Miss Margo Offers Sensitivity Training

    After rolling out of bed this morning to find yet another email from a complete stranger informing me that AA and 12-Step Programs “don’t work” and that the recovery rate for addiction is only 5%-10%, I wanted to take this opportunity to offer lessons in sensitivity and tact.

     Repeat after me: It is not helpful to tell an addict who is fighting for her life, and whose last relapse almost killed her, that her recovery program doesn’t work.

     Let me reiterate: It is not helpful to tell an addict who is fighting for her life, and whose last relapse almost killed her, that her recovery program doesn’t work.

      I do not need YOU, random strangers of the internet, to “educate” me about alcoholism or the problematical aspects of AA.  Besides the fact that I am a highly intelligent woman and a critical thinker who has read the medical literature and most of the important books on these subjects, I have extensive experience as a fucking atheist in AA in New York.  I have been to almost every fucking meeting in Lower Manhattan.  I am intimately familiar with the “problems” of AA.  I do not need you to tell me about them, but thank you, so very much, for your unsolicited opinion about why I am a drunk and what I can, or cannot do about it.

       You don’t have to like AA.  I don’t like it myself.  But whatever you think about it, for most addicts, it is the only game in town.  If you want to spam your Salon and Psychology Today (truly august publications, btw, real top-shelf reading) about how AA is a useless religious cult to anyone, maybe you should send them to members of the psychiatric establishment, because unfortunately this is the best that modern medicine has to offer alcoholics.  

      More importantly, I want to ask: what is wrong with you to want to discourage or erode the hope of someone who is trying to survive and build a healthy, fulfilling life?

       Seriously.  What the fuck is wrong with you?  Do you have any idea how scared and miserable–and, indeed, desperate–most people are when they finally resort to AA?  

       If someone had cancer, would you forward them an article saying that you really hoped they survived, but btw, this is the success rate of the chemo?  5%–10% recovery rate?

      No?  You wouldn’t do that?

      Then why are you doing it to me?

That Awkward Moment

      That awkward moment when you’re sitting in group therapy with the rest of the losers in Rehab, and the lady next to you is complaining bitterly about her ex-husband divorcing her to be with a girl your age.  

       Another woman jumps in: “I hate it when men do that!  It’s not fair!  I just hate it that an older man with a little money can get a 25-year-old.  He doesn’t even have to have a lot of money.  Just some.”   

       You just sit there awkwardly, staring at the floor, feeling like there must be a blinking neon sign above your head that says “HOME-WRECKING WHORE.”  

       Yup.  It’s an ugly fact of life for women, and the resentment is, I think, completely reasonable.  It sucks.  It sucks shit through Hefty bags.

         Buuuuut…men have their own Hefty bags of shit to suck in their lives here on Spaceship Earth, too.  The last thing I want to do on this blog is go, “But what about TEH MENZ? They suffer, too!” BUT…I think that the resentment women feel about the guy running off with the much-younger woman  is probably comparable to the resentment men feel about women tending to prioritize men who have wealth and high social status.

       I don’t have a ton of sympathy for men, but I’ll give em sympathy for that.  That must really suck.  

       (It also must suck for a man to be short.  I’ve never understood why, but a lot of women I’ve spoken to just will not date short men. It’s a deal-breaker for a lot of women.  Me, I don’t care about that…maybe because I’m as tall as a man myself.)

        If I was a guy, I’d either die a little inside or have a rage-stroke every time I was reading a woman’s online dating profile and saw that she’d checked the box that said “I prefer only to be contacted by men who make more than $200,000/year.” (when I was on match.com, there was, indeed, an option)  Especially if the woman checking the box was just an average chick with no education and an average, boring job.  I’d be screaming at the computer screen, “Bitch, you have two kids from a previous marriage and you work at a Honda dealership!  Who the hell do you think you are to tell me I’m not good enough?”

         Yup.  That’s got to sting.  

          Do men discuss this phenomenon amongst themselves?  Surely they must.  I am not privy to those conversations, but I have seen high-status men with very attractive partners sort of gloat about it or rub it in around other guys.  The Surgeon got a huge kick out of it (though, to be fair, he is sort of an asshole).  He was so smug about it that it was actually a little embarrassing.

        Another point to be made, tangentially, about all of this: the power of looks. 

       Talk about unfair!  I think everyone gets fucked over, somehow, by the overwhelming human preference for beauty.

