A Wonderful Client

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Client Misconceptions

Allow us to discuss client misconceptions.

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

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

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

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

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


The Story of the Spanko and the “Session Jar.”

This one is going to be short…but I had to write it down, because it’s a new one (that’s the thing about the fetish Biz–you think you’ve seen it all, but you never have, and presumably never will).

It’s also sweet and funny, in its way.

Old guy comes to see me.  Had a hearing aid and dentures, because nobody that old has perfect refrigerator-white teeth (huh? Don’t dentists “age” dentures to match?) Clearly on Social Security, maybe a pension–he seemed poor to me, but, believe me, you can never be sure.  Scrubs would come to the dungeon in sweatshirts that looked older than me with holes in them and velcro sneakers with the mesh on top about worn through, and I’d find out later that they were millionaires.

Anyway, the man was a spanko: all that he wanted was a bare-bottom spanking over my knee, while lying on the couch.  He didn’t even want to undress (most true spankos, I’ve found, keep all or most of their clothes on.  I guess it keeps the experience more true to the domestic discipline childhood experience).

Easy-peasy, and one of my favorite types of sessions.  I really enjoy going to town on hardcore masochists with a variety of implements–and I’m good at it, because I’m a very experienced maso myself–but old-fashioned spankings and domestic discipline scenarios are tons of fun (always do it in stockings, old-fashioned heeled “slippers” with downed muff on top, and a satin robe, and ALWAYS wash the mouth out with Ivory soap. No other soap will do!).

The guy is a gent and reaches into his backpack to pay me, presumably to get his wallet…

…instead, he pulls out a Jiffy peanut butter jar, full of money, and hands it to me.

I opened it and took out a handful.

It was full of $1 bills.  Some crushed, some folded.  They all look like he had taken them out of his pockets at the end of the day and put them in the jar.

Well, you know the rule: Always get the money up front.

I thanked him, kept a pleasant smile on my face, sat down on the edge of the bed, and started counting the money.  In order to do this, I had to unfold it and straighten it out.  I started making little stacks of 10 $1-bills so that I could keep track of it.

This was tedious and time-consuming and I began to feel rather embarrassed and self-conscious.

I got to about $50-something and said something I’ve never said to a client (or practically any man, for that matter) before:  “You know what?  I’ll just take your word for it.”

I put his money back in the Jiffy jar, which I am positive is his “session jar,” in which he saves, say, a dollar a day or something until he can afford a session.  Only 38 days more and I can get my ass spanked! he thinks, as he adds another dollar.

We did the session.  He was great.  It was only a half-hour and easy as pie.  He was nice and clean and in a great mood and left happy.

I finally counted the money (I really wish I’d taken a picture of it for you, because it looked hilarious, all those crumpled $1s in a peanut butter jar) and he was as good as gold: it was all there.

And now, the Story of the Spanko and the Session Jar is told.

The “Lost Wallet,” and Other Updates


First, I am feeling much better.  I’ve been weaning off the librium (in the hospital, they were giving me two or three pills per day) and today will be my last dose (yay!).  I take it before bed because it makes me sleepy and slightly uncoordinated, and I have a lot of chores and driving to do today.

(One thing I can say in my favor is that after I was arrested for drunk driving–Minor in Possession, actually–at age 20, I never got in the car after more than one drink again. One drink was my cutoff limit, and I waited an hour before driving.)

My esophagus is much better, but I’m still on meds for that.  I don’t need the lidocaine anymore, but I take this other stuff that coats the esophagus and stomach and prevents any acidic stomach bile from coming up and burning the hell out of it again.  Eating more than a few bites of solid food is still uncomfortable and I don’t have much appetite, so I’m still living primarily on chocolate meal-replacement shakes I make in the blender with soy or almond milk (being Whitey McWhitebread Northern European, I have no trouble digesting dairy, but the doctors said almond milk would be more gentle on my terrorized stomach).

On the upside, not to sound moonbat crazy (though I am), this has been GREAT for my figure! I can fit into my 32-band bras again and I have to superglue the bands of my stay-ups a little tighter so that they don’t slide down my legs!  I think I lost a little muscle definition, though, because I laid in bed (or sat by the bed throwing up) for two straight weeks.  There is no way in hell I am going to be able to go to the gym or lift weights for at least two weeks.  Doing laundry and one chore at a time is all I can manage.  Then I have to sit down and rest for half an hour before I can get up and do another project.

My tour to San Francisco when very well–much better than I expected in my weakened, newly-sober condition, and the fact that most of my clients were brand new ones, and, well, with brand new clients, you never know what you’re going to get.  They were all really nice, though, and I only had one bad experience, and I had it because I broke the cardinal #1 rule of sex work: always get the money up front.  I have also been ripped off in this industry because I didn’t hide the money in a good enough spot while he was in the bathroom or his back was turned (keeping it in the safe is a good idea, but it means you’ve got to turn your back to him, and if he has a weapon, he’s gonna take all your cash.  IMO, the best place to hide it is a box of tampons.  No dude is going to look in a box of tampons.) and he STOLE IT BACK when I was in the bathroom after session.  How can a man have any masculine honor to steal back money from a woman who just gave you a great experience?  Answer: he can’t.  And he doesn’t see you as actually providing a legitimate service.

