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.

Alcoholic Psych Ward with the Roommate from Hell

IMG-1462389346946-VSo, in the ICU, they need to get an IV in me.  I’ve always been a “hard prick,” as they say in the profession, because my veins are small and deep.  They usually have to go in through the hand eventually.  My nurse was really nice and trying her best, but she couldn’t get anything.  I’m not afraid of needles and, as you know, I am definitely not a baby about pain, but I had more needles in me than a fucking Christmas tree and three of them collapsed the vein, leaving me with wonderful huge bruises that I am going to somehow explain to clients.

IMG-1462389346946-V

 

They were about to bring in a physician to put the needle IN MY NECK, but another nurse finally got one in–the ulnar artery in the wrist, which is usually a last resort, but who cares, it worked.

They gave me some liquid valium and my body finally relaxed for the first time in days.  It was wonderful.  Then they started draining bags and bags of saline into my dehydrated mummy body.

The doctor on rotation, who was a woman who seemed nice and not an asshole (which is always a relief after knowing the Surgeon) came in and asked me what was going on and about my DTs and how long I’d been drinking and been sober blah blah the usual. I told her I hallucinated.

“Spiders? They almost always see spiders at night. On the ceiling,” she said.

Holy shit, I thought.

“No, there were two apparitions in my room talking to me but I couldn’t understand because they were murmuring.  I was asking them why they were there and what they wanted. I knew I was hallucinating and I would close my eyes and say to myself ‘I am Margo Adler and this is my bedroom and this cannot be happening, and when I open my eyes, they will be gone.’  But when I opened my eyes they were still there.  I knew they would go away when the daylight came.  I wasn’t scared of them because they were not trying to hurt me. I was only scared because I knew I was seeing things that were not there.  I even tried to touch them.”

“That’s a new one,” she said, not sarcastically.

She went away and I relaxed blissfully with the valium. I was extremely thirsty but they wouldn’t give me any water, just the IV.

Doctor came back in with my test results.

“Well, your liver enzymes are slightly elevated, but it’s healthy. Bad news about the pancreas. Your pancreas is really mad at you.  It’s scarred.”

“Pancreas?” I asked, confused.  Pancreas never occurred to me.  I was worried about the liver.

“It’s moderate damage and it can be at least partially healed.  For now, your stomach must remain totally empty.  Not even water.  I’ll give you small amounts of ice chips. In a few days, you can start a liquid diet.”

Well, okay.  Sorry, pancreas, but the bullshit I put you through.

Valium wore off and then shit got gnarly.  They hooked me up to an EKG and periodically my heart rate would shoot up to 170 or 180.  Then my blood pressure would drop to 85 or 90/60.  I was sweating the freezing cold.  A nice nurse wrapped me up in warm blankets. He put socks on my feet.  He was very compassionate and did not make me feel like a scumbag.

Then a psych nurse came in and asked me questions like who was the president, and what year it was, and what was my full name, and did I know where I was?  I was cogent so I knew.

They gave me pills for my heart, liquid potassium that tasted like shit (I didn’t complain), librium, and ativan.  Despite being doped to the gills, I would have attacks of pure anxiety, even terror, that would last for minutes, and I would close my eyes and shake my head and whisper no no no no no no.   I knew it was irrational because I was in a safe space and it just meant my brain was broken.

Then my legs totally cramped up and I could not bend my knees.  Get this: they put a diaper on me just in case because I could not walk to the bathroom (for the record, at least I did not need to pee my diaper, thank God). They also put an alarm under my body so that they would know if I got out of bed, because they were worried I’d fall and break my fucking skull, which is hilarious, because I couldn’t get out of that bed if a ravenous polar bear charged into the room and wanted to eat me.

“Is this normal? and my panic attacks?” I asked the nurse.

“Totally normal,” she said.

Holy shit, I thought.

“I’m not paralyzed forever, right?” I asked.

“It’ll pass,” she said.

After a day, when they were sure they had me under control and I was no longer dying, they moved me to the alcoholic psych ward.  It was small and I had only one roommate, who, blessedly, was quiet and slept all the time.  She was discharged and I had the place to myself for a few hours.  I felt good enough to watch TV, so I watched Judge Judy, which was a really bad idea.  And I sucked greedily on ice chips.

Then the nasty junkie bitch moved in.

I can’t judge addicts because I’m one myself.  But there is no reason to push it onto other people.  The staff at the hospital loved me; I overheard the nurses talking about me at shift rotation and they said I was very pleasant and “totally compliant.”  This woman was not.

She was 60 years old, a dilaudid addict who also used Oxycontin and who knows what else.  She was screaming at the staff–not politely asking or explaining–that she needed her shot RIGHT NOW because she was “in pain.”

Yeah, lady, that pain is called “withdrawal” and you have to get through it if you ever want to get healthy again.  Why are you here if you don’t want to get better?

The nurse calmly explained that she could not give her a shot for another two hours because that was the schedule.

“I’m not going to ask you again!  Give me my shot NOW!” screamed the woman, as if she had anything to threaten this nurse with.  Making demands of the staff, ha…ha…ha.  Let me know how that goes for you.

“I can’t do that for two hours.  I can give you one Oxy.”

Woman proceeded to fake-cry and whine loudly for the next two hours about being “in pain” and how this wasn’t a “real hospital” because “nobody cared about her.”

This continued for the next few days.  When she got her shot, she passed out for a few hours and blessed silence reigned once again.  I finally got to start eating pudding and chicken broth and water.  My tremors stopped.  I started to think clearly again (well, clearer).  Otherwise, I slept as much as possible, when it was quiet.

The staff would come four times a night to take my blood pressure or draw a little blood out of my hand.  It only took 5 minutes because it was just taking blood and not an IV (I was still taking saline, by the way).   I didn’t mind.  I always said thank you for your help.

The nasty junkie next door woke me up at least 4 times a night ringing madly for the nurse and demanding her dilaudid. When they explained they couldn’t give it to her yet, she’d fight with them over it, as if she was the only human being in the room and I didn’t need to sleep at 3 AM.  She started wetting the bed on purpose and saying “HA! There, YOU clean it up, since I’m sick and you won’t give me my medicine!”

The long-suffering young nurse’s assistant would sigh and say, “I’m not certified to give you any medication at all, even if a doctor said you should have it.  I can’t give any prescription meds, only things like Tylenol.”

The junkie accused her of being a liar while the poor girl dutifully cleaned the bed, changed the sheet, and got the woman a new robe.

When she wasn’t howling at the staff or complaining about her “pain,” she tried to talk to me.  Constantly.

“Aren’t these people awful?”

“Actually, everyone I’ve met has been very professional and compassionate.  I’ve been very impressed, actually.  I expected to be mostly ignored, especially because I don’t have insurance.”

“HA! I send all my medical bills to Michelle Obama!  She can pay for them, with that goddamned Obamacare!”

I bet your creditors and collections agencies are really going to respect that decision, I thought.

This woman hates the Obamas.  Especially Michelle, for some reason. Here she is, in the hospital, complaining to a complete stranger (and whoever she was talking to periodically on her cell phone) about how much she hates President Obama and Obamacare.  She even called him the N-word once. (I feel childish saying “N-word” but I also feel uncomfortable saying the word nigger, so it’s a dilemma).