       I can’t stand to look at myself because I’m sick in the head, but I know that I am objectively good-looking.  My face and figure have been my fortune in life.  Since I’ve been an adult, and especially since I moved to New York, I have been stunned–fucking stunned–at the number of very wealthy, powerful men I have gained access to just because I was good-looking and willing to fuck them (and the brains to keep my mouth shut about it), or even just be seen in public with them.  For a woman, youth and beauty are hard fucking currency.  They’re money in the bank for men, too, but I think that good looks mostly just help men get laid a bit more often and make people in general treat you a little better.  A woman can totally transform her entire socioeconomic status if she’s beautiful and plays her cards right.  Men have given me economic support, access to their experience and professional resources, and a hell of a lot of expensive entertainment, just because they wanted to have sex with me.  I know that I’m pretty fun in bed, but let’s be honest: I would not have gotten any of those things, or been around any of those men, had I been ugly. 

      The education and the fact that I have a few brain cells to rub together helps, without a doubt.  These men don’t want to be embarrassed in public or around their colleagues by a bimbo when she opens her mouth.  I’m white trash, but I can pass myself off as bourgeois. (As an aside, that is the advice that I give to pretty young women whose retirement plan is “marry up:” get your fucking education.  No rich guy is going to marry you if you don’t have at least a bachelor’s degree.  He might love you, might keep you as a mistress or a girlfriend, but to marry you, he has to be able to integrate you into his life.  If all of his family and friends went to college–and they went, believe me–then you need to go, too.  Beauty school ain’t gonna cut it.  A woman at the Studio managed to reel in a zillionaire, and I’m begging her every time I see her to make him pay for her education and go back to school while he’s still around.  He’s married, so it’s not going to last.  The education is the only thing he can invest in her future, unless he’s stupid enough to knock her up.  Which could happen.  Some guys will do anything to get out of wearing a condom.  It boggles my mind.

      “Guilt-trip him with it!  It’s the least he can do for you!  You’re wasting time and youth on this married douchebag who makes $10 million a year! Believe me, he’ll want you to go back to school!  It’ll assuage his guilty conscience about running around on his wife and kids!  Suddenly, his cheating is an act of benevolence cause he’s helping the girl with her tuition!  What an act of selflessness!  He is the gracious benefactor of the Cheating Asshole Scholarship Fund for Homewrecking Whores with Self-Esteem Problems!  What a guy!  Nobless Obligue, or whatever it is! He gets to get out of feeling like a scumbag!  And you’re indebted to him and he doesn’t have to worry about you calling the wife in tears when you’re drunk at 3 AM!  See how that all works out?  The Surgeon covered me for two semesters, and it was the best thing he ever did for me!  And it’s fucking Rutgers!  It’s not even that expensive!  Get your ass back in class, woman!”  I wail.  

       If she doesn’t do it, in ten years, she’ll wish she had.  Because beauty is ephemeral.  Education lasts a lifetime and it is the only thing in life that nobody can take away from you.  If you’ve got the credentials, you’ve got the credentials forever

        I don’t know where I was going with this, so I guess I’ll end it with another awkward moment:  when you trip in the subway station and you drop your bag and it explodes with all this sex worker stuff: condoms, CBT rope, clothespins, nipple clamps, and a riding crop.  Extra points for a dildo.  Double extra points if the dildo is attached to a strapon harness.  

        Occupational hazard.

        I had to take my sex-work bag of gear to Rehab the other day.  I stared at it guiltily the entire time.  It was like The Tell-Tale Heart, except that it was The Tell-Tale Gear Bag.   But that’s okay.  At least it’s not booze.  

Dear Clueless Client

Dear Clueless Client,

      Yes, I’m looking at you, rich old guy who comes in to see me for a 30-minute session twice a month and who always asks me if you can give me oral sex.

       I can’t really call you an asshole, because every time I turn you down, you immediately back down, apologize, and the session goes on, your good mood unaffected.  You never pout or turn hostile when I reject you, and you keep coming back to see me, so, well, I guess you’re an alright guy.

       I just want to explain something to you.

       I don’t blame you for wanting to give me oral sex.  I find the request a little irritating, but I’m not offended by it.  Can’t blame a man for trying, I guess.

        What I do find offensive (not to mention confusing) is your cluelessness.  Somehow I just don’t think that you’ve thought this thing through.  

         Bear with me here:

         For a half-hour session, I make $60.  That is nice.  It pays my cell phone bill.  Thank you.

         However, there is not a self-respecting prostitute in New York who is not in the throes of severe drug withdrawal who is going to accept oral sex for $60.  It’s not going to happen.  

         I would respect you more if you went to your wallet, took out three bills with Benjamin Franklin on them, and asked me then.  I would still tell you no, but at least your request would make sense to me.  Because every time you come in, I am scratching my head, wondering what universe you live in where you think a prodomme could be bribed to let a stranger lick her pussy for half an hour for $60.  I think I would have an easier time wrapping my mind around Einstein’s Theory of Relativity than whatever it is that is going on it your brain when you make that request.  

        See you next week.