The other times I’ve been ripped off–and it’s happened about five times now, I’ve very, very embarrassed to say–is because I didn’t ask for the money up front.  I wrote about one of those incidences in the Chester series (there are three parts to the Chester series. At least I got some money from him by robbing him in that restaurant).  And I should know by now, from bitter experience, and unless the guy is a clueless newbie who doesn’t know what he’s doing, if he doesn’t leave cash or an envelope immediately in the bathroom or the dresser without saying a word, he is up to something shady.

I hate asking for money because if the guy is a cop and you ask for money, you’re busted.  They’ve got it on a wire or some recording device.  Even if you’re a prodomme and what you’re doing is legal.  The cops don’t give a fuck.  They have an “arrest-em-all-and-let-the-judge-sort-them-out” mentality.  Most cops doesn’t even know or understand what dommes DO, we’re all lumped in with escorts in their minds. The dungeon provided a small layer of protection, because management handled the money and the domme never had to talk about it. If he pays you after the session, well, then it’s just a “gift.”

He was a young-ish man, about my age.  He wanted a bondage tease-and-denial session with a lot of talking, with really ISN’T my thing (at least he was friendly and not too vulgar) at 10 PM at night, which ALSO isn’t my thing bc I hate working past 7 or 8 pm, but I did it because I was still weak from being in the hospital and had to stagger my sessions all day with hours in between so that I could rest and take naps.

Well, get this: we do the session, he takes a shower, goes to pay me, and finds out that he “can’t find his wallet.”

Shoot me now.  Just shoot me now.  Better yet, shoot HIM now.  I had fantasies about putting an arrow in this guy’s chest.  If I was still in NYC, the NY Post would LOVE that one: “Disgruntled Hooker Kills Cheap John With Bow and Arrow in Swanky Hotel!” with a picture of his dead body with an arrow sticking out of it and a picture of me in a sexy dress and handcuffs, doing the perp walk.

Well, we tore the room apart for 30 minutes and couldn’t find it. Went through his coat pockets, looked behind the curtains, everything.  No wallet.  I was pissed.

“If you do not compensate me, I will blacklist you and never session with you again or give you a reference,” I said.  I didn’t scream (I never raise my voice), I was just cold and matter-of-fact.  I’d also changed into my street clothes right away.  No more free show for you, buddy.

He went home and sent me and email apologizing profusely and saying that he found his wallet in “his other pants.”  I suppose this is remotely possible, especially if he was in a hurry trying to get dressed in better clothes to come see me…and we all make mistakes.  One time, for example, I had a session with my shrink and I totally forgot to stop at the ATM to get cash to pay her.  Another time, I really did forget my wallet on my desk.  But she’d known me by 2 years at this time, and she knew I was honest and reliable, and she wasn’t mad at me, and, sure enough, I paid her immediately up front the following week and apologized (again).

He wants to book with me again this Wednesday and promises he will bring me the money he owes me. “I have every intention of fulfilling my obligation in this transaction,” he writes.

I’ll put the odds of this actually happening at…20%, and that’s being generous. Too much time will have elapsed; and even if he’s telling the truth about leaving his wallet in “his other pants,” the guilt will have faded and he’ll just want to move on.

Personally, I think he probably left his wallet in the glove department of his car in the parking garage.

I had another session story to tell, a FUNNY story, which I have already dubbed The Story of the Spanko and the “Session Jar,” but I’ve written long enough and I’m starting to get tired.  So, I’ll save that one for next time.

It’s a fun one.  And we all know this place could use some cheering up.

P.S.  My mom saw a Momma duck at the river with about 11 baby ducklings (don’t you just LOVE ducklings?) who were tiny, maybe 2 weeks old, and a big crane came out of nowhere and snatched one of the ducklings.  Momma duck attacked the crane, but there was nothing she could do, the crane was too big. Duckling was screaming and dying a horrible death. Mom was screaming and freaking out, which I have never seen her do in my entire life, which is weird.  Momma duck had to give up to protect her other 10 babies and rounded them up and swam away as fast as she could.  My mom ran away because she couldn’t look at it anymore.  She told me this over the telephone.

Why would the crane do that?  I thought they just ate fish, minnows and the like. Do they eat birds too?  They’re not raptors.  Surely it would not attack the duckling if it didn’t want to eat it for food…?  Does anyone know?


I have to write about my last client.

Beautiful Persian Zoroastrian man, immaculately dressed, who brought me olives, grapes, a pear, and a pomegranate. He was a physicist by profession.

He wanted to smell my nylons while I sang to him.  I can’t sing with a good Goddamn, but I laid on top of him while he was curled up underneath the blanket like a shrimp.

I hummed Edelweiss.  I don’t know how to sing.  I can read music, but my sense of tune is completely off. I have a tin ear.