“Did you know that for two years I sent so many phone calls, letters, and emails to Obama that I got notification from the government that I was forbidden to contact him anymore?  That’s why I write to Michelle instead,” she said.

Jesus fucking Christ. I interned for a US Senator.  Like all major politicians, he got a shit-ton of nasty, complaining, demanding, petulant, critical communications every single day (one of my duties was to answer some of the simpler, more common communications, but I read a lot of the others.  The most memorable was a guy who wrote his Senator a very angry email because there was a dead raccoon on the street by house, hit by a car, and it had been lying there for a week and nobody had done anything about it! I’ll never forget that one.  If it bothers you that much, jackass, get a shovel and throw it in a bag in the trash!).  It’s water off a duck’s back to politicians unless you’re sending death threats or threatening family members or doing some serious stalking, like taking pictures of their house across the street.  Do you realize how far you have to go to have the Secret Service or authorized staff visit you or send you official legal communication that you are FORBIDDEN to contact the politician again?  You have to be batshit crazy. Ted Kaczynski obsessed, although, obviously, I doubt this woman ever taught Mathematics at UC Berkeley.  Ted was nuts, but at least he had a few brain cells to rub together.

She had other noxious opinions she shared with me or with her friends on her cell phone, apropos of nothing.  She was mad about “Obamaphones.” First, the Obama administration did not, and COULD NOT, create a program to give cell phones to welfare recipients.  There is such a thing called jurisdiction.  The president cannot just do whatever the hell he feels like doing, which is why Gitmo is still open.  It is, in fact, a federal program that offers reimbursement to pre-paid cell-phone companies who offer phone service to qualified (very) low-income people. It’s a spin-off of the LIFELINE PROGRAM implemented in 1984 under that great champion of the poor, RONALD REAGAN (I know all this shit because it’s what I devoted my academic life to studying when I was a professional scholar, instead of whatever the hell it is I am today).

These “Obamaphones” are shitty little flip-open trak phones that cost $9.99 at Kmart and they get 70 free minutes a month.

Now, the most GERMANE thing here, is that I am sure this dilauded junkie is unemployed and has been for some time, unless she’s a housewife, she’s sending her bill to Michelle Obama instead of Medicaid or trying to make payments on it, AAAANNNND–

How the hell is a welfare recipient supposed to get a job, any job, without a telephone?  Think about it.  You fill out an application and the movie theater wants to hire you to work the ticket booth or snack counter. How do they contact you to come in for an interview? Or the Temp agency?  Are they supposed to send you a message by a fucking carrier pigeon?  If your kid gets sick at school, how are they going to reach you to come pick her up?

On the third day, I was coherent enough to speak intelligently and I was completely fed up with her.

“I’m sending my bill to Michelle Obama!” she repeated for the millionth time, like Michelle held a gun to her head and made her a pathetic bitter narcotic junkie. Like Michelle is actually going to reach into her handbag and cut a check.  Maybe send flowers and a “Get well soon!” card.

“I think Michelle’s great! I actively campaigned for Obama and voted for him both times, and my candidate won, both times!  I also interned for (famous Democratic Senator junkie lady hates), and I used his letter of recommendation to help me get into my Ph.D program in New York (junkie lady hates NYC and San Francisco)!”

(Now, it’s true that a few of these statements are exaggerations or lies–the Senator did write me a letter, but I was only an undergrad, for example–but who cares?  It’s not like I was lying to the IRS.  I was just lying to piss her off.)

Her mouth dropped open.  She’s one of those conservatives who lives in such a tight little conservative bubble, such an echo chamber–all Fox news, all talk radio, all Republican friends, all Free Republic forum (if this babe can even write), all conservative Church–that she just automatically assumes everyone thinks like she does.  She thinks leftists can only be identified if they’re wearing tie-dyed t-shirts, man-sandals, and peace medallions, coming back from Burning Man.

She never spoke to me again, which was a huge relief. The whining and fake crying and transparent attempts to manipulate the staff continued.  She refused to let them bathe her, either in the shower or a sponge birdbath.  She complained about the food, as if it wasn’t being made in a hospital (I bet when she’s home high on narcotics she’s a real Cordon Bleu chef, boy, I wish I was invited to some of her dinner parties!).

Meanwhile, I was getting healthier every day.  I could read again, so I read Harper’s and National Geographic.  My legs worked again and they let me go for short walks with a walker (just in case) up and down the hall a few times.  I became fatigued very quickly, but that’s because I was still sick and I couldn’t have been eating more than 600 kcal/day.  It was still pudding and broth for every meal.  Sometimes chocolate milk.

A group of residents from the local med school came to see me.  I knew they were residents because they were so young, and in a group. I apologized for looking like a scrub (unwashed hair, no makeup).  I tried to make a joke: “I didn’t think I was going to run into Liam Neeson around here!”

They asked me all about the symptoms I had before I came in and then told me that all my test signs had improved, and my liver enzymes were down (already?) and even my pancreas looked better and my blood pressure was stable and blah blah blah.  They wanted to see if I could eat solid food.

I told them that it hurt really, really badly to swallow.  Not so much in my throat, but further down.

That is because I burned the hell out of my esophagus puking up acidic stomach bile for 11 hours (I’m on 3 medications for that now so that it can heal and I can eat.  God bless lidocaine and sucralfate).  They said, “Well, GERD does hurt.”  No, doc, this is not just GERD.

Anyway, I wanted to get out of there, so I forced myself to eat a small pancake.  It hurt.  I ate it anyway.  Once it was in my stomach, it didn’t hurt at all.  It was just getting it down.

Then I did something bad.  I cheated.

I closed the curtain to my room, wrapped the other pancake in a paper towel, and shoved it down the front of my underwear.  I left two pieces on the plate to say that I “couldn’t finish it.”  Ah yes, an old trick from my anorexic days.  I know how to get rid of food or hide it secretly or discreetly in a million ways.

I went to the bathroom, broke it up into lots of little pieces, and flushed it in 3 parts.

The doctors were happy.  I was free to go.  IV came out.  Mom drove me back to her house, where I stayed in the guest bedroom for a week.  I went to see a Gastro doc and he put me on these meds that are making me better already and I can drink water in small mouthfuls.  I can’t eat real food easily yet, but I can eat yogurt and frozen yogurt and bananas (even tho I hate bananas, but they are good for my heart, and soft, and I do not want to have a heart attack).  I drink Ensure, that drink for old people that is a meal replacement, and slim-fast, which reminds me of (bad) old times, but at least it has lots of nutrition.  I make protein shakes with soy milk. If I have to eat something more substantial, I take a dose of lidocaine, which works for about 30 minutes.  That shit is great.

My house is clean because I had it cleaned by a professional cleaner before I got home.  I am still weak and I have to rest for 30 minutes after I do anything strenuous, but my plants are alive and Abe is back home, and last night I slept for 9 hours in my nice clean bed, and I didn’t see any shadow men.

And I lost almost 15 lbs.  So, something good came out of it.  From the outside, I look great.  Healthy.

The inside, though, is not so pretty.