        Miss Margo

        P.S.  Just in case anyone is wondering, he is not one of those guys who only asks because he gets a thrill out of being rejected.  If I let him, he’d do it in a heartbeat.  He’s earnest.  

       

Confronting a Molesting Client

      The Studio acquired a new houseboy while I was away.  We’ll see if he lasts.  Most of them are excited by the fantasy, but quickly tire of doing real work, and men are useless as cleaners.  They have to be taught how to do it correctly.  Yesterday, this dude did the floors FIRST.  Who does the floors first…?  A man, natch.

       He kept sneaking looks at me and it got on my nerves.  The Studio is full of crazy bitches, but I have to say, one thing that I like about it is that apart from clients, it is a dude-free zone.   Readers will know that I am obsessed with men, but even I need a break from them every now and again, and a girl can spend a whole afternoon in the dungeon and not hear a single male voice unless it’s some poor loser screaming down the hall, and if you’re in a foul mood that screaming is music to your ears anyway.

       Houseboy kept looking at me.  I was sitting in back defragmenting my hard drive.  I think my laptop is dying.  It gets really hot.  One day soon it is going to burst into flames.

        I told him to stop looking at me.  I told him that I do not like a man in the locker room and the only reason he is allowed in back is so that he can sweep the floors.

       He said sorry, but he was STILL looking at me, and I lost it.  I lost my temper, which almost never happens.  

        I made him take his shirt, shoes, and socks off, threw a cup of water on his head, and left him outside on the roof for half an hour.  It was 29* outside. 

        The cold gets miserable in a hurry.  I learned that the hard way once when the Surgeon left me chained up in the closet for an afternoon.  We were in Florida in July and he’d cranked up the AC full blast and forgot to turn it off before leaving me.  By the time he got back it was fucking Siberia in that closet.  To his credit, it is one of the only times I saw him truly apologetic about something.  He gave me a warm bath.

        By the time I came to collect him, the houseboy was all red and holding his hands in his armpits and his nose was running.  I was in a bad mood, so I thought it was funny.  He was unhappy, but I bet you anything that he jerked off thinking about it when he got home.

         Yesterday I also told off a client for the first time in a year.  Life has really sucked recently, and I just ran out of fucks to give.

        The guy was supposed to see another mistress, but she was busy with family drama and couldn’t come in, so he rescheduled with me.  

        My heart sank the minute I got the news.  I’d seen this guy twice before, and I hated both encounters.  There are two positive things to say about him: he’s very clean and well-groomed, and he tips very well.  You’ll walk out with about $300.  That’s excellent money for an hour.

       But he has to tip well.  Otherwise, nobody would see him.

       He’s not a monster like Chopin…but he is a molester.  A boundaries-pusher.  He gets grabby.  He wants to cuddle and hug.

       And tickle.  That’s his thing.  He has a major tickling fetish.

      I don’t think I’ve blogged about tickling fetish as of yet.  I don’t have a strong opinion about it.  I think that I grasp the psychology behind it: just about everyone was tickle-tortured in early childhood by a sibling, parent, or babysitter.  It can hurt, but it’s also arousing. Vulnerability is involved.  It induces laughter, which is much less frightening or alarming than screaming.  I’ve talked to several tickle-fetish guys who report that their first conscious memory of having an erection was when they were being held down and tickled by an older girl.  So, yes, it makes sense.

      (side note: I have never met a woman with a tickle-fetish.  It seems to be a very dudeliocentric kink.)

      It does nothing for me.   I actually think it’s a bit lame.  But then, I sought out Abduction Weekend, so who am I to judge a man and his jones for tickling?

      I am not ticklish…just a little, on the bottoms of my feet.  This is good, because if I really was ticklish, I couldn’t do tickling sessions.  I’d lose my mind.  

      When I get a tickling session, I fake it.  It is very tedious. 

       So, yesterday…this  molesting client comes in for me.  

      First of all, he wants to “punish” me for being late.  I know it’s illogical, because he was just looking for a pretext to belt me, but I was irritated nonetheless because I was in the room and ready to go five minutes after he walked in the door.  I had everything prepared ahead of time.  

       Then I was tied down and the tickling started.  Whatevs.  I was doing my best.  I really was.  An Oscar-worthy performance.  Laughing, squirming, howling, the works.  

       And then, sure enough, about halfway through, the guy starts to get handsy. 

       I do not care if a man who pays me to be submissive cops a feel (so long as his hands are clean and he’s groomed) of my tits or my ass.  Truly, I don’t care.  I am a very practical woman and you can’t be in this business if you’re squeamish about physical contact. 

       But do not touch my face, don’t force eye contact when I’m in the submissive role, don’t touch me between my legs, and DO NOT TRY TO LICK ME ANYWHERE!

      Why, oh why, is this difficult for you to understand, Molesting Client?  

