Another Hostile Client

……annnnnddddd we have a new one!

It was so fucked up that I had to take a week off, and that’s why I haven’t been blogging.

Okay: exactly what am I to make of this?

Guy books a session, passes screening, and arrives at my hotel room.  He is well-dressed, well-groomed.  He is wearing a pinstripe suit and leather gloves.

I just met him, for the first time.  I offered him a refreshment from the minibar, which he accepted…

…after which, he physically charged up to me, majorly violating my personal space, and ripped his glove off in a very dramatic fashion…

….and his hand was malformed.  He had, well, I don’t want to compromise his privacy, but he had only a few digits, and not cuz they’d been amputated by some catastrophic injury.  I mean his hand was fundamentally malformed.  A rare, but not exceedingly rare malformation–everyone has seen this, yes…?  I am pretty sure he was born with this. 

“Is this okay with you?  Is this okay with you?” he asked, waving his hands in my face.

I am a mature, polite individual, and I do not judge clients by how they look (I only ask that they be clean).  I do not even judge potential BOYFRIENDS by how they look–I have fucked  “ugly” guys.  And I am a compassionate human who is not going to look askance at a person because his hands are deformed.

But the way that he did this, showing me his hands all at once, waving them literally inches from my face, was shocking.

He could have told me in the booking emails: hey, my hands are malformed because of this genetic disorder. (that’s all, he wouldn’t need to explain it or apologize for it in any way, just let me know)

He could have sat down on the bed or the computer chair when I offered him a refreshment and said: Hey you see these gloves…?  Well, my hands are not like what they look like in these gloves.  I just want to let you know.

He was confrontational and he did it to “shock” me and, I expect, to elicit revulsion/rejection. Or to test my cowardice, or to “test” something else.

I have plenty of my own psychological “issues.”  But I wonder what it must be like to go through life with this level of rage, alienation, and hostility.

This man was sick….and it had nothing to do with his hands.

I remained totally calm…and I reached up, and touched his hand, grabbing his finger, and lowering it.

This emotionally moved him.  He gasped and drew back.

“Your hands are fine with me.  Is it on your feet, too?”  I asked, because I know that it usually affects the digits of the feet, as well.

“Yes,” he gasped.

“Okay, no problem.  Would you like to start the session?”

I could see the thoughts and emotions, going round and round inside his head.  It was confusion and pain, mostly, but there was also a gratitude, or, at least, an awkward acknowledgement.

This job is high-stress and difficult and I do not believe it is sustainable (for me personally). But it has awarded me with incredible experiences and insight to the human condition.

Why did I have compassion for this man, who came in with such rage, determined to scare me…?

It was my compassion, and the fact that I was willing to touch his hand, that changed him.

Sorority Paddle

Behold the sweet manna the prodomme goddesses in heaven have chosen to rain down upon me!

I was at the used furniture store the other day, shopping for a bedside lamp and a gift for my mother’s birthday, when, what did I see hanging on the wall but this!

An authentic sorority paddle from 1956, engraved with the logos and official seals of my undergraduate university!

I couldn’t believe it!  It’s perfect!  It’s everything I ever wanted in a wooden torture instrument!  And it only cost me $20!

“It’s been hanging on the wall forever,” said the salesman, who seemed honestly confused by my delight and rapturous enthusiasm. “It came from an estate sale.  We found it in a box of random junk.”

“It’s not junk!” I hissed, as if someone had just insulted a prized family heirloom.

He pulled back, startled.  “Well, I’m glad you like it, Miss.”

I handed it to him, but before I released it into his hand, I said, “I’m going to keep shopping, but I want this paddle!  Under no circumstances are you to sell it to anyone else!  I’ll be done in 20 minutes.  Hide it in a drawer, so nobody else can see it!”

He looked increasingly alarmed and promised me that he would keep it safe for me until I was done shopping.

I was so happy that I came straight home and took a zillion photos of the thing.  Here are a few.  Sorry, I can only show you one side of the paddle…the side with the sorority crests and the writing, “CHRISTMAS FORMAL ’56.”  I can’t show the college seals for security reasons.

It’s so special that I almost don’t want to beat a boy with it.

Almost.

BEHOLD MY PRIZE:

christmas formal 56 1

 

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Tales from The Biz: Evading a Rapist “Client”

UPDATE:  Oh, I forgot to say…THERE WAS NO WEBCAM ON MY PC.  MY SHITTY ACER LAPTOP DOES NOT HAVE A WEBCAM. AND THERE WERE NO OTHER CAMERAS IN THE ROOM.