Margo Tries to Detox at Home (Bad Idea)

Fasten your safety belts, readers, because this isn’t going to be pretty…but it will be honest.

I took a week off from work and cleared my schedule because I intended to hole up in my apartment for about six days and detox (go through withdrawals and stabilize).  I paid all my bills so that I wouldn’t have to worry about it, bought some Pedialyte, went home, and prepared for the worst.

I’d been drinking for 8 weeks, excepting the week before, when I tried to detox in 4 days and it just wasn’t enough time and I had to give up and drink to get back to work (see the previous post “Sucky Update.”).  Eight weeks, after over a year and a half of sobriety.  They told me in rehab that if I started drinking again, my worst symptoms would come back almost immediately–that I could have a few drinking and feel healthy and “normal” for maybe a few days, and then everything would turn to shit almost overnight and I’d be back in alcoholic hell again.  They said you can’t start fresh again, it will never be like it was when you first started, your physiology has permanently changed.

Well, I must admit that this did not make sense to me.  I thought, if your body is recovered, how could you get sick again so quickly?

Well, as usual, the people in rehab were right.  They are the professionals, after all.

I’m not going to lie to you: I was drinking a lot in those eight weeks.  The only times I was (mostly) sober were when I was working, because it’s unprofessional and rude to be intoxicated, not to mention extremely dangerous for the woman alone with a strange man in a room.

Moving on: at first, the withdrawals were the usual bullshit.  Tremors, inability to read or concentrate, chills and sweats, insomnia, nightmares about drinking, and the inability to be comfortable in any position.  Hearing nonexistent white noise.  No appetite; mild nausea.  It’s very unpleasant, but I’ve been through it about five times before, and it’s…manageable.  It’s a bit like having a very bad stomach flu or food poisoning.

The only good news: no hallucinations of people in my bedroom at night.  No hallucinations this time.  THANK GOD.  Also, I didn’t have any seizures, which I hear is pretty common.

On the sixth day (I think it was the 6th day), things got much, much worse.

I vomited for eleven hours. I am not exaggerating. Every five minutes, I dry-heaved or wretched up foamy bile, and, let me tell you, it hurt like hell.  It was the worst part of the entire time. I was scared to puke in my bed, because it’s the only place in my apartment I have to lie down (my sofa’s a love seat), so I just sat on the floor and used this plastic container I use to hand-wash clothes.  There was absolutely nothing in my stomach because the only thing I’d eaten in 12 days was 4 chicken wings (I kept ordering food because I knew I had to eat SOMETHING, but when it came, I couldn’t even stand the sight of it.  Money well spent, there.  I was living off of calories from alcohol and the juice I sometimes mixed it with.  I’m sure my stomach really appreciated that alcohol-and-acidic juice combo.  I’m sure my stomach was saying “Hey thanks for putting me through this shit, Margo!).  I was throwing up nothing but bile, stomach acid.  It hurt, the constant clenching of my torso hurt, and I burned the hell out of esophagus.  I’m on medication for that right now.

Next up: my legs started twitching and cramping.  I could not stand without something to pull myself up with, like an old person.  I could not walk. I had to scoot myself to the bathroom (at least I could urinate–what, I’m not sure, because I couldn’t hold down water–but at least it meant my kidneys were not shutting down).

Then, the chest pain, a very powerful pain in the center of my chest over my breastbone.  It happened more than once, and it hurt a lot.  I was wondering if I was having a heart attack.

I thought: I am going to die alone in this apartment, nobody’s going to find me until my body starts to smell, and my bird is going to die of starvation.

I threw in the towel.  I knew going to the hospital would cost me about $60k, but, hey, it beats being dead.

I texted my mother (hard to do with shaking hands) to let her know where I would be and that I was calling a cab.  She insisted on taking me herself.  The last thing I needed was her judgmental horseshit while I was in the process of dying.  I said she could go back to hating me in a few days, but I didn’t need it right now.  She promised she would not scream and only try to help.  I warned  her that she didn’t want to see me this way and that I looked like hell.

I took 3 shots of cheap mouthwash (a first for me–I’ve never been that desperate before, but there was no way in hell that I could get to a store without, say, one of those motorized wheelchairs used by the disabled and obese. Couldn’t drive and sure and hell couldn’t walk), which is poisonous but also 20% alcohol, so that I could stabilize just a little bit.  Drinking the mouthwash was disgusting and degrading and it said on the back of the bottle not to drink it and to call Poison Control Center immediately.  Oh well.

I put on a dress and a coat, combed my hair and put it into a ponytail, and put Abe in his kennel.  Mom arrived and I wouldn’t let her inside because I didn’t want her to see that I’d trashed my beautiful apartment and there was a pizza box on the floor and I had about ten empties laying around my desk and my plants were dying.  Disgusting, right?

I insisted that we take Abe to the boarder’s first because I didn’t know how long I’d be gone.  Mom took him inside for me because I know the owners of this place and I didn’t want them to see me this way.

Then we went to the ER.  They gave me an EKG and immediately admitted me to the ICU–that’s right, I jumped the line, baby!  After a day there, the alcoholic psych ward.  In the loony bin, just like my (not) dear old Dad, Franz.

Second half of the story next installment.

(6) Murder Victim

      I’ve never told this story because I didn’t want to admit to being so reckless and unprofessional.  I did everything wrong in this session and put myself in great danger.  It was crazy, the sort of spectacularly bad judgement that, if displayed by one of my dungeon co-workers, would make me think that they were not cut out for this business and should not be allowed to do sessions in the dungeon at all. 

         I expect to receive criticism.

        It was the winter things were getting serious with the Mathematician.  Probably December 2012.   I was on call at the Studio when the Russian manager called me to tell me that I had a session.  A submissive session, meaning that I would be the submissive. 

        “Do I know him?  What does he want?”  I asked.

        “I know him.  He is good client.  Good tip,” she said.

        I refreshed my makeup and jumped in a cab.  There was no traffic.  I was there in 20 minutes. 

          “He’s waiting for you.  You can go in.”

           “Should I go talk to him?  What do I bring in?  What should I wear?”

         “You are fine as you are.  He does some bondage.  Little breath play.”  She looked at me and said, very deliberately: “I know him.  He’s fine.”

         And with that, I went in.  Sight unseen.

        I’m not going to spend the rest of the story enumerating the things I did wrong and explaining what a wise professional should have done instead.  All of that would detract from the narrative of the experience, which is what I really want to write about. 

         It was very dark in the room–he’d turned down the lights.   The client was a huge Asian man.   Huge is not an exaggeration; he was built like a Sumo wrestler.  He was wearing a dark suit (it had to have been custom made) and a bright white shirt.  He had long black hair in a braid, a short beard, and small, round glasses with gold wire frames.   I couldn’t tell his age.  40s, maybe.

         I introduced myself and asked him what he had in mind.  He told me to undress and sit on the bondage bed.  He was going to tie my legs together at the knees.

          I tried to read his energy and emotional state, but I wasn’t getting anything.  He was very calm.  He seemed sober, lucid.  He didn’t want to talk, didn’t have any questions for me.

         I stripped down to my bra and underpants and sat down on the bed.  I told him that my underwear stayed on and that there was no touching allowed between my legs. 

