Swimsuit Humiliation

Finally!  A post about my job.

I have a guy who has a fantasy about something that happened to him, and he wants a re-enactment.

Specifically: I needed to wear a one-piece swimming suit and a swim mask for my hair…

…and then pants him (take down his swim shorts) in front of all the other girls.

He says this happened to him at a pool/birthday party when he was an adolescent. I think he’s telling the truth.  He could be making it up, which is also okay, but I don’t think that is the case.  In my considerable experience, men have experiences in their childhood and youth and become fixated on them.  Like myself, they become imprinted.

The girl who pants him was, so he said, an older girl next door who was sometimes a babysitter, and he had a huge crush on her.

Where the hell am I going to get a swimsuit this time of year? I wondered.

There was no way I was going to spend $120 to meet this guy’s swimsuit fantasy.

I found one at Marshalls in Union Square for $19.99. I had to go to a sports shop for the swim cap.

I’m putting it on in the hotel room and I feel like the biggest dork in the world. But, what can you do? I’ve dressed like Batgirl and a nurse and schoolgirl a million times. Part of the job.

He came in and immediately started trembling. Middle-aged white guy, totally passive, seemed normal. No alarm bells went off.

He went to the bathroom to change into swim shorts.  Gotta hand it to him: he folded all his clothes and piled them up. When they just strip and drop them on the floor, I throw a fit and correct them: “Pick them up and fold them! What am I, your mother?!”

When he came out, I draped my arms around him and asked, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

He nodded.

I pulled his swim pants down and started cackling. The laughter was not fake. Far be it from me to judge a fantasy–God knows I’ve had many darker ones that this–but the situation was pretty weird. I’m wearing a swim cap in a Hilton hotel room.

He flushed bright red and immediately came on the carpet.  He voluntarily cleaned that up with a washcloth. The man was polite.

Overall, it was a great session.

COMPLAINING and CONCERNED

This will be a short blog post, and scattered.

Underneath the art collection, the gorgeous condo filled with books and flowers, the Savile Row suits, the fact that he can be the most attentive and intellectual and polite gentleman in public…

…he is, at heart, feral. The Surgeon was the same way.  This one expresses it differently.

I never thought I would meet a man more extreme than myself (the Attorney proved me wrong, but he was an exception.) The Collector is. My part in this weird relationship is that I enable him to go crazy and indulge in whatever crazy fantasies come up in his mind. I make all of the sadists worse, because I’m fearless and have very few limits. I admit this.

Another thing he does is push and push my boundaries and limits. When I Top as a prodomme, I push just enough to make it exciting–nobody wants a boring session, unless they are a novice and scared to death. I don’t push hard enough to make them safe out.

The Collector pushes until I’m about to call it off, which really says something, and then he senses it and reels me back in by being gentle and letting me off the hook.  What I feel instead of anger is gratitude.

My last therapist, who thought my sadomasochism was pathological, actually had a point when he said, “You only cut off one of my hands! Thank you for not cutting off the other one!”

I care about my beauty, meaning my figure and my face. That’s how I make my living, at least partially. Otherwise, my physical integrity means nothing to me and never has.  Time will take its toll soon–I’m not a spring chicken anymore.  I still look conventionally “good” and can rock a bikini.

Dangled from an O ring in the ceiling? Perched on a 3″x 6″ whilst getting the single-tail (which, incidentally, I taught him how to use)? All of the games?  The Collector, unlike the Surgeon, is creative. He always has something new to use on me.

This shit with his boys…?!  He actually told Elder One–in English, in front of me–“My girlfriend is more beautiful than yours.”

I wanted to die. Why is he competing with his son?

I’m sorry to lay this on my 8 readers, but I can’t talk to anyone else.

Thanks for reading this bummer of an essay.

THE SON KNOWS

I guess it was bound to happen eventually, but that doesn’t make it any easier:

The Elder One confronted me about my BDSM relationship with Dad, the Collector.

The Collector and I have been going through a rough patch. I left early and came back to my apartment to work in San Francisco. My regulars all wanted to see me again.

The Collector threw a fit and threatened to buy the house I live in.

“Please don’t make me buy real estate in that town, of all places,” he said on the phone.

“Why the hell would you buy this house? To evict me from my apartment?”  I couldn’t believe it!