I WAS BLUFFING THIS RAPIST! TOTALLY BLUFFING!

*                                  *                               *

I was almost raped at work last week.

I debated with myself about whether to write about this story for two reasons: 1) would reliving it in detail in my mind be worth it? and 2) I hate to provide fodder to sex work abolitionists who use any bad experience to “prove” that all sex work is exploitative and awful and that men who hire sex workers are disgusting and deranged.

But…this is a blog about my life, including my experiences at work…the good, the bad, and the ugly.  I’ve never censored my experiences in the Biz and I’m not going to start now.

This man books an appointment with me via email.  He didn’t have any references from sex workers (ha! wonder why?!), but he did give me verifiable employment information, so I confirmed the appointment.

I asked him if he’d seen prodommes before and he was a little vague…yeah, a long time ago, in Miami…he said he had recently ended a relationship and wanted to try it again.

He said that he “liked feet” and wanted a “sexy experience.”

Well, okay.  I was already slightly annoyed because this description didn’t give me much to run with, but I thought, okay, it’s a body worship session.  In my next email, I outlined exactly what I allow and don’t allow.  I was very clear.  He said okay.

Soooo…it was 9 PM, my last session of the day (session #5, but they’d been staggered with hours-long breaks throughout the day, so I wasn’t too tired).  He came into my room, and the first thing I noticed about him was that he was big.  A big beefy man, 6’4″ at least, probably taller than that.

(Bet you anything this fucker played football or baseball in college.)

Middle-aged white guy with a red face, baseball cap, and reddish-brown goatee.

I was trying to start off with the getting-to-know-you small talk chit-chat that almost all new clients (AND ME!) like to have.  After they’ve been established, I can start dominating them the minute they walk in the room, but when they meet me for the first time, most clients like to introduce themselves and talk for a few minutes in order to relax with me and discuss their session ideas, and to make sure they are attracted to me and ready to go forward with the session.  I offer them a refreshment, see if they want to shower or use the toilet…we get comfortable with one another.

Well, this guy immediately sat down on my computer chair (I hate that) and started to undress.  It was a little alarming, and it made me wonder, momentarily, if he was a cop.  But then I thought to myself that a cop wouldn’t get nude because he’d be wearing a wire, and he’s also want to get me to say that I’d do some sort of sex act.

He just threw his clothes down on the floor.  I offered to hang up his jacket and he ignored me.  Then he barged over to me and started yanking on my dress (I’d told him that I was willing to strip down to my bra and underpants, but no more).   I heard a seam rip!

“Don’t rip my clothes!” I protested, and pushed him away (more like, I stepped back.  I was not going to be pushing this guy anywhere.  He was too big).

I pointed at the floor in front of the plush armchair and told him to kneel down on the clean bath towel I’d laid on the carpet.  I told him to stay on that bath towel unless I gave him permission to move.

He paused for a few seconds, and then (grudgingly, I felt) kneeled on the towel.  I did not like his vibes.  It seemed like he did not like to be told to kneel on the towel, which is not the vibe I would get from an earnestly submissive man.

Usually, I have a bit of an act at the start of a body-worship tease-and-denial session: make them kneel, put a collar on them, maybe handcuff their hands in front of them, flirt with them and ask them sensual questions about their fantasies, etc etc…

Well, this man had already ruined “the mood,” but it was worse than that: I felt, instinctively, that he had zero interest in any of those things and was going to complain or resist me if I started with them.  I thought: Okay, he wants to get down to business, he wants to eat my feet and jerk off and LEAVE, and he’s one of those paradoxical clients who are whorephobic and actually resent the women they hire.

I lifted my dress over my head, folded it, and laid it on the bed.  Usually, if the client isn’t an asshole, I do it in a gradual, teasing way while I talk to him, but, like I said, this man didn’t seem interested, and I wasn’t feeling very sexy.

I sat on the chair in front of him, and I was still TRYING to be sensual and nice.  I put my feet on his chest.

Well, he grabbed my foot and put it into his mouth, and he was rough.  He was biting my foot!

“Hey, hey, big fella!  Watch the teeth!” I said.

Well, he switched, and then started biting my other foot! I reminded him to keep his mouth soft, and he would back off, but then start with the gnawing again.  Then he started to go up my legs, and he was sucking and biting on my thighs!

“Hey!  Just licking and kissing only.  Please don’t suck like that.  I can’t have marks,” I said.

He backed off, and was more gentle, and then started again!

I was just about out of patience.  I pulled my legs away and grabbed him under the chin and pointed his face up to mine.