          He nodded.

         “Then what?  Are you going to hit me with something?”  He hadn’t brought any equipment that I could see, aside from the rope, but I had an eye on his leather belt.  

         He said that he would not hit me. 

         Then I let him kneel in front of me and tie my legs together above the knees.  I was glad that it was the knees and not the ankles, because it made my crotch less accessible.  

         What’s he going to do?  What’s he up to?  I asked myself.  I was curious.  I didn’t see where it was going, but I wasn’t scared.  I should have been scared, but I wasn’t.  

           He lifted up my ankles and put them down on the bed.  Now I was lying down, on my back. 

            Uh-oh, I thought.  The little lightbulb went off above my head.  I figured out what he was going to do: he was going to climb on top of me and try to snuggle or dry-hump my leg or something gross like that.  

           No.  Nothing so pedestrian.

            While he was standing over me, looking down into my face, he took both hands, wrapped them around my neck, and started to squeeze. 

           I didn’t freak out.  To this day, I wonder why I didn’t freak out.  I didn’t panic, didn’t try to pull his hands away.

           I didn’t resist.

            It’s a game.  It’s part of the session, I told myself.  He’ll let go in a minute.  Wait for it. 

           Famous last words, right?   Famous last words.  If I’d been capable of speaking them.  Which I wasn’t. 

            You have more than a minute before you pass out.  It’s only been a few seconds, I told myself. 

          (but then, in the back of my mind: how long can you afford to wait?)

            He let go and stood back up straight.  

            I didn’t whoop in breath or start coughing.  I didn’t try to get up.  I took deep breaths through my nose.  

           “You’re good,” he said.  Then he started strangling me again.  Longer, this time.  His hands were huge and very strong.  I could feel my heart start to pound, the way it does when you’re holding your breath under water, and my face started to feel numb. 

            What if he doesn’t let go this time?

             He will.  He knows what he’s doing.  He’ll let go.

             But what if he DOESN’T?  Are you going to just let this guy kill you?

           He’ll let go, I told myself. 

             And he did.

             This time, I did whoop in air.   It hurt my throat. 

            I still didn’t call it off.   When he did it again, I was ready.

           That was the session: I was playing chicken with this man.  I was playing chicken with a complete stranger in a dungeon.  I was playing chicken with my life. 

             I saw spots.  I saw stars.  The blood rushing in my ears.

            I could really die here.  By accident, even, I thought. 

            He let go.

            I knew it, I thought.  I wonder if I was smiling.  He took a step back from the table and I rolled over onto my side, coughing.  My throat hurt, my windpipe hurt. 

            What does this person want?  I wondered.  What’s the point?  Does he want me to freak or cry?  Does he want me to have fun?  Or is his enjoyment not contingent on my reaction at all?

            He’d finally relaxed a little bit.  He had a small smile on his face.  

              He pulled a chair away from the wall and gestured for me to sit.

            I finally spoke: “I can’t do an hour of this.  It’s too much.”

           “Just a little more.  This is the last part,” he said, softly.

           “Let me finish getting my breath.”

           He waited.  Still calm.  

           I hopped off the bed and walked awkwardly over to the wooden chair.  I could only take tiny steps because of the way my legs were tied. 

           I had a seat.  Now I was looking at myself in the huge black mirror. 

            He tied my wrists to the spokes on the back.  I let him do it.  I knew he was going to.

            I was telling myself that it was just a game and he’d done this a million times before and I wasn’t in any real danger.  After all, if he wanted to kill me, I’d be dead by now.  

        Why did I tell myself that?   Was it some bullshit coping mechanism my brain was coming up with, a line of bullshit to deal with the real danger of the situation?  Why was I composed under all that pressure, that situation?  It was like when I took that beating from the Attorney, the worst beating of my life, when I safed out: I didn’t freak, I didn’t cry.  

          Is there something wrong with how I’m made up, that I wasn’t more scared than I was?  

          Is there something wrong with how I’m made up, that put me in that situation to begin with?

          Why did I sit in that chair?

           One more round.  Let’s cruise, big fella.

          I knew it was coming, and took a big breath of air before he cut it off, like I was a swimmer making a dive. 

           Down we went.

           You have about ninety seconds before you black out.  Less if you’re exerting yourself.  

           Ninety seconds is a long time to look at yourself in the mirror and think about what a stupid way to die this would be.  I mean, shit.  He could put my body under the bondage bed and walk out the dungeon door and be halfway to the airport before anyone even notices that I haven’t left the room yet.  I pictured the other girls in the locker room down the hall.  They’d give me a Darwin Award for this one, for sure. 

           What does he want?  I thought.

           He wants a dead girl.  

           I relaxed into it, still telling myself that everything was going to be fine.  My head was pounding.   The pressure behind my eyeballs.  

            He let go.

            That was it.  We were done.  The tension in the room evaporated.  The spell was broken.  His energy changed entirely.

             I collapsed back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling, wheezing.  He pulled out another chair and had a seat.  Then he pulled a handsome gold cigarette case out of his pocket.  He opened it and offered me one.

             “No, thanks,” I said.  

              “That was good.  You’re very good,” he said.  Whatever the fuck that meant.  

               Now he could talk.  I don’t remember most of what he said, but he did mention coming from Hong Kong.  Something about Obama.  Yup, just the usual post-session chit-chat.  

               He gave me $600, asked to use the restroom, and left.

               The rope was good rope.  We cleaned it with bleach and then added it to the collection.

               “Session okay, Margo?” the manager asked me.  “Did he take care of you?”

              What was I going to say?  That she should have fucking told me that the guy was going to choke me out?  Did she know that he was going to do that?  Did she tell me that he was a “good client” so that I wouldn’t panic?  Because I might be a masochist and a little batshit crazy, but if she told me on the telephone that a client wanted to choke me out,  I would not have hopped in a cab. 

            I went home.  

            I only told one other person.  I didn’t know how to tell anyone.  How do you explain that a client choked you, and you let it happen?  That I did a sub session without explicit negotiation?  What do you say?  How can I explain what happened in that room?  Was it really all that bad?  He left me safe and sound, didn’t he?  Not even a bruise. 

             I told Dahlia one day.  She had a bit of a morbid side.  

           “Wow, that sounds crazy,” she said.  Her eyes lit up.  “You must have felt like a murder victim.”
          

(5) A Map of the Pain Revisited

Read More

         I hate to have my picture taken, which strikes some people who know me as odd, since I’m actually quite photogenic.  When I was working as a prodomme I had to get my professional photos redone every year to keep them current, but otherwise I avoid having my picture taken.  I don’t like looking at myself.

        The exception are injuries photos.  From beatings.


En Route

      I’ve documented most of my more significant or interesting beatings over the years.  I know the photos by heart.  If you showed me a random photograph of bruises on my back, I’d be able to tell you where and when it happened: “Surgeon, San Diego 2012.  I was wearing my red dress.”  

         Sometimes I’d take photos of the marks as they worsened and then gradually healed, trying to capture the colors over time, from blood red to hematoma black to gray to green to yellow, and then finally to pale Margo skin.  