He started to cry.  He wasn’t sobbing…just, water came out of his eyes.  He was very composed.

He looked up at me and said that my hair is reddish-gold, the same color as the most expensive gold in his homeland.

Then he rolled over onto his stomach and asked me to sing some more.

I tell you this because it ripped out my heart, and it really happened.  Just now.

Clients Who Stalk (II): This One Sends Spies

So, yes, let me tell you about my new stalking client…

Since I started working again in San Francisco, I’ve written at length about the ways in which the clients are different from my clients in New York.  The most prominent distinctions are their professions and racial demographics: in New York, my clients were mostly gentile white men and Jews…lots of MBAs, lawyers, and financial services creatures (most of my regulars, though, were PhDs or some sort of egghead, because they gravitate towards me).  In San Francisco, I get gentile white guys and a lot of Asians and Asian-Americans, including Indians.  On the whole, I think they’re a little younger than my New York clients (ugh…young clients…the older ones are usually better, IME).  A lot of them work in tech or computers.  What’s worse: a financial services creature or a Silicon Valley tech bro who feels conflicted about women because he spent his adolescence and 20s locked in a computer lab…? (To be fair, I spent mine in libraries, but it’s not comparable because I was also always getting laid.)

I hate to make generalizations because I don’t want to be racist or to stereotype people, but, on the whole, my experience with East Asian clients has been very positive (Indians, alas, are another story).  They tend to be good clients because they have no concept of “sin” and, historically, sex work has been regarded as a perfectly legitimate, if personally undesirable, profession for a woman in their cultures.

There is one thing I’ve noticed about SOME of them, though, that I’ve never seen before with any other clientele (which brings me to my stalker):

They treat seeing sex workers as a male-bonding sport.

Other clients don’t tell ANYONE in their lives that they come to see me.  They don’t talk about it with their guy friends.  Part of that is the stigma surrounding BDSM, especially for submissive men, but it’s also simply not part of the American culture to talk about seeing sex workers (with the possible exception of going to strip clubs with your friends, as a group) to your friends or colleagues. I could envision a bunch of 20-year-old servicemen in San Diego getting drunk and deciding to go to a brothel in Tijuana as a sort of adventure field-trip…but mostly, men are secretive and solitary when it comes to hiring sex workers.

Some Asians don’t see it that way.  As I’ve said, they have zero shame about it, and they also think it’s all in good fun (which is true, or, at least, it should be), and it is also a macho/masculine thing to do.

As I said in my last post, I did sensual massage for two tours in San Francisco.  I decided that it wasn’t a good fit for me, so I stopped.  In that time, about half of my clients were Asian or Indian, and a LOT of them immediately started referring their buddies to me.  I’d get emails: “Hi Margo, this is X, my friend Mr. I-Heart-Massage-On-My-Lunchbreak loved you and said I have to see you for myself.  May I book?”

My new stalker is an early-40s wealthy Korean businessman I met doing sensual massage. He LOOOOOOVED me (they kinda fetishize my height and coloring, which is odd to me) and immediately started sending his friends.  He’d book me for a session every day I worked in SF. I started to be weirded out when he’d show up with two friends, and the other two would wait in the car or go get a drink or a bite to eat until it was “their turn.”

On one hand, the business was good, right…?  And they all were happy to screen.

On the other hand…there was something offensive to me in the way these guys were passing me around like a jar of cookies.

My soon-to-be-stalker started to ask me if I’d do outcalls to visit him in Palo Alto.  At first, he just asked me, which is fine, but then he tried to talk me into it.

Then he started asking me for pictures, and if he could record me (NOPE sorry).

Then he asked me if I was willing to see him and his friends at the same time. (Same time for what?  I only have two hands!  I can only give one person a backrub at once!)

Then his buddies would come it, and try to convince me of the same things.  Like I said, these clients are not subs and they come into the session with a totally different mindset.

The stress reached critical mass and I blacklisted my soon-to-be stalker (not to his face) and stopped doing sensual massage.  Nope, not for me.  My ads under that stage name disappeared from the internet.  I’d only done it for 6 shifts in all.

Well, Stalker McStalkerpants did not do the sensible thing and move on to the next appealing woman on Eros.  Oh NOOOOOOOO.

Somehow, he tracked me down under my prodomme name, and started emailing me through that ad.  I don’t know how he could do that (especially since I never show my face in my ads, distorted my body statistics slightly, and wore completely different outfits, and my ad copy was different).

Actually, I do know how he could do that: obsessively checking and comparing all the ads on the sex worker ad malls and emailing the women he thought might be ME.

It probably didn’t take him as much time as my New York City stalkers, because the market in San Francisco is considerably smaller.

I ignored him completely.

He starts trying to book a massage through my Google Voice.  BLOCK.

Then, it gets weirder…

I started to get booking requests from totally new clients, asking for leg-worship sessions or tease-and-denial.  We do the usual email exchange and set something up.  They come in, and all they want is a massage (which they didn’t say in their email).