“Tell me: did you have a lot to drink at dinner tonight?  If you have, I just want to know.  You’re being rough and you’re not listening to me.”

He grunted and shook his head.

I dunno.  He MIGHT have been drunk.  I think that a man like him might have been drinking to get up the courage for what he intended to do to me, and his behavior was erratic.  However, I didn’t smell any alcohol smell on him.

“Okay, fine,” I said (also wondering to myself: why isn’t this man TALKING?).  “Now, you need to be more gentle.  I can’t have bite marks, okay?”

He (grudgingly, I felt) returned to kissing my skin…and then he reached up his hand, to touch my hair.

Now, I have very fine, soft, silky hair.  I don’t like it, because it’s so flat and thin, but I know that men like to touch it because it’s so soft.  If the client is respectful and not a DOUCHEBAG, and I like him, I will often throw my hair over him…the men love it, they find it very erotic.

Well, this fuck did not touch or pet my hair.

He grabbed a handful of it and yanked on it!  Hard!

I was done.  Nothing about this man was submissive, he was being an asshole, all the alarm bells were going off, and I was pissed.

I immediately stood up and walked to the other side of the room, grabbing my dress.

“This session is over!  You need to put your clothes on and get the fuck out of here.  NOW.”

In retrospect, I am proud of how composed I was…I guess because I was angry, and not scared (the fear came later).  My voice was loud, but low and firm.

He stood up, all red-faced, nostrils flaring, and he had a look of hatred on his face.  His hands were opening and closing into fists, opening and closing.

And then, I saw it in his eyes: he was going to try to rape me.  There was no doubt in my mind.  And I understood that he came to the hotel with the intention of raping me.

Well, not “me,” not Miss Margo.  He came with the intention of raping a sex worker, (“a whore,” as I’m sure he thinks of us in his disgusting mind).  That is why he didn’t want to talk to me for even five minutes when he came in the room: talking to me would humanize me, maybe make him see me as a real person, and then he wouldn’t be able to do what he intended to do.  

I thought fast, and suddenly, I had a burst of inspiration!

“Hey, guy!  See my laptop there?”  I pointed at my laptop on the desk.  “My webcam has been on the entire time, it’s recorded everything and saved it in the cloud.  Even if you break it, the video is still there, and I have another camera in the room, too.  If you hurt me now, everyone will know about it!  And the hotel cameras in the lobby filmed you coming in!”

He looked at my laptop, and then back at me.  There was a 3-second beat, where I saw him doing the calculus in his mind.

“Get dressed and get the fuck out before I call the police,” I said.  I was staring him down, direct, unblinking eye contact.  I was doing this in my bra and panties, too.  I am really proud of myself for keeping my composure.  I wasn’t shaking or scared…not yet.

And this raping motherfucker…started to pick his clothes up off the floor and put them on.  In a big hurry.

“I thought you liked it,” he said.  “I thought you liked it, I thought you wanted it.”

“Why the hell would you think I liked it?  The entire time you’ve been here, everything out of my mouth as been negative or telling you to stop!”

“I thought you liked it,” he repeated.  He was getting dressed so fast that coins were falling out of his pants pockets.

“I didn’t like it and you know I didn’t like it!”

I thought you liked it, classic rapist’s excuse.

I pulled on my dress, thought for a few seconds, and then said: “I won’t charge you for the full hour.  You can pay me for a half-hour session.”

You guys, I know I was really pushing it with that one, but I was still PISSED OFF, and I knew…I knew that if I didn’t at least TRY to make him pay, I’d hate myself afterward.  He’d only been in the room for 10 minutes, but I earned something, he’d put his mouth on my body, I tolerated his bullshit, and I was going to remember him for many years to come, I earned something!

“That’s $200,” I said, standing by the door.  “And you are blacklisted!” 

(I know you’re not supposed to tell bad clients when they’re blacklisted, because it gives them the head’s-up to change their telephone numbers and aliases, but I was so angry that I wanted to tell him he was exposed.)

He ran to the door, huffing and puffing, red-faced, fumbling with his wallet.

Then, get this: he took out $200 and threw it down on the carpet at my feet.  I guess he thought it would be degrading for me to have to pick up the money off the floor.  Degrade the whore, yup, fits right in with his rapist mindset.

“Have a nice life!” he bellowed, and ran out the door.  Yeah, scumbag, throw down the money and get the last word in.  Really clever reportee there, really clever insult, wow I am so hurt….NOT.

I watched him run for the elevator.  He was literally running away.

I closed the door and bolted it.

Then I took a long, long shower.  I scrubbed and exfoliated and shaved my legs, every place he had touched me, and shampooed my hair.