        I’d take photos from as many different angles as I could, usually in front of a mirror, or mirrors.  Bathroom mirrors, most often.  

         Sometimes the Surgeon would take them for me.  He was the only person I really talked to about these photos.  Well, I didn’t really talk to him about them…but I shared them with him.  He was very indulgent in this matter.  This was, in fact, one of his rare true moments of grace: he never judged my masochism, my craving for violence.  He accepted that part of me completely, and he did what he could to meet my needs.

          I’d show him pictures on my computer screen: “See that one you left last time?  See, look now!  The chain left that!”

         He’d smile and nod.  That was something else: the marks never revolted or disturbed him.  It must have been all the medical training.  He wasn’t squeamish at all.

          I remember him touching my shoulder one time: “Margo, be careful who you show these to.  I know that they make you happy, but people won’t understand.  Don’t keep them on your PC in case you have computer problems.  Promise me.”

         He was right, of course.  I’ve seen the way people react to my marks.  Even people who ought to know better, like other mistresses in the Studio.  I was photographing my ass after a heavy caning session with a visiting Englishman when I saw Maria looking at me.  Her expression was fear and revulsion.  Sometimes other people can understand how I could do it for money, or do it as a gesture of love for the man who inflicts it.  Almost nobody understands my feelings of excitement or fascination, the curiosity.  Or, strangest of all: my complete disregard for my own physical integrity.  I have fears.  Pain is not one of them. 

        I can get caught up in re-examining these old photos, studying them, reliving the experiences and what happened afterward.  Why? It never gets old.  I look at them as if there will be something new.  An answer, perhaps.  

         That’s all for tonight.  There’s nothing else.  

     


(1) 30 Blog Posts in 30 Days

     ….everything was going so well.  

      I being a little tornado of industry: 40 hours a week editing emails and working my spreadsheet magic at the Office Monkey job, teaching my teenaged scholars two nights a week, and doing 10 hours of miscellaneous work for a local attorney whose regular paralegal is out on maternity leave.  My decision to quit academia inspired me to teach the fuck out of the material: I got two new positive reviews on ratemyprofessors.com.  Group therapy for recovering addicts twice a week, AA two mornings more, almost daily discussions with people (including, to my happiness, my old professors, who have not branded me a traitor for jumping ship) about changing careers…I got the car…yeah, things were going okay.

        Then the Italian office supply company was purchased by some assholes who restructured HR.  

       I was laid off with 48 hours’ notice.  Then they changed their minds and asked me back for a day.

       Then….gone.

       I know it was a temporary job, and nothing that I wanted to keep anyway, but…a week’s notice would have been nice.   I feel bad for complaining, though, because three other people got sacked along with me, and they are older than I am with families to support.

       I didn’t take it very well.   I started acting out almost immediately.  

       The first thing I did was check into a hotel for 3 days.  The good news is that it hardly cost me anything, because all of that professional and recreational whoring around in New York earned me about 13 billion Expedia points.  

        “I’m thinking about going back to sex work,” I told my counselor.  “Just for a little while.  Until I find something else.”

         “You know, one of my co-workers was an escort.  She got arrested and the board suspended her license.  She had to petition to get it back and attend all these hearings and stuff.  It took almost two years.  I can give you her card if you want to talk to her about it.  I think you just need to take it easy, apply to two jobs a day, watch a lot of Netflix, and not make any big decisions right now.  And get out of that hotel room.  It’s not a safe place for you.”

           “I’ll go to San Francisco.  I have a car now.  It’ll be safer there.  Nobody knows me!”

             Later that evening:

             “You vant to do VAT?!”   Heinrich groaned into the webcam, holding one hand over his eye, like he had a terrible headache.  “Margo, you vill NOT run away to San Francisco and become a prostitute!”

               “Hey!  Not full-service!  Fetish work!  I do fetish work!  There’s a market in the Bay Area!  I’ve lost 15 lbs!  I look great!  I could go on the weekends and be back in class on Tuesdays!”

              “Vat about your Plan?”

             “I can’t have a Plan if I’m unemployed!”

             “You are not unemployed!  You lost a job from an employment agency, vat, 3 days ago?”

              I went to the gym, lifted weights until muscle failure, and then went back to sleep at my mother’s house.  

              Then next morning, since I still had the room till noon, I went back to the hotel and sent Heinrich an email.  It was a personal email, so I won’t reproduce it here, but the crux of it was:  Take the keys, I’m drunk. 

               (Note: not actually drunk.  I’m still totally dry and taking my Antabuse medicine every morning.)

                He texted me a response almost immediately, before he went home to write an email:  Yes, of course.  I thought you would never ask. 

               (Another note: the man’s been batting 1000 since the Holidays, and I’m paranoid enough to wonder about it.) 

              He put me on a schedule.  Blogging is part of it, so here it is: 30 blog posts in 30 days.  

              We’ll see how it goes.

Father’s Day Session 2014

       Miss Margo Note: Sorry the format of this one is all screwed up.  I wrote it in MS Word and had to cut-and-paste it here, and that always messes up Blogger.)

     Last night at the Studio (Father’s Day) was a shitshow the likes of which I have seldom seen.
      
A man came in, and he stayed for eleven hours.  ELEVEN. HOURS.
    
   I was with him for three of those hours, and I would do anything to undo it.

        It was 2:00 AM when he booked me, and I was just finishing up another session.  Readers will know that I hate to work that late at night.  Nothing good happens in the sex industry after 10 PM, and even in the best of circumstances I am a morning bird and not a night owl.  It causes me distress to be awake at that time of night. 

         I needed the money, though, and the other dommes who saw him told me that he was “easy.”

         He paid, and I changed into a tight black leather dress and boots, refreshed my makeup, and went in.

        I almost had a heart attack. 

        He looked just like my father.  They could have been brothers.  The same fine, golden blonde hair.   The same blue eyes.  The same complexion and the same luxurious mats of body hair. The same fucking face, I kid you not, like the love child of Marlon Brando and a German Elvis Presley.  He looked just like my fucking father.  I mean, their driver’s license photos could be exchanged and nobody would question it.

         He was sitting on the couch in a frilly pair of women’s underwear. 

        I almost screamed.

        “Wow,” he said.  “You look just like me, only beautiful.”

       When I heard his voice, I knew he wasn’t my Dad.  The client had a New York accent.  Then I saw the blue tattoo on his arm, and that made me feel better, too.  My father hates tattoos and thinks they are for degenerates (how ironical) and prisoners.

        I went forward with the session.  I am a professional, after all.

       The only good thing that I can say about it is that it involved no physical effort: he was coked up (of course!) and drunk (of course!) and all that he wanted was a baby-sitter.  He hired another Mistress (thank God!) and just wanted to sit there and play with his nipples (GROSS!) and talk about his problems and not be alone (understandable, but very depressing).

         “Hey…what’s your ethnic heritage?” I asked him, early on, because oh my God, did he look like my Dad, especially in the dark, and it was still freaking me out.

         “German Catholic.”

           Oh my God, I thought.

          “You’re so nice. You ladies are the best!” he’d say, and grab at my hand.  He wanted to hold my hand the entire night (morning?).  His hand was huge and rough.  I asked him his profession.