Well, now I’m on the spot.  It wasn’t what I expected, but I’m already dressed and the session is booked, he’s paying me…so, I did it.  This has happened with three different new clients, and they were all middle-aged Korean guys.  After the second one, I started to feel concerned.  Spidy sense started going off.

They’d book a second session for the following week, and, sure enough, they’d ask, towards the end of the session, “Hey, why won’t you see Stalking Client?  He really likes you!  He recommended you!  He wants to see you again.”

Now, reader, please imagine this from my perspective: I’m standing by the bed, trying to get the tension out of this new guy’s calves or shoulders, la-dee-dah, I’m thinking everything is fine…

…when suddenly he lets me know that he is essentially a fucking spy sent by my stalker to convince me into seeing his stalking friend again.

Yeah, very very uncomfortable.

And now I have another problem: if I admit to being the sensual massage provider, stalker will know for a fact that, well, it’s me.  If I say “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I still have deniability.  But if I deny it, I can’t be honest and say, “Your friend was a boundaries-violator who made me uncomfortable.”

But, why would I say that anyway…?  Stalker doesn’t give a shit about my comfort, or else he wouldn’t be a stalker.

So, I get the spy out of the room and then immediately blacklist him, too.

Stalker has sent three guys to me (that I know of).  The last one was a retired computer executive whom I thought was pretty cool, and not a spy for Stalker, because I’d seen him 3 times and he hadn’t dropped the bomb yet, but, sure enough….as he’s getting dressed to go, he says, “My friend, the Stalker, really likes you, and will give you a $1000 tip to see him again.  More, if you do threesomes with one of his friends.”


I took a gamble and blurted: “I don’t want to ever see your friend again for any reason, and if he ever shows up at my door, I am going to call the police.”

What is up with Stalker and his friends?  How does he have this many friends willing to do his bidding and book sessions with me and try to push his creepy agenda?  And does he really think, after all of this, that I would be willing to see him EVER AGAIN?

What this also means is that Stalker is monitoring my ads and touring info online, just waiting for me to be in town so that he can have one of his jerk buddies call me.  Really healthy, normal adult behavior there, Stalker.

It’s to the point now where I am paranoid of taking clients who  have Asian names, which is completely unacceptable for my business because they’re at least 25% of my clientele.  I sit here scrutinizing the names in my message box and typing them into Google to find out what nationality they are.

I don’t want to antagonize this guy because he’s obviously entitled and pushy as hell, which is spooky, and also because he’s rich and he has a network of friends who apparently see nothing wrong with his behavior.

What I think I am going to do is have a male friend call Stalker on his cell phone and politely say “This is Margo’s friend.  Stop calling her.  She never wants to hear from you again.”  That’s it, that’s all.  I’ve had to do this before, and it ALWAYS works.  The sound of another man’s voice drags the stalker out of his little omnipotent fantasy world and back into reality.

Still…what a sick, disrespectful fuck.  Like I said in my last post: the stalkers do this because they don’t see you as fully human.

That’s the conclusion of Clients Who Stalk.  God, I hate these guys.

Clients Who Stalk (I)

Let’s talk about clients who stalk.  Boundaries-violators.  The guys who won’t take no for an answer.

I’ve been fortunate in that I’ve only had about a half-dozen of these fuckers in my career (like most women, I’ve had men get alarmingly fixated or territorial at work, or after a few casual dates, but that’s another story).  Every sex worker I know has encountered clients like this.  I’m sure that many of these guys behave inappropriately with other women in their lives, but when it comes to sex workers, they completely abandon their inhibitions because they perceive us as being especially vulnerable (which is true) and also because these unhealthy abusive dingbats don’t have proper perspective and can’t keep a handle on their emotions.

At the root of all this, of course, is the fact that they don’t respect you or see you as fully human.  Disrespect is the soil abuse grows from.

I’m not talking about the client with a crush, who is besotted and always brings in flowers or candy and offers to do favors for you and is clearly just dying for a “real date.”  That is emotionally exhausting, and I usually let those guys go, too, because it’s awkward and I don’t like feeling pressured or that I am causing them pain, but it’s not oppressive.  It is understandable that a man could develop a crush on the woman who is always looking beautiful for him, always catering to his fantasy, always in a good mood and providing acceptance of some of his most personal vulnerabilities and secrets. I sympathize.  Guys with mad crushes stress me out, but I sympathize.  I really do.

I’m talking about the stalkers.  You politely decline to see them again after three or four sessions because they disturb you or upset you, and they blow up your email box demanding an explanation for your decision , or email you again after a few months to see if you’ve “changed your mind,” or they pretend as if it’s their first time ever contacting you and try to book an appointment.   The client whose email and social media communications you block, who then makes up a new email account or identity just to get around the blocking and confront you or make you think he’s someone else.  The client who finds your ads from years ago in Google cache or the Wayback Machine and emails them to you, with commentary.  The client you intentionally, deliberately stopped seeing at your last dungeon (and yes, you told him this), who tracks you down at your new dungeon two years later and makes an appointment with you under a new name.