When I picked up his money, I didn’t feel degraded at all.  I felt like I won.  Paying me was an admission on his part.

Worst client I’ve had in San Francisco, hands down.  Nobody else even comes close.

…except that he’s not really a client, is he…?  He’s just a rapist asshole who targeted me because he thought I was vulnerable and he could get away with it.

You know, I’ve been molested at this job probably a dozen times over the years.  It’s always something like a quick grope where he knew it wasn’t allowed, or a guy suddenly pressing his penis on me or putting my hand on his genitals, or suddenly kissing me on the mouth or putting his tongue in my ear.  Molestation, you know, a boundaries violation.

But I have never thought that I was about to be raped…(the molesters always backed off when I told them to stop).   Yeah, of course I worry about being raped, especially when I was still doing sub sessions and I was more vulnerable, but I have never thought: This man is going to rape me.

Until now.  This asshole intended to rape me, and I am lucky that he did not punch me in the face on his way out the door for revenge that I’d foiled his plot.

I really dodged a bullet with this one.  Skin of my teeth.

But I got out okay…and I won.

Client Warning: Tale of the Bad Domme

This post is about something that has been bothering me for a long time.  I’ve never discussed it with anyone but other dommes at the Studio, but I want to write about it because I think it’s important for clients to know what’s out there.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, because I have a 19-year-old client I’ve decided to re-book with.  He LOOKS about 17.  I knew he was young, because he described himself as an undergrad in his emails, but I didn’t know how young.  When I opened the door, I couldn’t believe it!

“How old are you, son?” I asked, when he came inside.

(Interesting note: for once, I was not remotely afraid of a new client, even though, statistically, this guy was almost the top demographic for male violent behavior.  I felt like I wanted to take him out for ice cream.)

“My birthday was last week.  This is my birthday gift to myself.  19!”

I asked for ID.

“How do I know you’re not a cop?”  He was so nervous that he was trembling all over.  He had a buzzcut, light brown hair, and big eyes with thick long camel’s eyelashes (why do men always get the best hair and eyelashes?  Why?)

“It doesn’t matter, because what you’re asking for isn’t illegal,” I said, which is technically true but also bullshit because the police have an “arrest-em-all-and-let-the-judge-sort-em-out” mentality.  Then I opened the suitcase by the bed to display my gear, which, in retrospect, was probably not a good thing to do to a novice like him.  It probably looked like a freaky-deaky torture chest.  “Do you think the cops are carrying around a thousand dollars’ worth of SM equipment?”

He was so nervous that I offered him a drink from the minibar–he had two rums and Coke.  It’s something I do automatically for all clients; I forgot he was too young to legally drink!  Perversely, this is what I feel the most guilty about…giving liquor to a minor!  I’d hate to encourage a kid to get a habit that becomes a problem, like mine.

We did the session.  It was simple: a little tease and denial, clothed female naked male, very light bondage, and some spanking (no marks, nothing very heavy).  He came three times.  The first two times were involuntary, lol.   He was really embarrassed by that, but I just found it amusing.  The stamina teenagers have, WOW!  I don’t have a lot of experience with young men…just a few.  Even when I was his age, I was almost exclusively attracted to much older men, so this was an almost-novel experience for me.

Well, he wanted to book another session with me, and I thought long and hard about it.  I don’t want to be responsible for corrupting the youth!  PLEEZE PASS THE HEMLOCK (I am not seriously comparing myself to Socrates.  Just trying to make a joke.)

But then I thought: If he doesn’t see me, he’ll choose another, and who knows what he’s going to get?  At least I can…keep him safe, and give him a quality experience within his boundaries.  A safe place to explore.  What if he gets someone like Bad Domme?

Which brings us to the Tale of the Bad Domme.

There was a woman I worked with at the Studio who sexually assaulted her clients.  I’ve honestly never heard of anything like it.  I worked in commercial dungeons, all in all, for approximately 3 years total, and I never heard of anything like her, but she exists, so, it happens.

Intelligent woman.  Not educated, but intelligent, you can tell by listening to her speak.  Quick with the wit, observant, keen.  She also had a great sense of humor. She was aggressive.  A true Domme/Top…not like me, who’s more of a Service Top when I’m in that role.

She was beautiful, a stone fox.  We attracted a few of the same clients because we were both tall, leggy, and had similar coloring–light hair, light eyes.  Some drive-thru dungeon clients just pick a domme based on the physical “type” they are attracted to, so we got the same clients even though our personalities and temperaments were very different (most notably: I am….calm.  She does not).  She was younger than me, though.