            “I’m a welder, but I used to work on oil rigs.”

            My paternal grandfather’s professions.  I swear.  That is he did.  It’s what HE DID.

          He kept asking for more vodka.  He asked me to go find him more cocaine.  I told him that I don’t use cocaine and I am a square and I don’t know how to get it, which is true.

          The client was suffering from major sexual and identity crises.  He was a cross-dresser, but he felt deeply ambivalent about his fetish.  Some cross-dressers do it as a way to feel closer to women, because they love women.  Cross-dressers aren’t my thing, but I respect those guys.  They are nice and cool and make good (if high-maintenance) clients.
           
This client was not like that.

            “DO YOU THINK I’M GAY?”

             “Well, I don’t know,” I said, noting his wedding ring. “Cross-dressing is not necessarily a gay tendency.  In fact, I don’t know that gay men actually do it anymore, at least since the 1950s.  It’s mostly straight men who do it.   Even if you are gay, there is nothing wrong with that!  Why do you think you might be gay?”

           He told me that he went to gay bars and has sucked cock at least 20 times.  And, for what it’s worth, I believe him, as he was weeping the entire time.  And asking for more vodka.

             “IS THAT GAY? AM I GAY?”

          Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do in this situation?  I think it’s absolutely possible to have a few homosexual experiences in your life and still be straight.  I think it’s possible to be attracted to transsexual M2F and be straight.  I think it’s possible to have a Forced-Bi scene with a domme and still be straight.  Or cuckolding.  If you are going to a gay bar to hunt for penis, though, entirely of your own volition, well, yeah, you are at least a little bit gay/bisexual.   I certainly wouldn’t define another person’s sexuality for them, but that is how I view it.

           I told him all that, and then I said: “Stop torturing yourself.  Why are you putting yourself through this…?  If you enjoy sucking cock, you enjoy sucking cock, and there’s nothing wrong with that.  You have to negotiate it within your relationships, but there’s nothing bad about wanting to do it.”
       
  He started to cry again.  He cried the way I usually do: tears leak out, but the face doesn’t change.

          I just felt so fucking bad for him.  I know it’s a client, and he’s out of his mind on drugs and booze, but I just couldn’t handle his anguish.   Here he is at 3 AM in panties on a couch in the dungeon asking total strangers if he’s gay.  This is sad.  This is sad shit.

         I said, in my domme voice, “DO NOT TOUCH ME.  I ONLY TOUCH YOU.” 

           Then I reached over and gave him a big hug.

         I meant the hug.  I would never have touched him, I was so freaked out about how he looked like my Dad.  This was one of the weirdest sessions I’ve ever had in my BDSM professional career (is at redundant?), but he was suffering.  I couldn’t bear it.  I couldn’t bear to see it.

           He really started crying then.  But then it was: “Don’t leave me!”

            He offered to take me to Key Largo.   He wanted to extend our session.

            More vodka, more blow.  Fuck, what am I doing here, it’s 5 AM, what.  This guy is crazy. He’s self-destructing in front of my own eyes.  I can’t take it. He talks…and talks…and talks.

            After three hours, I bailed.  He wanted to extend.  The Russian manager tried to pressure me into it.  No.  He was paying with a credit card…not even cash.  I’ll get the money in 2 months.

         Then we go upstairs, because the Mistress I was in session with wanted to talk to me while she had a cigarette.

          There was another domme there who flipped the fuck out.  I mean, FLIPPED HER SHIT.  Fucking 5 AM and this woman FLIPS OUT for NO REASON. 

         (the only thing I can think of is that the client was here for 11 hours, and she didn’t get any of that money, even if it’s on a credit card.  That, or she was on drugs.)

            SCREAMING SCREAMING SCREAMING

            Nope.  Nope, nope, nope.  All the nope.  Nope, I just work here, dude. 

          I ran to hail a taxi cab.  The morning was bright and sunny, perfect.  About 5:30, maybe 6 AM.  There were people on the street walking their dogs.  Jogging. 

           All this….normalcy.

            It’s like passing through a veil.

            I don’t know how to end this blog post.

What Would You Do for $1200?

     As I write this, I feel like absolute shit…but I am $1200 richer than I was on Friday.  It’s all going to the landlord, but I made the rent, and I did it in a day.  This was a huge relief, because with the semester over and my teaching jobs suspended, I am supporting myself exclusively via professional sadomasochism, and in this industry, you never know what business will be like. 

       I still feel like shit.  

       I probably shouldn’t admit this, though I will to my AA sponsor later today: if there was hard alcohol in the kitchen at the Studio last night, I would have relapsed.  I actually went to look for it.  I felt like my mind was coming apart.  I was shaking all over.  

       I was in session, or preparing to go into session, for seven hours yesterday.  I was required to smoke cigarettes in two of them, which made me feel very ill.  I had my first client twenty minutes after I got out of bed.

        Let’s take this one at a time.

         I slept in the Studio overnight.  We have linens and cots in the back.  I’d had a session with a (coked out) client at 4 AM, and there was no reason to go home to sleep when I’d just have to wake up in six hours and come back to work.

          I hate sleeping in that place, however practical it is.  I don
t believe in ghosts, but that place is haunted.  

        Haunted by the Ghosts of Sessions Past.  

        I have awful nightmares when I’m there.  I sweat through the bedsheets.

        The manager woke me up to let me know that I had a session in twenty minutes…at 10:30 AM. 

        And the motherfucker showed up early.  He showed up in ten minutes. And he was in a hurry.  He had to catch a plane.

        I did not have time to put on whoreface.  I barely had time to brush my teeth before I put the six-inch pumps on my feet.  I put on lipstick and mascara.  The manager told me that I needed to brush my hair.  I put it into a bun. I did not have time to hairspray the strays.

        I took a glass of icewater from the fridge.  There was a half-empty bottle of cheap white wine on the same shelf.  

         I stared at it.

         Then I went into session.  To his credit, the client was nice.  

          I had to smoke cigarettes.  I had to catheterize him.  

          I do not like smoking.  Catheterization is a huge power trip, but I do not really like doing it, either, because it is so intimate and because I am not a health care professional and I feel that doing it is dangerous, however careful I am.  The Studio is not a sterile environment.  I feel that I am being irresponsible.  And I am smoking while I am catheterizing a man.  Jesus fucking Christ.  I just got out of bed after a night of terrible dreams.  I am trying to concentrate.  I am wearing a latex nurses’ uniform.  I am smoking.  I am in hell.

          The session was two hours long.  He was happy.  He tipped me $60.

            The next guy was waiting for me as I finished with the first one.

           It was the same room, too.  I was rushing to clean it.  I hate rushing the cleaning.  I was sweating.  I still had not eaten.

            That one’s a blur.  It was very physically demanding, though.  Singletail and all this equipment.  It was a fucking 3-ring circus.  I am a clumsy girl.  I can use a singletail proficiently but I do not like to do it in high heels when I am hypoglycemic. 

             I did something I almost never do: I ended the session ten minutes early. It wasn’t hard.  He was excited and I encouraged him.

             No tip.  Whatever, just go away.

             Get out of the latex outfit.  Ugh.  People who love latex LOVE it, but I’ve never cared for it.  Give me metal or leather any day.  