The client you stupidly gave your real cell phone number to when you were green and trusting and stupid (he’s married with a family!  He wouldn’t stalk me!  He’s safe!) who then pays a company to find out your legal name…and actually tells you about it, as if he did something to be proud of.  You walk into the room, totally unsuspecting, and, to your complete shock, he starts calling you by your Christian name, as if you were old friends.

The client who asks other sex workers about you…if she knows your personal information, where you go to school, if you have a boyfriend, if you drive, if you have a lot of clients.

The client who stalks your ads on all of the online ad malls and tells you which ad copy and pictures he likes the best. Not a passing compliment (“Your Eros ad is really hot!”), but a detailed commentary of your online presence that shows he’s really put some time and effort into it.  As if anyone asked for his fucking opinion.

The client who finds you on OK Cupid or Match.com or your PRIVATE LIFE profiles on collarme/collarspace and fetlife and messages you about it.

The client who gives you bad vibes and you don’t want to provoke him or antagonize him in any way, so you don’t clearly and explicitly reject him to his face or via email (when I was pro-subbing, this happened to me a few times with male doms).  You brush off his booking requests a few times in courteous fashion and then ignore him utterly.  Instead of taking a hint, he books a session under a new name “so that we can talk” or just shows up at the dungeon out of nowhere demanding to session with you anyway.

When you used to session at your house (that lasted about three months, precisely because of douchebags like this), this is the guy who picks up your personal items without permission to examine them.  You catch him rifling through the basket of periodicals by the sofa to see what you’re reading and also, naturally, to find your legal name on a mailing sticker.

I have one of these clients on my hands right now, and if I hear from him one more time, I’m going to threaten the nuclear option: going to the police.  This just can’t go on.

Here’s the deal: about two months ago, I decided to try a new type of sex work–sensual massage.  I met a prodomme in San Francisco when a client hired both of us for a doubles session, and we’ve become a little friendly and have gone out to lunch a few times.  Anyway, she does massage and told me that there were lots of clients for it and that it was comparatively easy.

Now, I’ve never given handjobs in a session (I don’t look down on it or judge at all, it’s just not something I offer, and my rates as a fetish worker reflect that), but I’ve tied a lot of men down and held a hitachi on them…and that’s sort of the same thing, right…?  I mean, it’s not illegal, but it’s the same thing, right…? And when I was pro-subbing, a lot of the doms would want neck and back massage.  That’s sort of the same thing, right?  My boyfriends liked it when I rubbed and scratched their backs, so I sort of have experience, right?

“It’s easy!  Look sexy and beautiful, flirt, make conversation, encourage them to relax!” she said.

So I put up a massage ad with pics of me in a satin robe and fancy lingerie, under a new stage name.

I could only do it for two tours.  It wasn’t bad, per se, but it is just not the type of sex work for my personality.  I could see how it could appeal to other women…but it wasn’t for me.

Part of it was being a flirtatious and gracious hostess, which is fine, and it reminded me a lot of BDSM tease-and-denial sessions…except that (IMPORTANTLY) these clients were non-fetishist men, NOT submissive, and I didn’t feel in control of the situation.  It’s not like they were tied up, safe and sound, and I felt nice and safe to erotically tease them or whatever.  These men were not subs and I was not in a position of authority.

What I found myself in was a situation where I am dressed in pretty frilly lingerie, giving a backrub to a naked dude who is a stranger, trying to act flirty and sexy when I do it.

The problem is, I felt like this scenario had SEXUAL ASSAULT written all over it.  I was completely vulnerable.  It wasn’t even like a massage parlor, with other women around.  If a client raped me, what on earth would I tell the cops? “I was dressed in my bra and underpants straddling this guy giving him a neckrub and he paid me and I swear no sex was intended, I SAID SO IN MY AD!”

Which brings us back to the stalker.


The Puppet


CONTENT WARNING: This one is more sexual than most of my posts.  I think it gets an “R” rating and it’s not pornographic, but there is sexual content and description of masturbation and a little (consensual) sexual violence.  I feel a little bit weird putting myself out like this, but, hell, it already happened, and it’s not like I’m claiming credit for it under my legal name.

In any event, if this sort of content offends you, you shouldn’t read.

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He told me to masturbate, which startled me because he’d never asked for that before.  I am almost completely sexually uninhibited, but this is one thing that makes me feel self-conscious.  It’s a very vulnerable feeling, doing that in front of a partner.  More: it’s potentially humiliating.

But I did it.  I did it there on my knees. What was I going to do, tell him no…?  My cheeks were burning and I couldn’t look at him for more than a few seconds at a time.  He watched me from across the room, with his arms folded across his chest.  His eyes were keen, but the rest of his expression was neutral.  He wasn’t giving me any feedback at all.  I sneaked a glance at his crotch, looking for evidence of an erection, but I couldn’t tell anything through his trousers.