She liked me a lot, and I know why: she was the same age as my students, and I was highly educated even though I came from a working-class background like she did, and she looked up to me and wanted my approval.

I liked her too…at first.  She was hilarious, generous, attractive.   Emotionally raw and transparent, which is a little fascinating for a super-cerebral INTJ like myself.

As I got to know her better, though, I started to withdraw almost at once.

She was very emotional, but her emotions were primitive, not complex.  Also, she was impulsive and fearless, which sets off tons of red flags.  And the aggression!

As I mentioned, we shared a few of the same clients…

….and I started to hear stories about her, from them.

I heard from four clients in all, over a period of about three months.  The story was the same, every time: she tied them up (which they had asked for), and anally penetrated them (which they HADN’T asked for).  

They were all uniformly aghast and appalled at their experience, of course.  They said things like (I’ll never forget): “I didn’t want to see a domme again for about seven months.  It made me really afraid to trust a domme again” and “I’ll never let a domme tie me up again.  I can’t do bondage any more” and “I can’t believe that happened to me.”

These guys contacted the dungeon before they came back to make sure this domme was NOT WORKING when they wanted to come in.  They were afraid of her.

As they should be.

I’ve heard of dommes doing batshit-crazy behaviors.

I’ve never heard of a woman sexually assaulting men/clients like that.  It’s disgusting!  There’s nothing wrong with getting butt-fucked, if that’s your thing, but you can’t do it to someone who doesn’t want it!  That’s sexual assault!  If you reverse the genders, it is obviously and completely criminal and unacceptable!  It’s not less reprehensible just because the victim is a dude!

And these clients WERE JUST THE ONES I HEARD FROM!  Who knows how long she’d been doing this?  When this happens to men, they are even less likely to talk about it…and she knew it.  She knew she could do it with impunity.  What is a client (probably married) going to do?  Go to the police and say, “I was sneaking off to the dungeon during my lunch break, and my dominatrix tied me up and fucked me up the ass with her fingers even though I asked her to stop?”  Of course that’s not going to happen!

This is wrong on so many levels!  These men are paying a lot of money for a professional service.  They are trusting us and putting themselves in a vulnerable situation.  How can you do this to them?  And, also, who the hell wants to stick their fingers in some random stranger’s ass, especially if they are freaking out?

Answer: a psychopath and/or some sort of fucked-up sexual predator.

I approached the Bad Domme about this.  She didn’t deny doing it.  AT ALL.  (Why not?  If I did it, which I can’t even imagine,, I’d fucking LIE about it.) 

“He wanted to be dominated.  Are you telling me you feel sorry for these guys?” she asked, with an eye-roll.

Well, yeah, I guess sexually assaulting a person is DOMINATING them.   And the clients were confiding in me and treated me perfectly okay in our time together, so, yeah, I do feel sorry for them.  Nobody deserves to be penetrated against their will.  What is wrong with you?  As a woman, how could you not know this?

But I knew, instinctively, that she DID know it…and that she was doing this for revenge. 

But that’s not okay.  That’s something you need to work through with a psychologist.  I admit that I have deeply ambivalent feelings towards men, because of my life experiences with them, but I am not motivated to be a domme/fetish worker because of my hostility towards men.  I feel compassion for my clients (unless they are total jerks), because I know what it’s like to have weird sexuality and needs, and I am open-minded and…well, I’m me!

I didn’t confront her further, because I was afraid of her.  Bitch could kick my ass.

I went to a manager I trusted and told her what I knew.

She was not sympathetic to the clients.  Hate to tell you that, clients who are reading this blog, but that’s the truth.

I tried another tactic, since the appeal to human decency wasn’t working out well: “What she’s doing is illegal!  What if she brings the cops down on this place?”

“Ha!  You think the client is going to complain to the cops?” the manager laughed.  And, as we know, she was right.

Bad Mistress was fired a few months later…for punching another woman in the face, in the locker room.

She went to another commercial dungeon, but I don’t see her listed on the Mistress page there anymore.  I assume they fired her, too.

If you are a client in the Tri-State area, email me and I’ll tell you who she is.  She’s dangerous.  My email is piecesofmargo@gmail.com.

I have to go to work now, but, to wrap this up: I was thinking to myself, what if my young 19-year-old client booked a session with someone like her…?  What would that do to him…?

I can keep him safe.

Tales of Three Clients

I bring you tales of three clients from my last 2-day tour in San Francisco:

We’ll do the gross one first, so that we can refresh the palate with the other two.

This new guy has seen me five times in three weeks.  He’s “in love” with me.  And, of course, I find him obnoxious and barely-tolerable.

