God, I thought.

“NO!  Don’t make me scream!”

He backed off.

I cannot believe I went back to that guy.  $350, I needed it.

Next session, incredibly, I allowed him to blindfold me.  Then I got freaked out and asked him to take the blindfold off when I felt something silky and warm on my cheek.

He took it off and, what do you know, there is his penis in my face, begging for a blowjob.

Henceforth, with my dungeon friends (better believe I was telling them all about him) he was known as “Mr. Wang-on-the-face.”

“I said no sex!”

“A blowjob isn’t sex!” he reasoned. Like he was Bill Clinton or something.

Everyone knows the vast majority of fetish workers don’t offer sex. Maybe a few give handjobs.  You can find fetish-friendly escorts, but that’s another category of sex work.

“Don’t touch me with that!”

He zipped it up.

The final, last time, I just couldn’t take it, and I was mildly drunk when I got there. I endured another mediocre dinner for free, and, of course, had to make conversation and flirt.  I got to the room and unpacked some of my session gear.  Then I panicked and made an excuse to run to the bathroom.

There, I took out an airplane-sized bottle of flavored vodka from my handbag and sucked it down.

I started to undress, and then changed my mind.

I bolted from the bathroom, picked up my gear bag, and ran out.  The only thing I said was, “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.  I can’t trust you.”

The next day I realized I’d left approximately $300 worth of fetish gear in his hotel room.

I emailed him to ask for it back.  He said he’d return it if I came to his hotel room so that “we could talk about what happened.”

I politely asked if he would just put it into a box or a bag and leave it at the front desk for Margo to collect.

I did not want to talk to him ever again (I did not say that).

He said no, he would return it if he could see me.

Thanks for not returning MY STUFF that I PURCHASED that is important for MY BUSINESS to me, asshole!

I abandoned my property rather than see him again.

Then, of course, the review, which said, to paraphrase: “Beautiful but very unprofessional.  She left the session without an explanation.  Buyer beware.”

Oh, did I mention I hadn’t been paid?  It’s not like I ran out with his money! 

Buyer beware?  What am I, a faulty coffee maker? Nobody BUYS me. They buy my service and expertise.

Yeah, Mr. Wang-in-the-face, enjoy my $80 vibrator, leather cuffs, bondage rope, and metal-handled turquoise suede flogger that matched my corset, which I can’t replace.

Sadly, this man is typical of guys hanging out of Hobbyists.  Many sex workers concur.  I’ve never had one treat me well.