Hot Awesome Client

Hi!  I just got back from San Francisco.  This trip was not very lucrative, unfortunately.  I only had three sessions!  I think the Backpage disaster has (temporarily) torpedoed my business.  Now that Backpage is letting users advertise for free, there are about 6X the ads there were a week ago…the market is flooded.

But I’d much rather Backpage provided FREE ads than shut down it’s “adult” ad services altogether.

(Note: Backpage gets a bad rap, in my opinion.  People say it’s sleazy and unprofessional and low-rent, but I’ve met some of my all-time BEST clients on Backpage!  FORTINBRAS and MR. WOLF both contacted me through Backpage!)

Speaking of great clients, I have a short tale to tell of a new client I saw last night!  Since Therapist Jung threw my job and all my clients under the bus, I wanted to share this story of an awesome guy and a session that was nothing but happiness for all!

I don’t know what to call him….”Hot Asian Motocross Client”?  That’s too long…”Berkeley Grad Federal Agent”?  That’s too long, too!

The man made an appointment, passed the screening process with no problems, totally transparent, and showed up on time…

He knocked on the door and I let him in.

He was wearing–GET THIS–a hawt as hell motocross jacket, black with red shoulders and stripes (nothing too flashy, it was very svelte and understated), jeans, and hawt new black leather motocross boots!

ARRRRGH why don’t men wear this stuff every day…?!  It should be a LAW for men to wear it!  A LAW, I am telling you…!

He was carrying his motorcycle helmet in his hand, and he was wearing GLOVES, man!

He was an Asian gentleman, maybe 50 years old…?  He was just a little taller than I am, so about 5’11”.  His face was plain, and deeply lined, but it had a lot of character and it was expressive and interesting to look at, which is what is most important to me.  I know some women don’t find Asian men to be very attractive, but I’ve always liked the way they look.   He had a trim, athletic figure–moved very well, great posture.

He apologized for carrying his helmet, and said that he couldn’t leave it with his bike on the street because it would be stolen.

I took it from him and found a place for it, and then offered to help him with his jacket.  We started to make conversation about his motorcycle–I know a little about them, because my Uncle and Brother have them, and my Uncle taught me how to drive them.  I took off his jacket and hung it in the closet.  I got to touch his jacket, and talk about it with him.  It was KEVLAR, he explained–lighter, and more breathable in the summertime than leather.

(I wish I could have put it on and rolled around in it, like I did with Mr. Wolf’s, but I just met this guy, and that would have been unprofessional.  Though, I bet you that he’d have let me do it.)

I gave him a bottle of water, and we started talking.

Hot Motocross Client was a brianiac with an excellent sense of humor who spent 20 years as a Federal Agent working in LE in Washington, DC!  And the best part is, he didn’t have a “cop” mentality!  He was, like, a sensitive, skeptical, and self-aware cop!  A cop with an understanding of political power!  I wish they were all like him!

“Have you ever met an ATF Agent?  THEY’RE THE WORST!  Knuckle-dragging fascists (YES he actually used that phrase!  I am not making it up!) who always side-eyed me because I’m Asian!  But, you know what? I grew up here, I paid my dues, I know exactly what I’m looking at!”

I was howling in laughter in the chair by the desk.   We talked and talked like two birds in a tree.  He liked me so much that he extended for an hour, so that we could keep talking.

Then it was time for the session.

I told him to take off his shirt, because it was time to start.

Then I did something: I offered to help him off with new black leather moto boots.

He said, “Well, sure! That’s very nice of you!”

I told him to lay back on the bed, and I GOT TO TAKE  OFF HIS BOOTS!!!

(squirming in joy)

They were Italian!  Short–I just unzipped them and pulled em, and them came right off, unlike Mr. Wolf’s, whose took some muscle power.

They were beautiful.

He took a quick shower, and then we did the session.  It was a fetish session–obviously, if he’d been a submissive client, I would not have treated him that way.  I don’t want to talk about his fetish because I don’t want to violate his privacy.  I will say, though, that it was a totally harmless non-exploitive fetish.  It was a PG-13 fetish…maaaybe Rated-R.

I don’t go to work to meet my own needs or desires–though I always empathize with my clients as much as I can, as long as the clients are safe, and I try to find something lovable or charming about each of them–but ever now and again, I meet one that “clicks,” and it’s so much fun.  I know my job is to be there for the client, and not the other way around…but…this was nice.

Hot Motocross Client left floating on air.  And so did I.