“So that I have a legal right to be there.”

I hung up on him.

Well, sure enough, the guy flew across the country and dropped by my apartment unannounced.

And get this: he let himself in. Unbeknownst to me, he’d taken my keys out of my purse and made copies of all of them (except the car key. What would he do with a 20-year-old Toyota Camry?).

Here I am, sitting at the computer in underpants and a camisole, watching Game of Thrones re-runs, and a guy lets himself in without knocking and runs up the stairs.

The last time a man let himself into my home was the Surgeon, paying his final house call, and we all know how that worked out.

I freaked out.  I had to freak out!  What would you do, if you were a woman?  Besides being hostage in a Bosnian rape camp or living in Afghanistan, I think home invasion is every woman’s worst nightmare. A guy breaks into your house, and the best thing that’s going to happen to you is being raped.

Well, I freaked out and pulled my gun on him.  Yeah, I’m not proud of it, but can you blame me?  Legally, I could have killed him and gotten away with it. He’s not on the lease! I have every right to kill a home invader!

Abe was chirping and playing with his bell toys on top of the cage and he froze. Birds are sensitive. They feel the emotion in the room. When the Surgeon made his house call, all the birds froze and huddled together, and they didn’t play or vocalize for days afterward.

In the end, I couldn’t do it.  I like to think I’m tough, but I just couldn’t do it.

“Is this it? Are you going to take my life, Margo?”  I had a gun pointed at his head.  It’s only a .32, but it would do the job.  He averted his face, but otherwise he was completely unruffled.

I’m not going to lie: it was completely surreal. I carry a knife and I have a concealed carry permit.  In sessions at work, I have a sun gun that looks exactly like a cell phone.  I’ve never pulled a weapon on anyone in my life, though there’s a handful of bad apple “clients” who would have deserved it.  I’m a prodomme, but I’m not really a violent person.

I lowered the gun and went to lay it down on the coffee table.

“Do I need to unload this? Are you going to take it away from me and shoot me?”

“Of course not. I love you.  I just want to talk,” he said.

Yeah, I just want to talk is exactly what the Surgeon said when he banged my door down. If you just want to talk, you don’t have to say it.

“How did you get in here? I locked the door.”

“I made copies of your keys.”  He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I started crying.  I am not a crier–I cry maybe 10X/year–but this was just too much stress.

He picked me up and carried me to the bedroom.

“I don’t want to have sex,” I said.  Believe me, I was not in a sexy mood.

“Let’s just lie down.”

I am pleased to report that I did not have sex with him after that egregious boundaries violation. He went to a hotel that night. But, yes, we talked.

A few days later, the Elder One gives me a ring on Skype.

“I hear you pulled a gun on Father! I would have paid money to see that! You should have shot the bastard! Shoot him next time!  I’ll take care of you out of my inheritance!”  He was overjoyed.

“I’m not going to kill your dad,” I said.

“Dump his selfish, abusive ass!  What a loser!”

“Your father is not a loser by any objective standard. He wins at everything he does.”

“Well, he lost my mother, he lost his last wife, he’s losing you, and he’s going to lose me once I finish Law School. That is a loser to me.”

Readers, this is where the shit hit the fan:

This boy actually said, “I know that he hits you, and I don’t like it.  I see the bruises because he makes you wear skimpy clothes.”

I just sat there.  I was completely pole-axed.

What I eventually spit out was, “You don’t need to worry about that. Everything that happens between your father and me is consensual.”

“I am not a coward who hits women! How can it be consensual? How can you consent to being abused?”

What am I going to do, readers? I don’t want to give this kid a “birds and the bees” lecture about sadomasochism. My sex life is none of his business and I don’t want to gross him out! At the same time, how can I set his mind at rest?

He went on.  I really wanted to hang up the Skype and claim the internet went down, but that would be disrespectful. The young man had something to say. Maybe it’s my professional educator, but if they’re speaking from the heart, young people deserve a voice, and the Collector says constantly that we are a family. I can never be his Mom, but I can be his friend.

“I hate talking about this. It is awkward. I have heard people having sex. A lot of sex happens at (my boarding school). The noises that I hear coming from his bedroom do not sound like sex.”