              I wanted to take a shower and wash my hair.  

             Nope.  No rest for the weary. 

             No rest for the wicked.

               He came back for me.  

               The Weirdest Session of 2013 came back for me.

               All that I can say is that he was not evil, like Chopin or the Attorney.  

             He was, however, crazy.  And he wanted to talk.  And talk.  Not talk with me (he kept trying to get personal information out of me, but I kept deflecting and lying, which was  stressful) necessarily.  But to talk at me.  

           Being in such close proximity to his craziness for three hours was very emotionally taxing. 

           I live-tweeted some of it.  Thank God for Sex Worker Twitter.

           Some of the things he said to me (I almost ended the session a few times.  I couldn’t deal):

          “You are an empty shell of a person.  I am a reflection of you.”

          “You will die alone and empty, like me.”

           “No one will ever love you.”

            “You smoke that cigarette like a penis.”

           He told me about his one and only girlfriend from 5th grade.  I had to wear the black ballet flats that came off of his dead mother’s feet.  He would talk about her and compulsively touch the shoes each time.  He talked to me about the nervous tick he developed when his mother “was widowed.”  He told me about collecting snow globes.  He told me about wanting to die.

          He wanted to extend the session for two more hours.

          “What’s your real name?  What’s your real name?  I masturbate constantly.  I am going to go home and masturbate in those shoes.”

           I couldn’t do it.  I felt like my mind was breaking apart.

           I handed that baton to another Lucky Lady.  

           I retreated to the office and started to tremble.  I was shaking all over.

           Then I went to the kitchen to look for booze.

           We were dry.

           I went to the locker room: “Does anyone have liquor?”

           “I have beer in my locker.  It’s warm, though.”

           “No thanks.”  I can’t drink beer.  I hate the taste.  Thank GOD.

            I got out of there and cashed out.  $1200 in a day, and I earned every fucking penny.  Every penny.

           I was so exhausted that I just collapsed into bed.  I didn’t wash my face, nothing.  I slept in my contact lenses.  

           But I made my rent.  In a day.
       

Ladies: Avoid This Man

     I can’t sleep.  

      Listen to me: if you are a professional switch or submissive woman, or even a non-professional switch or submissive woman in the Tri-State area, and you are reading this, you need to email me to find out how to avoid this man.

     You’ll never guess the blast from the past making the rounds here at Margo Manor…

       The Attorney.  Remember him?

       A woman approached me at work.  Her eyes were wet.  She looked scared.

       “Do you know (Attorney’s real name)?  He knows you.”

        I pulled her into one of the back rooms so that we could talk privately. 

      She sessioned with him.  A submissive session.  Outside of the Studio.  And he told her alllllll about me. 

      Why would he tell her about me, a year and a half later…?

      Apparently, I made quite an impression on him.  

      That’s okay.  He left am impression on me.  All kinds of impressions.  

      He made an impression on this woman, too. 

      He didn’t hurt her as badly as he hurt me.  She’s not a masochist.  Couldn’t take it.  But he rode her as hard as he possibly could.  She claims that she was sobbing and screaming at the end.  

      This woman is not a wimp.  She is a MMA fighter. 

     “He’s insane!  He’s like Patrick Bateman!  Right down to his suit and briefcase!”

     Yup.  

      “And his stare!  His awful stare!”

      Yes.  The psychopath stare.  I’ll never forget it. 

       “He was like Ted Bundy!”

      Yes.

       This woman started to shake.  She started to cry.

      “He is terrifying,” I said.  “I’ve never met anyone like him.”  

      “He asked about you!” she said.

       “I believe it,” I said.  Otherwise, how would she know I ever met him?

      “I thought he could kill me!” she wailed. 

      “He could, but he won’t.  He’s too controlled.  Look at his professional success.  He can pull it together; pass himself off as normal.  He runs cold.  Not hot.”

        “I can’t do sub sessions anymore.  I can’t risk something like that happening again,” she said.  

          I’m telling you: the woman was terrified recounting this to me.  Pupils dilated, skin white.  And this was a week after the session.  She was traumatized.  

        “How long did it take you to heal?” I asked.

         “I still have marks, but they’re mostly gone now.  My MMA sensei at the dojo saw them and couldn’t believe it.  I told him that I fell down the stairs,” she said.

         He marked me for a month.  A month.  And his technical skill was incredible.  I’ve never seen someone so proficient with the tools.

        And how do you get proficient…?

        You practice.

        This man has hurt many, many women.  

        As I am typing this, the emotion that I feel is rank terror.  The hair on my arms is standing up.  I can’t sleep.  

        Do you want to know more?  Come sit on mommy’s lap.  I have a bedtime story for you…

        The Attorney told me that one time he flew from NYC to Little Rock, Arkansas to meet a woman he met online.  A submissive.  Not a professional. 

        He beat her in her ranch house.  It was all pre-arranged.  He’d made a special box for bastinado.  Constructed it in his garage.  A little weekend carpentry, ha ha.  The people at airport security took it out of his luggage and couldn’t figure out what it was, he said, laughing.  Like it was a joke.

        He beat this woman, drove back to the airport, and flew back home.  He flew halfway across the United States to torture someone.

         “And his wedding ring!  He didn’t even take it off for the session!” said the woman at the studio.  “I was screaming!  He shattered a yardstick on me!”

        Yes indeed.  He’s married.  Someone married him.  

        Probably a woman just like me.  

         I wonder what he does to her.

         Listen to me: if you are a woman reading this and you are dating or sessioning with dominant men/male Tops in the Tri-state area, you need to email me.  I will tell you how to identify and avoid this man.  I don’t have his last name…but I know enough to tell you how to spot him.

         He is a killer.  A stone cold killer.  And once he’s done with you, you’ll never forget it.  I had three meetings with him, and I still think about him every day of my life.  I’ve had a million clients, and I remember him the best. He is a predator, and cold like an insect or the inside of a refrigerator.  

         Oh, one more thing: the first time he hired me, he hired me as a domme.  There isn’t a submissive bone in his body, but he is a masochist, and when he takes it, you can’t hit him hard enough.  

       He has hounded me across the internet ever since I cut off contact with him. CollarMe, Fetlife, every ad I posted.  It is probable that he is reading this.  If he is, I’m sure that he’s smiling and jerking off.  All of those delicious memories, amirite?  It’s fun to scare girls, amirite?

       Do you know what he wrote to me after “The pizza was fantastic!” that served, like a bucket of icewater in my face, to wake me up, and see him for what he was (though a woman who was not fucked up would have recognized him right away)?

      “If you want to serve me, this is your assignment: think of the worst possible punishment you could administer to another female.  Describe it.  Blow by blow.  Implements used.  If it pleases me, I will do it to you.” 

         Escorts probably don’t have to worry about him.  He’s not interested in sex, though he can orgasm.  He is obsessed with violence.  

        He’s out there, ladies, and he’s young, so he’s going to be doing this for a long, long time.  Email me, and I’ll tell you how to steer clear of him.  
      
       If you want a little walk down memory lane, click his tag label.

       I’d post more photos of the marks he left on me–the photos would turn your hair white–but he has copies of the pictures and if he’s not reading this, I don’t want him to find me via a google images search.  Just fucking trust me.  