A grown-ass Korean-American (East Asians are usually pretty clean) who wears nice clothes and seems fastidious from the outside, one would never think that he was capable of such casual barbarism: in our second session, he came out of the bathroom and left a towel COVERED IN SKID MARKS on my computer chair.  I also heard him blowing snot rockets in the bathroom.

How?  How can some men be so completely unashamed of their filth?  If I left track marks on a stranger’s towel, I’d at least fold it up in a little square and try to hide it.  Or take it with me so that my host never saw it.  Gross!  The towel smelled!

He’s done it twice.  And he emails me constantly.  He wants to schedule a full overnight session, and sleep with me in the bed (he likes to cuddle–barf).  That’s at least $2000.  That’s a really expensive session for a fetish worker.  But it begs the question: exactly how badly do I need $2000?

Next up: probably the sweetest session of the year so far.   Get our your hankies!  It’s an elderly Japanese dentist (so many Asian clients in SF.  So.  Many.  They’re as common as Jews are in New York).  He must be 80, and he’s still working.  Diminutive–smaller than me, both in height and weight.

He’s a widower, and he’s lonely, and his family mostly lives in Hawaii now, and all that he wants is some body and foot worship and to be around my feminine energy, and to talk.

He showed up with flowers, a $45 box of Godiva truffles, and a very pretty wristwatch with Swarovski crystals on the face piece!  For the first session!  What a class act!  Of course, I never expect clients to buy me gifts–the service is expensive enough–but it is nice when it happens, especially if the gift is well-intentioned and the guy’s not trying to be a manipulative prick.

(He also gave me three toothbrushes. “Don’t forget to brush after you eat the chocolate,” he said, looolllllllllllll)

Because the gifts were so generous, I was a little bit suspicious–was he going to try to have sex with me?  Nope, he was respectful, and as good as gold.

Readers, this is the only time I have ever done a body worship session in which I actually felt like I was being worshiped and not consensually molested for cash.  You know how I feel about body worship.  I put up with it and do it when I have to, but, yeah, kinda gross.

Japanese Dentist made me feel like a golden goddess.  And he gave a great foot massage.

We talked a lot during the session.  He was highly intelligent, and a very cultured man.  You know I’m a sucker for cultured men.  We discussed his life and hobbies.  He gardens and also loves to write poetry.

“I finished a poem last night,” he said.

“Oh, yes?  What is it about?”

We went to his suit coat hanging in the closet and took out a moleskin notebook.  Then he sat back down on the floor at my feet and asked me if he could read it to me.

 Uh-oh.  Poetry recital.  In my mind, I braced for the worst.  Under no circumstances could I laugh or cringe if the poetry was ridiculous or…bad.  I must keep the gentle, approving smile on my face.  I can do this, I told myself.  I have survived four undergraduate Creative Writing workshops!  What would it be?  An ode to bicuspids and molars?  The joys of wisdom tooth extraction?  Flouride: How Do I Love Thee?

It was. A. Fucking. Good. Poem.

I couldn’t believe it.  I wish I could tell you what it was about, but it was very personal, so I don’t know if it would be fair to him to write about it here.  But, it was lovely.  I asked him to read it to me twice.

He said that he missed having company and conversation at dinnertime since his wife died (she died of cancer recently. Cancer fucking sucks, man), and he asked me if I’d dine with him when I visited the city next week (paid session, of course).

“We can eat at my house, in privacy, if you’d rather not be seen in public with me.  I can get it catered, whatever sort of food you like.”

“What?  Why wouldn’t I want to be seen in public with you?”

“Well, I’m so old, and you’re so young and beautiful.  I understand it could make you feel uncomfortable or embarrassed.  I’m sorry, Mistress, that I am so ugly.”

(I felt like my heart broke into a hundred pieces.)

I leaned down and stared him right in the eye.

“Listen to me.  I have met many ugly men in this business.  Men who were malformed in every way.  I know ugly when I see it, and there is NOTHING ugly about you.  I would be happy to eat with you any place in town, and I do not care who sees us or what they think.  But if you’d rather eat at your house, because of your professional reputation, we can do that, too.”

He didn’t cry–Asian men, I’ve found, are often very stoical and tough in public, unless they’re drunk–but he hitched in breath, twice.

“Thank you,” he said.

Lovely man, and a lovely session.

(But I exploit my clients, don’t I, Therapist Jung?)