What can I say? He’s not WRONG. If I wasn’t into BDSM, I’d think there was something abusive going on, too.  It still made me feel like a freak, and I was humiliated that I’d made that much noise. The boys stay in bedrooms in a separate hallway, and when they visit I try to keep the vocalizations to squeaks.

“Your father and I are sexually compatible. I’m not abused. You don’t have to worry about that,” is all I could think of to say.

“Everyone is bribed or abused.  Call me any time.  I have classes, but I will call you back.”

“Well, thank you. You know I am happy to proofread any of your papers.”  It was an idiotic statement, given that he has the best education money can buy and he’s completely fluent in English, but I wanted to offer something.

Imaginary Boyfriend: Elvis Presley

Well, it’s Christmas Eve. I have to suffer through Christmas tomorrow. I thought I’d celebrate with another Imaginary Boyfriends post!

Elvis Presley.

I gravitate towards blondes, but was there a more handsome man on the planet?  And couldn’t he rock out?  Couldn’t this guy sing? Listen to the MUSIC. This stuff had piano and horns in it. What happened to rock n roll? It was folksy and bluesy. I know he ripped off Black artists, but, jeez.

I’ve read three biographies about him. He became totally deranged in later adulthood. Very sad, but not surprising when you live in a fishbowl.

My father saw him in Oklahoma in the 50s, when he was still very young (both my father and Elvis). Claimed the performance was “electrifying.” If he could get my German-American father to dance, he was doing something right.

My mother saw him twice. The first time, she said he was great.  The second time, in the 70s, she said he was sweating his ass off and kept forgetting his lines.

The addict in me really sympathizes.

The man came from dirt poor Tupelo, of all places, and conquered the music world. Wasn’t a half-bad actor, either, though he mostly got crappy rolls.

He didn’t deserve to die the way he did. If he was born in more modern times, he could have gone to rehab.

What’s in the Closet?

Sorry to burden you with this, readers, but I have a new episode in my tales of relationship awkwardness.

The last time I visited New York for the weekend, the Collector had to run to work to put out a fire on Saturday, and I was left in the house with Elder One, who is in his Freshman year at a college in the Tri-state area.

Elder One avoids his father as much as possible, but when Dad whistles he always comes, even though I know he hates himself for it.  It’s complicated. He’s not like his little brother, who still idolizes the Collector.

Well, I saw my chance and took it.  This question I am about to share with you, readers, has been bugging me for two years, and I thought maybe the son would have insight.

I went down the other hallway and cautiously rapped on the door.  I’d never come to his room before.

He opened it.  I could see books and papers open all over his bed, along with his laptop.  He was writing a paper.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your work,” I said.

“It’s okay.  What is it?”

Can I ask you something about something in the house?”

“What?” he looked confused.

“Let me show you,” I said, and gestured for him to follow me to the other side of the house.

There is a door to a room there.  The door is fingerprint-protected.  Meaning that you have to push your thumb print on a scanner in order for the door to open.

I have no idea what is in that room.  It has plagued me, like I said, for more than two years.  I’d like to think it holds sensitive documents for the clients he does work for.  But if that was all it was, wouldn’t he just tell me that? I’ve asked him several times.

“What do you have in there?” I’d ask the Collector, trying to make a joke of it.  “Hacked up body parts in freezers?”

“Do you have any idea what could be in this closet?  Do you know how to get into it?”  I asked the son.

He shook his head.  “Can’t get into it.  I’ve seen this door, too.  I don’t know.  It must be confidential documents for work.  Things that can’t go onto the computer, because people are afraid of corporate espionage and hacking. It’s the only thing I can think of.”

“If that’s the truth, why won’t he just tell me that when I ask?”

“Because he loves power and playing mind games.”

Well, can’t argue with that.

“Now, let me ask you something,” he said.

“Yes?”

I followed him into the big room, where the bookcases go up to the ceiling. Here and there are spaces for showcasing small works of art.

He pointed way up towards the ceiling.  “What the fuck is that?

Oh, I knew exactly what it was, all right. I’d been questioning the Collector about whether it was wise to publicly display it since I first saw it there.  I know that even he is on the fence about displaying it, which is why he put it up as far as possible…but the man thinks that he’s the sovereign of his home (not really wrong) and he can do whatever he wants.