      P.S.  And you know what else sucks?  It sucks that I can’t go to the police and mention this to them.  I wouldn’t try to get him arrested, because he didn’t do anything wrong to me, other than humiliate me a bit when he rejection and pizza quip.  Everything he did to me was consensual.  But…it would be good if he was on the police’s radar.  I wouldn’t have to convince them of anything.  The photos of my injuries would speak for themselves.   It was epic.  Truly. 

But I can’t do that, because I’m a sex worker.  


I can’t believe I emailed him photos of my mangled hide.  He loved them.  Torture porn.  I’m sure he’s got quite the collection.  He hangs out on some dark corners of the internet.  

You Quit When You’re Ready

UPDATE 7:00 PM:

   Before I forget: two more things that set up this mad second-guessing–

     A woman I work with at the Studio, “Katherine,” is in a new relationship with a guy she met through a popular online dating site.  He is a professional chef who also shares partial ownership of his own restaurant.  

     They met in the Spring.  He’s crazy about her.

      She hasn’t told him that she works at the Studio.  He thinks that she works in “customer service.”  While that job description is not necessarily untrue, it is not, shall we say, fully representative.   I like Katherine quite a bit, but she is engaging in a lie by omission. 

      It’s stressing her out…but that doesn’t make it okay.  I am telling her, Look, the later you wait, the worse it will be.  

       And then I was supposed to go on a date this weekend with a professor and writer who also works at my tutoring center.  Nothing major, just a dinner-and-movie date.  We were going to see this new  documentary film (I love documentaries) Blackfish, about an Orca whale in a Sea World hell in Orlando.  The Orca has killed three people.  I feel sad for their families, but as far as I’m concerned, GO SHAMU GO!  If I was a porpoise, I’d kill humans on basic principle whenever I had the chance.  

      They are intelligent and emotional creatures.  They shouldn’t be living in a fuckin concrete bathtub.  I guess the performance-trick-training gives them something to do with their energy and big brains  rather than only languishing in the SeaWorld Supermax Prison they’re in, but FFS.


       Anyway…I thought about the date…and I thought about the conversations it could include.  I could never tell him about what I do at the Studio.  He could blab about it to other colleagues. If I don’t mention it, and things go well and something develops between us…do I tell him later, and risk rejection?  Do I hide it and hope he never finds out?  I am very, very good at hiding things.

       All I wanted to do was see a movie, man.

      Finally: I’ve done a significant amount of politics and campaign work.  The Census, Planned Parenthood, internships, Campaign Corps, journalism.  Protest movements.  Other stuff.  

       I couldn’t do it the last two election seasons because I knew that if I was exposed, I would bring shame and scrutiny down upon my candidate/party/organization.  

       Must think about this…

     *                              *                                      *                           *



    I met a woman in AA who was in the Biz for over ten years.  Not prodomme, but as an escort and sensual massage.  She quit doing it seven months after she got sober, when she was approximately my age.  

     I took her out for lunch.  I wanted to hear what she had to say.

     She did not mince words.

     “You have to get out as soon as possible.  You cannot stay sober in that industry.  There is no excuse.”

       I glared at her from across the table.  I did not like being told by a complete stranger what I am and am not capable of.  

      “You have an excellent education and credentials.  When I quit, I had a High School degree and I’d never worked in a 9-to-5 job.  I was terrified because I had no idea how I was going to support myself.  Do you have any idea how crazy you sound to have all of the education and skills that you have, and to still be doing this?”

      I felt defensive and a little angry.  Crazy?  Me?  Compared to who?  All those fruitbats in the Rooms?  Half those crazy bitches in the Studio?  Compared to this middle-aged woman sitting across from me, who in addition to being an alcoholic also had a major cocaine problem and just told me stories about being a full-service escort and also having a pimp at one time who would beat her up?  I teach in a classroom!  I teach the GRE!  I’m a nice normal person!  A nice sane individual!

      “I just do it part-time.  I have other jobs.  It supplements my income,” I said.

       “Rationalization.  You can supplement your income by working as a dog-walker.  You don’t need to be doing this.  You have no idea how this is truly affecting you.”

        “Please do not patronize me.  What, are you saying I have false consciousness or something?”

         “That is exactly what I’m saying.  I needed ten years of therapy when I got out.”

         Well, maybe you were crazy to begin with, I thought, but I didn’t say that.  I didn’t want to be rude.  

         “Look at what you are doing,” she went on.  “People are paying you to abuse them.  Or they pay to abuse you.” 

        That pissed me off.  “Please!  I have morals.  I don’t hurt anyone.  This is not abuse.”

       “What is it, then?”

        “Look, I know the way sadomasochism looks to outsiders.  I know that it looks either scary or absurd.  But it’s not necessarily bad.  It is enjoyable.”

       “It is entirely possible to enjoy abuse and abusing others.”

       “I’ve had abusive clients and I’ve been in abusive relationships. I can tell the difference.”

        “What is the difference?” she asked.

        “Abuse hurts and degrades the soul.  I don’t feel bad when I have a good session with a client.  I feel good.  I feel happy.”

        “You are black and blue, Margo.”

         “What am I supposed to do?  Change my entire sexuality?  This is the way I was imprinted.  It is crucial to my sexual functioning.  Why should I give it up if I don’t have to?  It gives me joy.”

      “Obsessions can be fun.  As alcoholics, we both know all about that.  Tell me: why are you doing this professionally?”

      “Repetition compulsion and the money is helpful.”

      “Exactly.  You are acting out.  You are spinning in place.  You cannot do this and move forward with your life.  If you want to get better, you will have to quit.  Even if you don’t drink, you are not engaging in sober behavior when you do this.  Margo, you are out of control.  You are still stuck in it, so you don’t see it clearly, from the outside.”  

        I was furious.  Alcoholics don’t like to be told that they can’t drink.  They go: mind your own fucking business.  I’ll quit when I’m ready.  I’ll quit when I’m ready, and not a day before.

      She continued: “My best advice to you is that as long as you keep doing this professionally, you need to be doing a lot of AA at the same time.  It will support you and sustain you, give you perspective.  You need to keep one foot in the normal world while you do this.  You are in great danger, Margo.”

       “What?  Violence?  Like a client could hurt me?”  All sex workers fear violence.  Or at least all the ones I’ve talked to about it.

      “That too, but also emotional danger.”

       I know in my heart that she is right.  I’ve known these truths for a long, long time.  

       The Awful Truth.  This is holding me back.  I’m stuck in a holding pattern like a jet over an airport, waiting for clearance to land.  I cannot move forward in my career–you know, what I went to college for–as long as I keep doing professional S&M, because if I’m exposed, it will nuke my professional reputation.  

        I cannot have love in my life, because no healthy man is going to put up with it (me doing BDSM with a lot of random guys, even if they are clients).  And if I am spending so much energy doing this, what am I going to have to give to another person?  

       And sex work is isolating.  It is, and not just because it’s illegal or verboten to talk about.  And isolation is lethal.  Isolation will get you in the end.  

       But you quit when you’re ready.  

       You quit when you’re ready, and not a moment before.