And I know it’s an anecdotal experience, but Jungian Analyst can eat it.

Boots as Inspiration

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         In a recent email, Heinrich asked why I hadn’t finished posting the events of my going-away party, my last S/M session in New York.  

         Well, I was depressed and stressed out about my employment situation, and not in much of a mood to write.  Also, frankly, I felt a little awkward and self-conscious writing about jennings gags and getting your buddy’s splooge on my face, I wrote. 

           He wrote back:  I think the blowjobs were the least controversial activity of the evening.  Not that we did not enjoy them, so thank you for that.

           The pleasure’s all mine, I said. 

           Yes, that is at least somewhat true, for an eager cocksucker like yourself.  Your next master should withhold it as punishment, but most men would not have the restraint.  Anyway: write it all.  I liked to read it. 
        
            It might take a few days.  It’s partially written already, but I need to finish it, I responded. 

            The next email contained only a picture of his boots.  The subject line had one word: Inspiration.  

             And it was, and it has.

                      *                             *                       *                      

            I have a lifelong fascination with the male uniform, and none of it attracts me more than footwear and belts.  I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a fetish, but it definitely captures my attention.

           The psychological appeal is obvious: shoes and belts are used as handy weapons by household tyrants around the world, and the boot is both part of the hunting uniform and a symbol of institutional authority.  The men in my family are ex-military and take the appearance of their shoes seriously, and maintaining the shine on my father’s shoes was one of my childhood chores.  

The Policeman’s Daughter, Paula Rego c. 1987

             Getting kicked around on the floor, or groveling at someone’s feet, is humbling in a way I have seldom experienced and have difficulty describing.   Let’s just call it what it is: it’s fucking humiliating.  There are many activities in BDSM that a person (bottom) can do while assuring themselves–correctly!–that they are not actually being dominated or humiliated.  Getting your neck pinned to the floor with a boot is not one of those things.  Nope, nosiree.  There’s no way that you can experience that and be able to unpack it from its tremendous cultural baggage: since antiquity, if you wanted to humiliate a person, humble them, or publicly demonstrate your superiority, you got them up close and personal with your shoes.  


       It’s also a little scary, as anyone who’s taken a swift kick to the ass–or, worse, the ribs–can attest (if you listen closely, you’ll hear the dogs of the world yip in solidarity).  The Surgeon’s loafers had metal plates under the toes that left crescent-shaped imprints in my skin for hours, like little brands.   

        Because the act is so authentically submissive and personal, I almost never did it for money.  Enduring practically any sort of pain or corporal punishment I could take (if I so chose) as impersonally as if I was doing manual physical labor, but kissing someone’s shoes or letting him kick me was just too psychologically loaded for me to do at work.  Fortunately, it was almost never requested…

        ….which interests me, because, as a Top, it’s a huge fucking power rush.  Boner city, man.  Some of the hottest sadistic memories I have involve getting some poor fucker on the floor and leaving a dirty boot mark on his face.  This is entirely distinct from a typical foot/shoe-worship session–if the guy was kneeling up and had a hardon while drooling all over my heels, it did absolutely nothing for me.  Making a boy get on the ground, though, especially when he doesn’t particularly like being there, is something else entirely.  Extra points if he’s fastidious and the floor or my boot is gross.   Extra extra points if he’s not into humiliation and there are a few other people around to witness his debasement.   Yeah, seeing a scared eyeball roll up at you from the floor is quite a charge, all right.  Very fapp-worthy.  Miss Margo highly recommends this experience.  It definitely gets my Mistress Stamp of Approval.  

         I remember every time I’ve been stepped on by a man, worshiped his boots, or had some other devastating encounter with his footwear.  It’s interesting that the memories are important to me, but they are not purely, or even primarily, pleasurable.  Some of the emotion I feel about it is negative, apprehensive…there is even some shame, which I almost never feel in relation to my sexuality.  There is some shame here, though.  I admit it.  When you clean the dirt off your cheek or rinse out your mouth, you inevitably have to ask yourself exactly what sort of a sick fuck you must be to voluntarily let yourself be degraded like that (and on the heels of that: What does my partner really think of me?).    

           But the pull, the allure, is very, very powerful, the excitement undeniable.  It’s a wonderful, precious thing, that level of intensity.  I enjoy it so very much…even when I don’t.

         Here’s another pair of boots I have known…and unabashedly adored: Mr. Wolf’s.  Gosh, that was a fun session.