It’s a Medieval torture device that goes around the unfortunate subject’s head.  If you want details, I can send them to you.  There’re videos on YouTube about this; it’s published in several books I know of.

I froze for a moment.  Be honest, or lie?  Be honest, or lie?

I lied.  This kid does not need to know any more than he must already suspect about his father’s odd sexuality. And, jeez, I was embarrassed, too.  But mostly I was thinking of him.

“I have no idea.  I never gave it much thought.  It must be armor for war, right?” I said, trying to sound befuddled.

“Sure!” he sneered, and started walking back to his room.  “Pardon me. I have to finish my paper.”

He knows I lied to him.

When They Won’t Let You Up (BDSM Nightmares)

Let us discuss one of the worst things that can happen to you when you’re being submissive:

You’re tied up and the guy won’t let you go when you safe out and ask for it.

It’s happened to me twice.  Which, given my significant experience with about two dozen tops, says a lot.

Both times were terrifying.

The first, and by far the worst, was with my restraining-order Ex, John. It was December in Lake Tahoe and there was a foot of new snow on the ground; more coming down every minute. It was the middle of the night. I could not have gotten out of that house without snowshoes.  Even if I called the cops, they would not have been able to come. There was no auto traffic that night.

He started being a rude, abusive jerk, ignoring my limits, during the session. I was dressed in a fishnet body stocking with my arms locked behind me.

I safed out and asked him to let me go. I wasn’t a shrieking basket case, either (not that it would matter if I WAS a shrieking basket case). I called it off and expressed myself in very clear words.

The guy would. not. let me go.

“Why did you agree to do (this thing) and then renege?”

I kept repeating, “Let me up. Let me up.”

I kept thinking, I am going to get raped and I cannot get away from this man, even on foot. This is going to happen.

He kept asking me why I “reneged.”

He tortured me for about an hour.  I was terrified, but holding my composure. Eventually, he did release me.

I ran to one of the spare bedrooms and locked the door behind me.  He proceeded to pound on it, yelling that he never should have let me up until I was “broken.”  Yeah, I’m not making that up.

He broke the door down.

The next morning, I had to endure shoveling the driveway with him in order to get a ride home.  He had snow tires.

I broke up with him once I was in my apartment. We stayed broken up for 5 months.

Eventually, due to his relentless efforts, I took him back.  And I stayed.

I stayed for five more years.

A Wonderful Client

I just wanted to express appreciation for a great, generous man today.

I left rehab (I’m still going to outpatient rehab for my drinking problem) early to attend a session with a new guy.

I came home, made sure my apartment was spotless, and got all leathered up (he’s a leather fetishist) and did my hair and makeup all pretty, and the jerk NO CALL NO SHOWED.

I understand that 80% of my clients are married and scheming around to see me.  I understand they are lying to get away from work or their families. I get it.  I really do.  One little thing goes wrong, and they can’t get away to see me.

But you stand me up, and you can’t even email me to apologize and cancel?

Well, I tweeted about it, because I was pissed.  Twitter is stupid, but, for some reason, I love it.  Very passive form of communication.

In rushes a longtime, established client, who actually knows about my blog and who has been in my home.

He shot me $200 to “make sure I was okay.”  He saved the day! Normally, I’m very wary of a man trying to give me unearned cash, but I’ve known him for over a year and I know he’s not trying to manipulate me/bully me with money.

You know a good man when he puts his money where his mouth is.  A good man wants to take care of the women in his life, because he KNOWS that we are taking care of him.

I will date a poor man.  I will never again date a cheap one. Crucial distinction.

Thank you so much for your help.  You saved the day, Sir. Next session is on me.

Client Misconceptions

Allow us to discuss client misconceptions.

I know these because they have been expressed to me frequently for about ten years now.  The men have spoken them into my ear. I know about that of which I speak.

First and foremost: we are all rich.  They imagine me reclining on a sofa being fanned by submissives, dripping in diamonds, eating fruit. NOPE. Most sex workers are working class. I am on the upper end of this, because I’m white, educated, and Aryan-looking.  I’m not young anymore, but I still look “good” and I’m skinny.

Another one: we do it because we’re constantly randy.  Men think we are nyphomaniacs. Dudes looooove this one! I have had so many men say, “If I was a woman, I’d do this, too!”  If you could last one day in this industry, I’d eat your shorts. I have a very high libido. It is not, however, my motivation to be in this job.  I have a lot of fun in my good sessions. I seldom get turned on. Because boundaries.