       Molesting Client starts forcing the eye contact.  Dude, I do not want to look into your face that is three inches away from mine while you tickle me.  Sorry, guy.  I just work here.  I do not want this image branded into my brain.  I do not want to have flashbacks of our special time together.  Stop telling me to look at you.

     Stop nuzzling my hair, please.  If you like the way my hair smells, you can go to Victoria’s Secret and buy some Amber Romance body mist.  It’s only $14.  

      Are you kissing the underside of my arm?  What is the matter with you?  You did not ask if you could do this.  

       You want to tickle me with an electric toothbrush?  The absurdity of this situation is starting to freak me out.

        You want to rub vaseline on my skin?  Over my ribcage?  What?

       Hahahhahaha…hey…no, sorry….can’t touch me there.  

      (three minutes later): Nope, please don’t touch me there.  No touching between  my legs, please.

      (Two minutes later): Quit it.  That’s illegal.

      Then Molesting Client puts his tongue in my ear.

      I was done.  It was over 50 minutes into the session anyway.  He got his money’s worth.

      I slipped out of my wrist cuffs and stood up from the table.

     “You’re not supposed to be able to do that!” he said, taken aback.

     “Do you think I’d let a strange man tie me up?  What sort of moron do you take me for?”

      He just sat there in his white boxer shorts, looking like an idiot.

     I was angry, but I was very composed.  I went to the supply closet and took out the spray bottle of rubbing alcohol and the paper towels.  I started to spray myself down in front of him, so that he could see that I considered myself dirtied from his touch.

       He gaped at me.

      Then I said something.  I said something just as I’ve written it on this blog.  I never thought I’d actually say this to a client, but I did:

      “Let me ask you something.  Did it ever occur to you that I am a complex emotional creature who might be unwilling or unable to achieve orgasm with a complete stranger I met 30 minutes ago?”

      He sat there, totally stumped, like he was watching me sprout a second head.  Then he said: “But I’m not a stranger!  I’ve had sessions with you twice before!”

       “You ARE a stranger!  I don’t know you!  I don’t even know your name, buddy!  What makes you think you can touch my privates or give me an orgasm?  You’re not my boyfriend!  What makes you think you get that intimacy?”

        He looked stunned.  I just can’t imagine it.  What is with these men and their empathy deficit?  

         “I thought you liked it.  I wanted to give you pleasure.”

       “I told you to stop three times.  How many times do you have to hear it?  Do you know that you have a reputation in this place?  Mistress X told me that the last time you had a session with her, you kissed her on the mouth.  She brushed her teeth afterward and said that you were gross.  You need to hire a fetish-friendly escort.  It will only be a little more expensive and she will let you touch her.  At the very least, you need to tell fetish workers in dungeons what you want to do to them BEFORE the session starts to make sure that they are comfortable with it.”

       More staring.  I guess I blew his mind.

      Then: “You’re making me out to be like a rapist.”

       “Well, you’re not a rapist, as best I know, but you do exist on the continuum of sexual assault.”

       “Like how?  Didn’t you want it?”

      “I told you NO.  You know that asking a stranger to tickle her in her ‘special places’ and then groping her crotch is ILLEGAL, right?  Why would I think that was sexy?”

      He says: “You’re making me feel bad.”

       Oh, so now I’m responsible for your feelings.  Sorry I made you feel bad, dude.  I am the one with the memory of your wet tongue in my ear, but I made you feel bad for telling you that I didn’t like it.

      He looked sad…as if I’d broken his favorite toy.

       Then he took out his wallet and tried to give me money.

       “Keep your money,” I said.

        “I insist,” he said, standing there with $100 in his hand.

        “I don’t want your bribe.  And if you tell management that I was mad at you, I am going to tell them that you touched my vagina.  All the other women know about you.  You shouldn’t come back here unless you behave yourself.  I think you should see an escort willing to meet your needs.” 

       There are not many feelings better than telling a rich man that you don’t want his money.  It stuns them.  Threatens their whole world view. 

       What a jerk.

        If you are a fetish worker in NYC and want this man’s info, please contact me and I’ll tell you how to identify him.  He’s not a dangerous psycho, but he is a boundaries-pushing molester, and IMO he’s not worth the money.  He’s gross.  

I Want You To Come

     “I want you to come.”

      Of all the requests that I get at my Secret Job, this is the one that bothers me the most. 

     Not the requests for footjobs or traditional sexual services (that is slightly annoying, but I actually can’t blame a guy for trying, as long as he asks in a straightforward and polite manner and doesn’t pout or turn hostile when I gracefully decline).  Not the requests for my real name, or where I was born, or what I studied in school.  Not the requests for full nudity.  Not even the requests for my phone number, or that we go out on a “real date.”  I can cope with all of these and even continue to hold the man in high esteem, depending on how he acts when I tell him “no.”  