Well, I was going to write about my last notable client, but writing that took a lot of out me emotionally.  I’ll try to get to it tomorrow.  It was an amazing session, and I can honestly say that I’ve never experienced anything like it before.  Here’s a teaser: he was a financial services creature in a great suit who is also (wait for it!) a black belt karate master who teaches part time at a commercial dojo!  I was sexually attracted to him, which almost never happens to me with Bottom men.  He was masochistic, but there isn’t a submissive bone in his body, which is extremely unusual–usually, there’s at least some overlap.  He wanted to be overwhelmed, truly dominated.  It was a hell of a challenge, because he was mentally and physically formidable, and, like me, he simply isn’t afraid of pain.  This dude was a tough fucking nut to crack, I’m telling you.  You can’t phone in a session with a man like this (I never phone in sessions unless the guy is a total offensive douchebag and I have no respect for him–I always give 110%–but you know what I mean).  I knew he’d know if I was faking the dominance, or if I wasn’t giving him authentic aggression, or if I was incompetent about delivering it.

I had to go very deep inside myself to find that kind of energy, that power.  Because, you know, it’s not my natural role, and it was also a 9 AM session, and I was emotionally exhausted from sessioning all day the previous day.

But, somehow, I found it.  I am proud to report that Mistress Margo brought home the goods.  It’s always incredible when this happens–it feels like a transformation when I go there in my mind, as if I’m being possessed.  A transformation, I like that.  Transformed into what…?  Something powerful and foreign, an owl or an eagle, a omnipotent prison warden, a stone-cold killer.  Franz Adler, perhaps.

The first thing I did was put him in a full-body rope harness.  Then I tied a chest harness on top of it, and then I tied his arms as his sides.  I tied the rope tighter than I usually do, because I knew he was going to fight back, and if he broke free, the session (and me) was going to be a lame joke in his mind.  I tied the harness so that the more he fought and struggled, the more pain and pressure he’d put on the rope that went between his legs, up his ass crack, and around his cock and balls.

Then I got him on his knees, and tied his ankles to the rest of his body harness, so he was stuck on his knees in a squatting position.

He was about 40, Korean-American (so. many. Asian. Clients. In San Francisco), and he had a streak of flamboyance to him that I usually associate with younger men–pinstripes on his suit, onyx cufflinks.  He was beautiful.  His body was CUT.  I can honestly say that he had the most impressive body of any client I’ve ever had in my career.  He looked like a fitness model.

As I finished typing the rope to his ankles (and I was doing it focused, fast, and furious–couldn’t be seen fumbling with the rope or dawdling with this man) , I said, “Like it tight, don’t you?”

He chuckled.  It was more like a sardonic sneer-chuckle, actually.

I was on my feet in an instant–I’d decided to go without high heels, because I knew I was going to have to move fast and well with this one.  If I stumbled and fell on my ass in front of him, I’d lose his respect.

I grabbed his nipples in both hands and pulled them hard as I towered over him.  His face scrunched up.

“See something funny?” I asked, crushing with my hands as hard as I could.  I pulled back, hawked, and then spat on his upturned face.  “There’s spit on your face.  Laugh at that.”

Then I kicked him right in the chest.  Hard (the entire session, I kept reminding myself that all the kicks and slaps and pinches and grabs had to be full-force, nothing halfassed, nothing weak, nothing pulled.  If you give this guy a weak little lame hit, he’s going to find you ridiculous).

He fell on his back and twisted there, like a turtle in its shell, trying to right itself.

“Back onto your knees!” I commanded.

He tried.  The bondage made it difficult.

I went and fetched my riding crop.  It’s a Fleck riding crop, finest in the world (imo), and when you hit someone with it, it hurts.  It hurts a lot.  It makes a fun little red impression on the skin in the shape of the slapper.

I grabbed a handful of ice and ice-water from the bucket on the desk and threw in down onto his naked torso, because impact hurts more on wet skin.  And I wanted this to be Blitzkreig.

“I’ll keep beating you with my crop until you’re back on your knees,” I told him.

I must have gotten in at least two dozen hits.  The crop made a whistling noise when it cut through the air, and it cracked on when it landed on his skin. When he finally got back on his knees, he was wet, red, and starting to sweat.

And he was disheveled, and fucking furious.

And oh, my friends: how this made me feel!  Mr. Bigshot peacock-of-a-man karate master, degraded and in my clutches!  And I knew–I knew–that if this man was free, and so inclined, he could kill me in about 30 seconds (I’m not saying he WOULD kill me, because this is still a session–it’s play).  I felt like I was in the room toying with a shackled, muzzled tiger.

“Awww, look at my pet!  He’s so frustrated and angry!” I went to him, bent over, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

He snapped at me.  His teeth clicked in the air by my gloved hand.