“Daddy Issues!” Can’t get you wrong about that one (speaking for myself), but half the women in Congress have the same problem. Also, nobody asks guys how many have mommy issues. Hear me now, believe me later: it’s a lot. A LOT of guys have mommy issues.

“Sex Trafficking!” It exists and it’s awful. Why a man would bring this up to me during a prodomme session is a real head-scratcher. I suppose it does suggest he has a soul. However, I am clearly not trafficked. Furthermore, what sort of mentality does it take to presume the woman you are seeing is “trafficked” and then want to book her anyway?

 

The Surgeon’s Parrot

It’s a blast from the past: I’m going to write a little something about the Surgeon.

I was thinking about him recently because when I work in San Francisco I board my parrot, Abe. The boarder keeps many parrots. Some of them are Amazons.  The Surgeon had a Yellow-napped Amazon.

People who are not bird people do not understand what intelligent and highly emotional beings parrots are. They are not mammals, obviously, but they feel love and fear and all the other basic emotions. They bond to you, fall in love with you.

The Surgeon’s Amazon was bonded to him.

The Surgeon neglected him because he was working all the time and he was basically a neglectful person in regard to his personal relationships. The parrot is a personal relationship.

He did not take him out of his cage or play with him on a regular basis.  All he said was, “He’s such a good-looking bird.”  Yes, he’s a good-looking bird, but do you KNOW him?

You buy an animal because you think it’s an ornament? It fits in with your house decor?

Well, one day he let it out, and the parrot flew across the room and bit him on his face.  He had to go to the emergency room and get stitches.  The bird did this not because it was cruel, but because its heart was broken.

After that, he did not let the Amazon out of his cage. Soon after, the Surgeon dropped him off at the dog pound. “Bird is history!” he texted me.

I said, “You left your exotic bird at a dog pound?”  This man is a multi-millionaire. There are parrot sanctuaries. Alternatively, he could have gone to a local avian vet to inquire about re-homing the bird.

“He cost thousands of dollars! I’m sure he’ll find a good new home!”

The Surgeon has daughters.

Of this much, I am sure: what happened to your parrot will happen to them. Your daughters will attack you the minute they have autonomy.

Photo Disaster: Please Advise

UPDATE: Thank you all for your input. I read every comment more than once, and I also got more than one email and IM.  Readers gave me very very considered thoughts here.  I want to express my appreciation.

I have decided that I am not going to say anything.  And that’s not because I’m afraid of confrontation (you all know that).  It’s because the younger one’s comfort and security must take priority. If I bring this up with him, he’s just going to be mortified as fuck. He knows what he saw, I know what he saw, he knows I know what he saw.  I mean, what is going to be good about re-hashing it?  This isn’t burying my head in the sand, it’s just trying to give younger one some privacy.

I am really worried this is going to screw up my relationship with younger one.  I like him so much, and he is very much a kind young lad. He did nothing wrong.

THIS IS WHAT WORRIES ME:

The Collector is not a man who makes mistakes.  This is a very calculating individual.  He is not sloppy.

What worries me is that he left that folder out on his desktop because he knew his son would see it. That folder did not get there by accident.

*                         *                     *

 

Well, I have a fucked up situation on my hands and could really use some advice.

Some months ago, the Collector took me on a vacation to Thailand.  We had a blast.  It was a really fun trip and he was the perfect boyfriend the entire time.  Good sex, good food, beautiful hotel, rode the elephants in the jungle, watched Muay Thai fights two nights in a row, did the tourist thing and drank snake blood, all that good stuff.

Well, one day it was raining hard all day long so we just stayed in the hotel suite and played around all day.  I went down to the salon and got my hair and makeup done, and then I let the Collector take photos of me in different lingerie outfits.  He has a great camera and I’ve done some modeling, so I know how to pose.  Some of the pictures turned out great.  I seriously considered posting them here or in my prodomme ads, but it was an intimate time with my partner, and I didn’t want to violate that.