      The request (and sometimes it’s not even a request, but an expectation–something taken for granted, even, like an entitlement) that I have an orgasm in session, or even masturbate, is the one that I find truly offensive.  

      It really bothers me, too.  It sticks in my craw.  It angers me.  I find myself thinking about the request, and the man who made it, long after the session has ended, and I start to fume.  

      The request almost always comes from male doms, natch.   All 8 of the male subs who are reading this can give yourselves an affectionate pat on the head (or a kick in the ass, if that’s more satisfying for you, ha ha).  Male subs sometimes have boundaries issues, but this is not one of them.  Even if they fantasize about it and wish that I would, they know better than to ask.

      (Which isn’t to say that I don’t get turned on sometimes when I’m the domme in a session.  That does happen from time to time.  A really good sub–usually a masochist–that I have chemistry with is like a good dance ballroom dance partner: he can bring out the best in me and make me look a hell of a lot better than I normally would.)

      It’s the male doms who want me to get off.  

      I understand the fantasy from their point of view–really, I do.  To have that power (as they perceive it, anyway) over my body.  The desire to see me vulnerable.  The control.  The validation of their ego and masculinity.  Even–if they’re the more sensitive, generous-natured types–the earnest desire to give me pleasure and joy. 

     I still hate it. 

     I am here for them.  They are paying for a service.  Now, it’s a very intimate service…and I give as much, emotionally, to my clients as I think I can safely allow.  Because this isn’t an act to me.  This really is an expression of my sexuality and personality.  I did not end up in this job by accident.  

      But there are boundaries.  There are limitations.  These male doms who want to see me come…I want to ask them (and one day, before I retire, I WILL ask one of them):  Did it ever occur to you that I am a complex emotional creature who might be unwilling or unable to achieve personal sexual gratification with a total stranger I met 30 minutes ago…?  

      Of course it didn’t occur to you!  You’re a dude! 

      You are not my boyfriend, dude.  I just met you.  You hired me for an hour.  I take this job seriously and I want to give you the experience you want to have…but that’s what it is: a service.  You do not get an all-access VIP backstage pass to my private sexuality.  You do not get to give me an orgasm.  Frankly, I am very fucking offended that you presume to do so.  I can understand the desire to do so, but to actually presume to implement it…? 

      Some men see sex workers, and their entire concept of boundaries and good manners and perspective goes right out the window.  Sometimes, I think it’s because they don’t respect us whatsoever and therefore don’t feel obligated to treat us like “normal” women.  More often, I think it’s because these particular men have too much entitlement and an empathy deficit, and they don’t even bother to give a thought to how the woman perceives the situation.  I think they think they think something like: I’m turned on and this is a sexy situation for me, so she must be turned on, too!

     If you’ve stayed with me this far, gentle reader, you may be wondering: So, how does she handle it…?  What does she tell these guys…?

     Well, I don’t tell them, but I will tell you: I fake it.

      Fake it, fake it, fake it till you make it, fake it to the bank and back.

      I almost never fake it in my private life.  I come very easily with my boyfriends.  On rare occassions, when I was sick or chafed, or when I’d had too much to drink and knew that it just wasn’t going to happen, I’d fake it to make the man more excited and get it over with.  Rare, like I said. 

      With these male dom clients, though…?  Fake, fake, fake. 

       (There are a few exceptions–clients who have cultivated a relationship, and my trust, over the course of many months.  Fortinbras is one such man, so is Mr. Wolf.  They get more of me.)

       It’s sort of funny, their conceit, and the way they eat it up–they really believe it.  But at the same time, it’s insulting to even have to fake it.  Yes, it’s a job, and yes, I’m being well-compensated, and I believe that the wage for labor is equitable, and that is why I’m doing it.  

      Yet there is something degrading about the entire charade.  It makes me feel very hostile.

      And look…I’ve written this huge blog post, and I have no idea how to end it.  Oh well.  I’m not submitting it for a grade. 

Drive Her Out

    It’s four in the morning and I’ve been trying to sleep for hours.  No dice.  That means that I am going to look and feel like shit tomorrow for my clients.  I am at an age where a little visine and moisturizer doesn’t disguise it all.  I mean, you know you look bad when the clerk at the local bodega says: “You look tired.”  

      Attention, men: You look tired is a euphemism for You look old.  Don’t say that to women!  We don’t want to hear that shit!

       I’m also freezing my ass off.  The radiator heat isn’t coming on, and my only space heater is directed towards the birds.  

       I also need a man to take my air conditioning unit out of my window and put it on the curb downstairs, but, as usual, there is no man around.  I keep telling myself that I need to start dating again, but I get so tired of dealing with men at work that I just cannot bring myself to turn on my OK Stupid profile and start lying to potential boyfriends right out of the gate.  