I stayed in position, working at it, for what seemed like forever.  I was too embarrassed and nervous to get myself off, or even to become really aroused.  The insides of my thighs were trembling a little, though, from being in a difficult position, and I’m sure the top of my chest was flushed.

Suddenly, he strode over to me at a brisk pace and grabbed a handful of my hair.  Hard.  It hurt, and I sucked in breath.

“Komme,” he barked, and started walking, pulling me by my hair.  I got on my feet and scrambled after him.  He held his hand at elbow level, so I couldn’t stand up straight or look around me.  The leather soles of his shoes rapped on the hardwood floor.

He dragged me down the hall and into his bedroom.  Then let go of my hair, and I stood up straight, panting, my eyes watering.

He grabbed me by my upper arms, lifted me, and literally threw me onto his bed.

I already knew he was strong—he’s in fantastic shape for a man pushing 60, and he has a pilates instructor and a weight room—but he was a small-ish guy, wiry, shorter than me.  I am almost 5’10”.  I did not expect him to be able to throw me like that.

I yelped like a kicked puppy and landed on my back on the white duvet.

I did not sit up.  I lied as I had fallen, waiting for instructions.  My skin was broken out in gooseflesh and my scalp hurt where he’d pulled my hair.  I watched him from the bed.

He looked down at me, and his expression wasn’t neutral at all now.  Now I perceived an odd mixture of emotions on his face: he looked tense and hungry, but also triumphant.

“Finally,” he breathed, more to himself than me.

I got a chill on the back of my neck and down my spine, and the hair on my arms stood up even more.  I realized I was curling my toes and that my hands were clenched in tight little fists.

He unbuttoned his suit vest and then his shirt, not taking his eyes off of my prone body.  He dropped the clothes on the floor, which I’d never seen him do before—he was always very fastidious, and, at minimum, would drape them on a chair, or on a hook on the back of the door.

He stepped out of his shoes, took off his socks, and then unbuckled his belt, still looking at me. The jingling of the belt buckle.  Oh, the belts I have known.  Are there any sounds I know better, more intimately, than those associated with men’s belts?

Then we were both naked.  A first for us.  He’d seen me naked many times, of course, and I’d sucked his cock on multiple occasions, but, like most male Tops I’ve known, he always declined to fully undress (he would often remove his shirt, but no more).  I understood why: clothes give you power.

“Do you know what you are…?” he asked me, approaching the bed.

I thought fast:  “A…slave?” I guessed, hoping for the best answer.

“You are a toy.  A toy that I bought myself for Christmas.”

He climbed onto the bed and straddled my chest, pinning my arms under his knees.  He put his hand on my neck, but didn’t squeeze.  I could feel the heat radiating off of him.  I looked into his face, trying to read him, but I suddenly felt that I could not predict this man or what he had in store for me.

“You know that sometimes boys break their Christmas toys,”  he said.

With that, he brought up his hands and brought them down hard on my upper chest, just around the sternum (not the breasts—I never could have handled that, no matter what, and he knew it.  I never let men torture my breasts.  The Surgeon could, but he was it.).  The slapping noise was very loud and the jarring sensation shook me.  He hit me very hard.   I think he probably hit me as hard as he could.  It felt a little bit like being thrown forward into a safety belt when the car slams on the breaks.  It felt a little bit like falling from a height onto your back.

He did it again.  And again.   And again.

It was a strange feeling, looking up at his face over his erection.  Strange.

He climbed off of me and grabbed my hair with one hand, my bicep with the other.  Even after that violence, he was not trembling at all.  He always ran cold, this one…not like the Surgeon, who ran hot, and would fill up a room with his emotions.

He flipped me over and maneuvered me into position, on my hands and knees.

Then, penetration.  As he kneeled behind me.

The first time.  We’d done the “Bill Clinton Compromise” (as he put it) after our 6th session, and I was always comfortable with it because I was attracted to him and trusted him, and I wanted to do it, even though it made me feel distressed  about breaking my sexual boundaries  (it was the third time in my career as a fetish worker/prodomme/pro-sub  that I broke a sexual boundary—the previous two times were with the Surgeon and the Mathematician).  God knows how many blowjobs I gave this man in limos or sedan cars outside of Lincoln Center or the Met.

But, we’d never had intercourse.

He grabbed my hair again and I felt his fingers raking down my back, over my spine, while he drilled into me.  His fingernails were extremely short, but the tips of his fingers dug in.

“What sort of toy are you…?  Are you a doll…?  A puzzle…?  A kalidescope, like a Rorschach test? ” he asked, again, mostly to himself.

I couldn’t say anything.  Only pant.  My neck and head were bent back too much, clenched in his fist.  And the motion.

“I know!” I heard him say.  “You are a puppet!  My puppet, and I control your body now!”

It is really the oddest feeling, to be out of control of your own body.  It happens to me when I’m in an extreme state of sub-space (dunno if I believe in “sub-space” as it’s currently defined, but I know SOMETHING happens when you get into that head state).  It’s thrilling, but horrifying in its way.

