About Hobbyists

Let’s talk about “Hobbyists.”

Hobbyists, for those who don’t know, are men who frequent sex workers and then review and gossip about them online.

They usually hang out on a website called The Erotic Review, but there are other sites–I think one is called ECCIE.

Unfortunately, I have reviews of The Erotic Review. The reviews are all positive, except for one guy who was pissed that I fired him (I’ll get to that in a moment).

The bad news is that the reviews make the Hobbyists know about me and make a booking.

I have NEVER met a Hobbyist who was not a douchebag. Sad, but true. Every one has bargained with me, tried to get free time, tried to get me to dine for free with them at mediocre restaurants, bragged about their reviews (a veiled threat that they would post a bad review about me), etc…

The worst of the lot was a man in NYC whom I saw when I was working as a proSub.  He is one of the reasons I do not work as a proSub today (that, and the Collector would kill me).

I was brand new to working as an independent, meaning working outside of a dungeon, which is why I put up with him for five sessions. Today, I would fire him after one.

First, he complained that I asked for the money up front.  I absolutely deplore having to ask for the money.  An honest client leaves it on a counter without saying a word the minute he walks in, or you visit him.

“It ruins the romance!” he said.  Yes, this is so romantic.  Did I mention he was fat, old, bald, and plain?

Second session: brags that he’s written “almost 100 reviews” on The Erotic Review, and wants to write one about me. Is angry when I tell him I have a no-review policy.

Third session: wants me to dine with him for free at a cheap Korean BBQ place. I really needed the money from the session, so I agreed, and endured two hours of dinner. At least, to his credit, he bought me two cocktails.

(I will eat with a client for free if they are an established regular who supports me.  I will eat a burger with a guy who helps pay my rent. I will also eat for free with a client who wants to take me to a super fine-dining restaurant like Per Se.  Today, I will NOT eat for free with an internet rando who wants to get a pizza. Or cheap Korean BBQ.  Sorry, not sorry, my social date rates apply!  $100 for dinner!)

Later that night, while I was nude except for a thong and tied to the coffee table, he said, “This no-penetration thing isn’t going to work for me.”

I said in my ads–I was very explicit–“No sex. Fetish, fantasy, roleplay only.  I do not get fully nude.”  I posted these ads in BDSM and FETISH categories of the sex worker ad malls, NOT the escorting sections. I was very clear.  

“Uhh…I said no sex,” I said, trying not to freak out, in my tied up vulnerable state.

“How about a dildo or butt plug?”

Oh my God, I thought.

“NO!  Don’t make me scream!”

He backed off.

I cannot believe I went back to that guy.  $350, I needed it.

Next session, incredibly, I allowed him to blindfold me.  Then I got freaked out and asked him to take the blindfold off when I felt something silky and warm on my cheek.

He took it off and, what do you know, there is his penis in my face, begging for a blowjob.

Henceforth, with my dungeon friends (better believe I was telling them all about him) he was known as “Mr. Wang-on-the-face.”

“I said no sex!”

“A blowjob isn’t sex!” he reasoned. Like he was Bill Clinton or something.

Everyone knows the vast majority of fetish workers don’t offer sex. Maybe a few give handjobs.  You can find fetish-friendly escorts, but that’s another category of sex work.

“Don’t touch me with that!”

He zipped it up.

The final, last time, I just couldn’t take it, and I was mildly drunk when I got there. I endured another mediocre dinner for free, and, of course, had to make conversation and flirt.  I got to the room and unpacked some of my session gear.  Then I panicked and made an excuse to run to the bathroom.

There, I took out an airplane-sized bottle of flavored vodka from my handbag and sucked it down.

I started to undress, and then changed my mind.

I bolted from the bathroom, picked up my gear bag, and ran out.  The only thing I said was, “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.  I can’t trust you.”

The next day I realized I’d left approximately $300 worth of fetish gear in his hotel room.

I emailed him to ask for it back.  He said he’d return it if I came to his hotel room so that “we could talk about what happened.”

I politely asked if he would just put it into a box or a bag and leave it at the front desk for Margo to collect.

I did not want to talk to him ever again (I did not say that).

He said no, he would return it if he could see me.

Thanks for not returning MY STUFF that I PURCHASED that is important for MY BUSINESS to me, asshole!

I abandoned my property rather than see him again.

Then, of course, the review, which said, to paraphrase: “Beautiful but very unprofessional.  She left the session without an explanation.  Buyer beware.”

Oh, did I mention I hadn’t been paid?  It’s not like I ran out with his money! 

Buyer beware?  What am I, a faulty coffee maker? Nobody BUYS me. They buy my service and expertise.

Yeah, Mr. Wang-in-the-face, enjoy my $80 vibrator, leather cuffs, bondage rope, and metal-handled turquoise suede flogger that matched my corset, which I can’t replace.

Sadly, this man is typical of guys hanging out of Hobbyists.  Many sex workers concur.  I’ve never had one treat me well.

 

Swimsuit Humiliation

Finally!  A post about my job.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

Overall, it was a great session.

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?

Edelweiss

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.”

WHAT?! WHAT?! SINCE WHEN DO I OFFER THREESOMES WITH CLIENTS? A $1000 TIP?  WHAT?!

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.

TO BE CONTINUED

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.

*                         *                                    *                               *

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.