       I can’t wait for the semester to start.  It helps me keep one foot in the normal world.

       But….since I’m not in the normal world this month, let me give you a little dungeon gossip.

        The crop of new girls–some of whom have been absorbed from the recent closure of two commercial houses–really sucks.  Not all of them…but there are about five who are either irritating, completely oblivious to social boundaries, or possessed of some major character disorder. 

         Or stupid.

          Let me tell you about the dumbest one.

        This chick is so stupid that I think she is about ten IQ points away from an institution.  

         I don’t know how he gets up in the morning, puts on pants, and comes to work.  I don’t know how she buys groceries or pays her cell phone bill.  I don’t know how she completes the most basic daily functions of adult life.  I would not trust this woman to make toast.

           You know how you go into a room sometimes to get something, and when you get there, you realize that you totally forgot what you came there to get?

           She does that all the time.  All. The. Time.  She bursts into the room or my office, usually when I’m trying to concentrate on something, and looks around with this idiotic smile on her face.  Then she walks out.

         A few weeks ago, she mentioned that she was studying for a final.  I had to bite the insides of my mouth to keep from snarking: What final?  You’re in school?  For what?  An Official Certificate in Basket Weaving? 

         Now, you can’t blame someone for being stupid.  Or at least, I don’t.  People have different intellectual gifts.  Hell, I teach.  I know this.

         There is another problem.  Two of them, actually.

        First, she’s a bitch.  I hate to use gendered insults, but I can’t think of anything else to call her.  She’s a bitch.  She has a very rude, abrasive demeanor.  It’s so bad that I can’t be in the same room with her.  She ruins my mood.  You’ll be having a conversation with someone else, and she’ll break in repeatedly with comments that are not topically relevant.

         Two, she’s a thief.  Steals other people’s food out of the fridge, even if it has their name on it.  She stole my chicken, and when I confronted her about it (SHE WAS EATING IT IN FRONT OF ME!), she just laughed.  She steals equipment–I saw it in her locker, but I can’t prove it, because it was just generic black cuffs.  She cases other girls’ lockers.  She was at the manager’s desk one day, and the till came up short.  

         I do not trust this dumb bitch not to give a guy a blowjob in one of the rooms for an extra $50.  I do not trust her to put a guy in the latex vac bed and not accidentally kill him while she goes through his pockets.  I wouldn’t trust this bitch to operate a can opener, much less some of our equipment!

         I brought her up in the locker room the other day, and ignited an hour-long rant-fest.  Everyone in there had a negative story about her.  The tales of her idiocy were legion.  We’ve had some unpopular girls there before, but nothing, nothing like this!

         We sat down and had a little pow-wow about what we were going to do.  I swear to God, if I’d suggested that we all put bars of soap into socks and beat the shit out of her like that scene in Full Metal Jacket when she took a nap, every girl in the room would have gone along with it.


        We all reached an agreement.  A consensus.

       Drive her out. 

       Make her life a living hell until she leaves.

       And starve her–do everything possible to make sure she doesn’t make money (she’s got a plain face, but her body is pretty good, for the next two years anyway, till she hits 25).

        Send her to the worst clients, the ones none of us can stand.  Send her to Chopin.  That other gross dude who always tries to molest you.

        Don’t answer her questions.  Bite her head off when she tries to speak to you.

        I have never in my life–at least to my recollection–bullied another woman.  Never.  I’ve gotten intellectually aggressive with people in seminar, but that’s different–that blood sport is part of education.  I’ve done a few internet flame wars on politics listserves.  But bullying…?  No.  Because I am a Nice Polite Person.

        I am going to bully this one, however.  I can’t hit her in the stomach with a bar of Ivory in a gym sock…but I can do other things.

        My imagination is already at work.

        First up: bitch is getting a whole package of chocolate Ex-Lax.  I’m not even going to have to sneak it into her food.  I’m just going to melt it, put it into my fat-free chocolate milk, and leave it in the fridge with my name on it.  She stole my last two bottles.

         And then I am going to monopolize the bathroom, like some little 12-year-old girl on the phone.

        She will have to use the client bathroom (sorry, guys), which is gross.  I mean, it’s clean enough, but it has grody male client germs in it.  You don’t want to know who and what that bathroom has seen.  Trust me.

        Should we start a betting pool?  How long will it take a house full of dommes to get rid of her…?  A week?  A month?

        Drive her out.

Timewaster of the Year: HK Jackass

      Clients, take heed: this is a story of how not to conduct oneself!

      Break out your popcorn, 8 readers!  Time for a rant!  And I know you doodz love rants!  It gives all you subs instant boners, I know it does! 