“You were good.  Show me how you come now,” he said, and he released my arm and started smacking my ass.  My neck and head were still held back, taut.

I am an animal.

It feels like being possessed.  Not possessed as in “owned” (tho there is an element of that), but possessed as in being possessed be a demon or a ghost.  I don’t have an explanation for it.

He played with my body for a long time.  An hour, at least.

Then, in the morning, he gave me berries and cream for breakfast.

Some Bitch Stole My Purse


The Show Must Go On.   I’m going to San Francisco tomorrow, and I’m doing it on a shoestring.   The Greyhound bus ticket is $9 (at least they offer onboard wifi now, or so they say).   And, best of all, I found a last-minute deal on a 3.5-star hotel in Union Square for $91/night on Priceline.com.  This is wonderful, because usually I have to pay at least $220/night to get a 4-star in that area.

The hotel looks nice enough–the Tripadvisor reviews are good.  The room’s the size of a postage stamp (“boutique” and “European” are the euphemisms used on the website), which is going to be a challenge in a session, but hell, I’ve still got lots of bondage options, and if I can do BDSM in my bedroom, I don’t see why I can’t do it in a little hotel room.  I’ll try to look extra-beautiful and give a great performance, and if the room turns the clients off and they don’t come back, well, I still got their money, and there’re always more clients in the world.

I’m also saving a lot of money on gasoline and parking garage/valet.  Cuz I don’t have a driver’s license (I’m going to the DMV today, wish me luck).

I’m going to have to get up at 4 AM tomorrow.  My biggest fear is that Greyhound will be “you get what you pay for” and will be, like, two hours late, which will cause me to miss my first booking.

I also need to drop off my pet parrot, Abe, at Birdy daycare (the boarder).

Here are pictures of Abe.  I have lots of videos, too, and I’m trying to figure out how to upload them on the blog.  Cuz that is what my 8 readers all really want to see, I’m sure: parrot videos.



He likes to look out the window


First Snow
First snow of the season


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What a disaster.

Yesterday morning I got up early and went to the gym before my alcohol rehab support group.

I’d been there about five minutes.  The place was almost empty, because it was 8 AM on a Sunday.  Went into the locker room/bathroom, took off my coat and purse.

I left both on the countertop by the sinks.  I did not see anyone else in the locker room.

I went into a stall to take a leak, and when I came out 30 seconds later, my purse was gone.

My purse that had my wallet and my sex work cell phone.

I panicked, of course, and ran out of the bathroom to see if I could find anyone carrying it out.  The gym is huge, but I didn’t see anyone.  I ran past the front desk and out to the parking lot, looking for someone getting into their car or walking away.


I dashed back inside and told the front desk that my purse had been stolen and asked them if they’d seen anyone just walk out.  They said no.

(I am willing to bet you anything that it was a staff member of some sort who stole it.)

I went back out to the parking lot and looked around, and then back to the locker room.  I looked underneath my coat.  I looked under the sink.  I looked, for no reason I can discern, in every single locker, and then I went out to the floor and approached everyone in the gym.

Then I went out to my car and sobbed.

I fucking hate thieves.  There is no reason for anyone older than, say, 14 to be stealing anything but food. Being stolen from is the worst feeling in the world, a mixture of helplessness and violation.

But let me tell you why having my purse stolen is especially bad:

First, the phone.  It’s an expensive phone that hasn’t been paid off yet.  I needed a work phone to keep things discreet and separate.  I wash the phone on a regular basis…delete phone logs, text conversations, stuff like that.  But…it has my client list in it (no last names, just first names or the affectionate or UNaffectionate monikers I think up to describe the guys), with phone numbers.

More importantly (from my viewpoint) I have the numbers tagged that have been abusive, timewasters, no-call-no-shows, drunk/inebriated, blacklisted.  That way I can recognize them on sight when they reach out to me and IGNORE THEM.

I’ve also used that phone to take pictures of clients who want a photo as a souvenir, or who as for a photo of me as a souvenir.  I never let them photograph my face, and I try to delete the photos after every session…but what if I didn’t delete them all?

I take pictures of my hotel rooms, pictures of sightseeing in SF…there’re lots of videos of my pet parrot in there, because I watch the videos at night when I’m on tour and sad and lonely.   So now this THIEF has video of inside my apartment.

But wait, it gets worse.

On Friday, I did my banking and paid for all of my monthly bills at once, because that’s how I like to do it.  Then I took out some cash to pay for Abe’s boarding at birdy daycare while I’m on tour, and the month’s alcohol rehab support group.

And I also took out the money to pay for this week’s tour to San Francisco.

I do that because I keep a separate bank account, at another bank, that I use for anything Biz related–ads, hotel rooms, BDSM gear.  I take the money out of my main checking account and deposit it into that other account.  I only check that account from my home PC.  I’m very secretive about it.  Like, I don’t want to accidentally leave my online banking browser open on my tablet and have my mother see it and ask what all the hotel bookings are for.

I should have gone to the other bank to deposit it immediately, but I procrastinated and just took the money home with me.