The pictures were not pornographic, but they are definitely provocative.  I would not want my Mom to see them, even though I’m dressed in all of them. Think Maxim magazine or Playboy‘s lingerie issue.  Me on the bed, me on the couch, me straddling a chair, cupping my boobs over my bra, silhouetted against the window.  You know what I’m talking about.

Fast forward to recently.  The Collector’s youngest son, who is now 15, flies in from Switzerland to visit Dad and his brother, who is going to a college in the Tristate area.

He had to finish a paper for school and e-mail it to his instructor.  Well, he spilled a drink on his laptop and fried it.  Laptop is ruined.  Thank God he saved his work on Dropbox.

He didn’t have time to go to BestBuy and get a new one because he was working under a deadline and HAD to finish this paper, so he asked if he could use Dad’s computer in the library.  This is a “public” computer–it’s not the one the Collector uses for business in his office. I’ve used this computer, the boys use the computer, guests use this computer.

Young one worked on that computer all day long.

(You see where this is going, right?  I know you see where this is going.)

That evening, the young one started to act strangely around me.  He was withdrawn and didn’t want to hang out and chat with me, or play chess or a video game (the video games drive the Collector crazy, but as long as the boy keeps his grades up, he doesn’t nag about it too much).  I felt kinda like he was avoiding me.  And his Dad, too, for that matter.  Not that the Collector noticed–or, if he did, he didn’t say anything.

It took me about two days to realize the problem was ME, for reasons I will explain.  I just assumed the kid was having some personal issue–maybe a problem with a girl, or a friend, or a bully at school, though I couldn’t imagine him getting bullied, since he’s good-looking and big for his age.  Or, hell, maybe he was just being moody.  Teenagers get moody sometimes.  Hell, everyone gets moody sometimes.

“Is something troubling you, (Younger One)?” I asked.  I thought we’d spent enough time together that it was appropriate for me to inquire. “You seem a little upset.  Is it just my imagination?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said.

So then–THEN–I went to the computer to look up a restaurant menu to order some sushi delivery.

Guess what is there, my 8 readers! Guess what is there on the fucking desktop.

A folder named “Margo’s Sexy Vacation Pics.”

I clicked it.

YUP.  About a hundred photos of me in my sexy underwear looking seductively at the cameraman who is obviously the younger one’s father, the Collector.

The desktop is immaculate.  The desktop on my computer is complete chaos–it’s so cluttered that if that file was on it, it would probably escape notice. On THIS computer, though, it is practically the only file there.

My stomach flipped over and my heart started pounding.

The younger one HAD to have seen those photos.  I mean, “Margo’s Sexy Vacation Pics?”  How could he resist clickbait like that?  I know I couldn’t!  I can’t even blame him!  I would have clicked it, too!

I deleted the entire folder and then emptied the recycle bin.  I felt sick to my stomach.  I felt humiliated.

Then I went to see the Collector and told him that I needed to speak with him in private.  We went to his bedroom.

“Why the fuck did you have our vacation photos on that computer? On the desktop?  I thought they were supposed to be on your private computer and password protected!  The young one SAW those photos!”

The Collector just chuckled. Unbelievably.

“Relax. I’m sure he sees much more explicit content on the internet on a regular basis. Besides, you look great.”

That sound you hear is my jaw, hitting the floor.

“He sees more explicit stuff on the internet, but not of his father’s girlfriend!” I yelled.

“I am sure he did not mind seeing those pictures,” he said, still smiling.

“Of course he minds! That’s why he’s acting weird around me!  Those pictures sexualized me to him!  And they also suggest something about his father’s sex life!  The last thing any kid wants to think about is their parent’s sex life!  He’s probably freaked out!  Collector, you could have just ruined my relationship with younger one!”

“I doubt it. He may look at you differently from now on, though.  You are right about that.  I’d be surprised if he hasn’t noticed you that way before, however.  He’s not blind.”

I was so fed up that I just walked out.

This is my question, readers.  Please advise:

Do I approach the younger one and say something like, “Oh, hey, I think you might have seen some pictures of your father and myself from our vacation in Thailand.  Of me in my bikini and stuff.  I’m sorry that you saw those photos.  They were supposed to be private.  I really hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.” And just leave it at that?

OR do I just say nothing and wait for it all to blow over?  HOPING that it ever blows over?  Pretend like it didn’t happen?

Readers, what do I DOOOOO?