       Manager was late getting to the Studio, so I was standing outside with my fat-free hot chocolate, freezing my balls off like one of Napoleon’s soldiers.  

       (I did see a Golden Retriever puppy wearing cute red rubber booties.  That was nice.  Oh boy, what a lovable dog, I got to pet him.) 

       Manager arrived and we took the elevator up and started to turn on all the lights and computers.

       Not five minutes later, there’s someone ringing the buzzer.

       We thought it was another mistress.  Had to be.  We weren’t even open for business yet.  So, we buzzed the person up.

         It was a man.  Without a reservation.  WTF. 

         I can’t even call him a client.  Miss Margo Christians thee “Time-Wasting Jackass from Hong Kong,” or “HK Jackass” for short.

          Normally, we’d ask him to come back later, but HK Jackass wanted an extended two- or three-hour session.  That’s a lot of money.  We can’t say no to that business.  

          The manager did not even have time to hang up her parka.  I wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup.  My hair wasn’t done.  I was carrying a plastic shopping bag with my breakfast of pineapple and an energy drink.  My intention had been to shower and shave immediately upon arrival.  No time for that!  I gave myself a birdbath with a wet soapy washcloth and started to spackle on the whoreface (dungeon slang for “apply full makeup”).  

         He spoke with the manager again.  He said that he wanted to see me…which was just as well, since I was the only one working. 

         “What are we going to do for the session?  What’s he into?” I asked.

         “I’m not sure yet.  I think latex fetish.”

         I groaned.  It was all I could do not to start knocking my forehead against the wall like my pet parrot knocks her beak on my bookcases.  

         Latex is a huge pain in the ass.  It’s not my thing, so I only have one very simple outfit of a skirt, halter top, and opera-length gloves…but even still, we’re talking at least 25 minutes to get dressed and shine it up.  

        “Let me go talk to him again, and then you can meet him in consultation and go over the particulars,” she said.

         She went in the room, and he held her hostage for at least half an hour, asking about other girls and when they would be in and the details of their fetish wardrobes.  It was unbelievable.  The manager still hadn’t taken her parka off.  I couldn’t relax, jump into the shower to shave my legs, or even start curling my hair or getting dressed in my rubber outfit, because he hadn’t formally booked the session and coughed up the cash.  

          Eventually, the manager came out and told me to get dressed.  He’d decided to stay and session with me.  Two hours.  And I had a pre-existing booking with a good regular in one hour, forty-five minutes, so the pressure was on me to get in there ASAP.

       I dressed as quickly as possible and went to talk to him.  

        When I entered the room, he was standing by the door with his coat on, luggage in hand. 

          “You know, I’m in a hurry right now.  Busy.  I’ll come back later,” he said. 


         ………………

        If I’d held a gun in my hand, I would have shot him dead.  On the spot.


         You are in a hurry, but you had an hour to waste with the manager, and two or three hours to spend in a session (or so you said)?

         (And–pop quiz!–do you think he ever came back? If you guessed NO, you’d be right!) 

          We escorted him to the elevator.  I peeled off my latex and took a shower.  Then I had to reapply my makeup.  My pineapple was warm.  So was my energy drink.  I was exhausted and fed up, and it was only 1 PM.   

        Clients: please do not be like HK Jackass.  Please, please please pretty please.

   

Parrot & Margo: Two Lonely Ladies!

       Parrot is freaking out again.  

       She constantly shreds the newspaper in her cage and chews on her wooden toys.  She is typically a quiet bird, but now she becomes agitated at the sound of traffic outside and she screams.  She knocks her beak against hard surfaces.  Knock…knock…knock.  Her eyes pinpoint and dilate, pinpoint and dilate.  

       I don’t try to touch her.  Usually she can’t get enough head scratches from me…but now I think that she’d hurt me.

       I think she’s going to lay an egg again.

       Parrot is lonely.  Parrot needs a boyfriend.  Parrot has sexual urges which torture her. 

         I feel you, Parrot.  I really do.

         Aside from the basketball player and the Navy crewman I picked up in the bar with my girlfriend, I have had no sexual experiences since Abduction Weekend.  Abduction Weekend was a hell of a ride, but I had no sex before that since the Mathematician.  My sex life sucks and I feel like I’m losing my mind.  I have primordial biological impulses that are not being satisfied.  This is making me miserable.  The only positive thing to come out of it is that I’ve been going to the gym every day to burn off the anxiety caused by the tension.  

        It’s almost time for Final exams and I can’t even grade papers.  That is how sexually frustrated I am (and Oh God, if my students’ parents ever read this, I will be canned for certain….oh dude, put that on my RateMyProfessors profile!).  Believe me, my students’ weekly 3-page essays are the most unerotic readings in the universe.  I still can’t concentrate.  I have to keep taking breaks to jump into bed.  I have weird dreams at night and I’m changing the sheets twice a week because I sweat and I’m the only one sleeping in my bed.  I want to burn my computer chair.  It’s fucking disgusting, what that computer chair has seen.  I keep scrubbing it with fabric cleaner and Fabreeze, I have such a guilty conscience, it’s like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story…instead of The Tell-Tale Heart, it’s The Tell-Tale Computer Chair.  