So, in addition to getting my wallet, this thief also got all the money.

My savings is tied up in a CD.  I have $10k and I can’t touch it. I have almost nothing left in checking after paying the bills.  I’m strapped, and I need to go to work, and I have no idea how I’m going to do it.

Anyway, one I was done sobbing, I filled out a lost-item report in the gym and then went to the cell phone store and had them turn off my phone and disconnect the number.

Went to the police station and filled out a police report (I almost didn’t do that, because it means claiming the sex work phone…but it’s not illegal to have phone numbers).  I know I’ll never get anything back, but I wanted to make a paper trail.

Then I took my guns and all of my gold jewelry and started touring the pawn shops.  What depressing fucking environments.  I mean really, really depressing and sad.

Everything that I have of value is hawked.  Oddly, I feel saddest about my revolver.  I’ve had that thing for 15 years.

It’s not enough.  I have enough money to get to SF on the train (because I can’t drive there without a DRIVER’S LICENSE and the only ID I have is my passport) and a day and night in a hotel room.  I have three sessions lined up and I’m trying to get another.  If they all come through, I can extend into the next two days and meet the sessions I have scheduled for those two days.

If I get cancellations or no-call-no-shows, I am fucked.  If anything goes wrong, I am fucked.

The only reason I am not completely freaking out is that at least all my monthly bills have been paid (except for food.  Ha! Ha!).

I want to find the bitch who stole my purse and beat her head in with a rock, caveman-style.

Misogynistic Client

I almost didn’t blog this, because this jackass doesn’t deserve even ten minutes of attention, but he upset me…so here it is.

Indian guy.  Young.  My age.

I hate to say it, but: my experience with Indian clients is almost all negative.  I really do hate to say that. because I had Indian friends in my grad program, and I had an Indian client/boyfriend in New York I was tremendously fond of…a genius, a very enlightened feminist gentleman.  He was a wonderful person in all respects and he enhanced my life, and I have nothing but appreciation and admiration for the man.  I don’t want to sound like a narrow-minded provincial bigot.  I don’t want to be racist.  I am a guilty polite liberal.  I don’t want to be racist.

But Indian clients…are the worst.

Disingenuous and hostile, for no reason.  And misogynistic.

Get this: this Indian guy books a session, passes screening, arrives to my hotel suite.

He claimed to be submissive…but he wasn’t.

Less than 10 minutes into the session, he said to me, in a very strong and judgmental tone, out of nowhere–apropos of nothing: “Your pussy stinks.  Go wash it!”

I was stunned.  I stood there blinking at him like I was pole-axed.

Okay, first of all, I was wearing two pairs of underwear–a thong and lacy boyshorts.  Under a cocktail dress.  And I was standing five feet away, and this man had no contact with my crotch at all.

How on earth could he have any idea what I smelled like…?  (Answer: he was making it up)

Also: I’d just taken a shower!  Not even 30 minutes ago!  If I physically exert myself in a session, or have any significant physical contact with a client, I take a shower afterward!  I stagger my sessions with (at least) an hour break in between, so that I can bathe and clean the room!  I’d just had a hot shower, with soap!  Certain-Dri deodorant, shaving, the works!

Now, I’m embarrassed to admit this, but: this douchebag made me second-guess myself.  I stood there, mortified, wondering if maybe I was getting my period…?  Did I have a yeast infection…?  Did I smell bad…?   

It took a minute, but confidence returned.  I looked at this pathetic, twitchy little misogynistic asshole.  I mean, who speaks to a woman like that?   And What did I ever do to him?

It was all about cruelty and control.  Shame.

“The only thing RANK around here is your MISOGYNY.  This session is over and you need to get the fuck out of here RIGHT NOW,” I said.  I walked to the door and opened it, standing in the doorway.

He looked utterly astonished, as if I’d done something bizarre.

Then the hatred clouded over his face, and he started getting dressed in a hurry.

I know that I shouldn’t have explained or said anything else, but my feelings were hurt!  I was so offended!  I said: “I am a nice clean girl and I just got out of the shower!  I can’t believe you could be so rude!  Why do you even see sex workers, if you hate women so much?”

He was FURIOUS.  I could feel it coming off of him in waves.

I gave him half of his money back.  I know I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t want to antagonize the crazy man.  He’d only been in the room 15 minutes.

I was still upset and I couldn’t control my mouth.  I said: “You know, most heterosexual men adore the smell of a clean woman.  Maybe you should check your sexual orientation.”

He almost punched me in the face on his way out the door.  I stepped into the hallway and reminded him that he was on camera.

He walked to the elevator, trying to look cocky…as if he hadn’t just been FIRED BY A SEX WORKER.

You were fired…by a sex worker.  Think about it, dude.  Think about it real hard.  You literally cannot pay a woman to hang out with you.

What a jerk.  BLACKLISTED.

P.S.  Sorry this post is depressing…I also saw an awesome Japanese client who was wonderful, and he’s taking me out for sushi next week! lovely man