        It really says something when I’m looking forward to getting manhandled by some European tourist–a European tourist!  In a sweater!  A turtlenecked sweater!–this weekend because nobody’s laid their hands on me in forever.

        Yup!  Just me and Parrot, freaking out in our stupid little apartment with our sad little Christmas Tree!  Two sad females in the Lonely Hearts Club! 

         At least the bird doesn’t have a choice.  She has an excuse.  There are no Senegal Parrots flying free around Manhattan.  

        I watch UFC fights constantly in my free time.  I can’t stand meatheads and I object to violence on an intellectual level, but I become very excited watching the men fight.  I imagine that one of them was me (the loser, of course).  I imagine how helpless I would be.  I have experienced enough violence at the hands of men to be afraid of them.  The fear is mixed with awe.   

        Terror and awe.  Pain and awe.  Idolization.  Worship.  Service.  

    waiting waiting waiting

Let Me Tell You About My Crazy Internet Stalker

     I just want to say that I have a crazy internet stalker who has been emailing me 1-4 times a day for months.   He checks my blog obsessively and monitors my internet presence as best he can.  He uses an anonymous proxy and thinks that he’s invisible, but my software catches him and I see when he comes and goes.  I am not in the habit of monitoring 95% of my readers because there’s no point, but I do monitor this crazy fucktard.  

     Right now I’m engaged in a little standoff with this bastard.  I reached my breaking point when he announced his intention to move in with me.  He has quite a fantasy life, as the rest of you will see if he continues to harass me.  

     He lives overseas.  I have all of his ISPs and I know his operating system.  He has also sent me pictures of his house, his family, himself, and his useless, worthless cock.  

     I have consulted my attorney.  It cost me $150, so thanks for that, you crazy internet fucktard, but it was worth it.  His pathetic death threat is a crime and if he continues to antagonize me I am going to the police and the State Department.  He will be flagged at Customs when he tries to enter the country.

      If he continues stalking me, I am also going to publish every single one of his hundreds of email online.  I will set up a special blog for it, and a tumblr, and maybe even a WordPress.  It will take several days, but it will be a labor of love.  I will publish all of his crazy emails, and his photographs, and, best of all, the photos of his idiotic worthless cock.  His family portraits are going up, too, though I will be ethical and blurr the faces of his nieces and nephews.  He can have fun explaining that to his drunkard father, who had him arrested for domestic violence, and his clearly incompetent parole officer.  I say that she is incompetent because my crazy internet stalker obviously needs to be medicated and placed under supervision, or else returned to a cage.  Dangerous trash like him should not be released upon the public.  

      If my crazy internet stalker persists, I will also forward all of his emails, including his Klassy bathroom-shot selfies and his Klassy cock shots, to his account manager at the bank for which he works.  I have her full name, because my idiotic internet stalker told me.  My idiotic internet stalker can’t fucking shut up.  My fucktard internet stalker has blown up my email box with his deranged delusional fantasyland rantings for the last fucking time.  If I have to read his shit, everyone gets to read his shit, including his reflexologist cousin! Does his poor cousin know that he’s been spending her photos to strangers over the internet?  I guess we’ll find out! 

      My crazy, pathetic internet stalker really, really hates my Surgeon ex-boyfriend.  He is jealous of him–or, more accurately, he is jealous of me,  because he is very gender-confused, as all of you will learn if I have to publish his hundreds of pages of emails online.  I hold my crazy internet stalker in contempt, but I will warn him: if you find my Ex and bother him about me, you will regret it for the rest of your stupid, pointless life.  You won’t even know what hit you.  My Ex will not be intimidated by your rantings about aliens and what a badass you were in prison and all the other putrid, inferior thoughts you concoct in your disordered brain.  Life will get very, very expensive for you very, very fast. 

    My crazy internet stalker is obsessed with sex workers and reads our blogs.  If you are a blogging sex worker and read this, please let me know and I will give you the information about my crazy internet stalker so that you can identify him if and when he shows up in your email box.  

     Unless, of course, my stalker forces me to publish all of his shit online, in which case private correspondence from me will no longer be necessary.  

     P.S.  If my internet stalker tries to hack my computer, it will all be for naught: his emails and photos, including the ones of his Dad and his klassy cock shots, are all saved on an exterior hard drive.  For insurance.  

      Now get the hell away from me, you worthless prick, and consider yourself lucky that I was fair enough to warn you.