“Bad idea, Smiley,” I said, and walked to the bathroom while he kneeled there on the carpet, huffing and puffing.

I broke off a small piece of the bathroom soap bar.  Then I got my length of 1/2″ diameter rough hemp rope and, standing behind him, I forced it across his mouth, like a bit.  He didn’t want to open his mouth at first, but when I dug the my fingers into his neck, he opened up.  I tied it into and across his mouth like a gag, a bit.  I know it had to hurt.  I knew it was probably tearing his mouth at the corners.  And when his mouth was open, and I knew he couldn’t bite me because he couldn’t close his jaws, I inserted the small bit of soap.

He hitched and bent forward, drooling over the rope, trying to force out the soap.

“If you fall over, I’ll beat you until you get up again,” I said.

And I’ve written for three hours.  That is enough for now.

Heinrich Dominates Margo

It was the second night of my tour to San Francisco, and after thirteen sessions I was emotionally drained and exhausted.  Thirteen sessions is a LOT of BDSM.  Some of the sessions were very physical, and I was spotted with bruises even though I hadn’t been subbing (domination and fetish only).  I was still fucked up emotionally from Therapist Jung, and I’d just completed a session that involved publicly humiliating a client in the bar of the W Hotel in Union Square.

I was begging Heinrich to dominate me.  Usually I don’t feel sexual after a long day’s work at all–so much of my energy goes to my clients, and coping with their eroticism–but now, this moment, I needed something.  I felt afraid and out of control.  I felt all alone.  I felt like my clients were making me crazy.  I kept wondering if Therapist Jung was right, and my sexuality made me a sick person.  Thinking about my sexuality made me feel sexual.  I felt like I was going to act out–get on Craigslist and find a date, or go hunting at the hotel bar.

Heinrich to the rescue.  He talked me through it.  He did it in the middle of the night, too, and he had to be at work early in the morning.

His English isn’t perfect, but he knows all the right words.

“You are a weak, docile, small female animal!  Weak little prey for any man who walks along.  I should take you back out to the country.  You can serve me and my friends after we have been walking in the fields all day.”

I was kneeling in front of my computer in my black cocktail dress, still decked out from my session at the W Hotel bar.  He had me on the floor.  Heinrich doesn’t usually let his subs use the furniture.

“You are good for that.  Tending to us and meet-ink the needs.  You really are an obedient child and a well-trained servant.”

The wave of emotion that came upon me was overwhelming.  Maybe it was just catharsis after two hard days of sessioning out of a hotel suite.  Maybe it was all the second-guessing of myself I’d been doing for Therapist Jung.

Maybe it was just feeling like I was seen.   Seen and recognized and accepted for what I am.

(I really was an obedient, submissive daughter.  I did everything that was asked of me, and I was calm, and never resisted.  I worked hard, was responsible and dutiful. I don’t understand why my obedience never earned me the love of my parents.)

I started to cry, right there on Skype, on the floor of my hotel suite, in front of my computer screen.  Great hitching breaths, tears running down my face.

“I’m sorry!” I apologized.

“Nein!  You are a beautiful submissive woman, and what you have, for the offering, is very rare.  Your future husband should be keeping you in a closet, and beat you every day.  You need leading.  Like” he flapped his hand, trying to think of the word, “anchor.”

I was sobbing, yes, just sobbing on the Skype.  And, readers, you know I never cry.  Honestly, I cry maybe 6 times a year.  Ten times at most.

“You need some pain to focus you.  I am sorry, that I cannot do it myself.  Do you have the wood paddle?”

I sniffled: “Yes.”

“Bring it, please.”

I went to get my nice heavy wooden paddle.   I showed it to him on Skype.

“You need to take the pain where you have no wish.  Hit on the tits.  Five is good.”

Heinrich knows that I hate to be hurt on my breasts.  It’s a big deal for me.  Usually, I don’t even let men touch me there, even boyfriends, and I definitely don’t let men touch my nipples.  The Surgeon could, but he’s about it.

Well, I smacked my breasts five times, with the paddle, for Heinrich.  And it hurt, and I have mild bruising.

“Sehr gut!  Wonderbar!” 

And that was the session.  I don’t know how to end this blog post.

 

Hot Awesome Client

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knocked on the door and I let him in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it was time for the session.

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

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

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

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

(squirming in joy)

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

They were beautiful.

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

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

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

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

Punishing the Priest

Well well well, where to start with this one…?

I made another $1k on this trip to San Francisco.  Unfortunately, it was not easy money.

I had three sessions yesterday.  The first was a Roman Catholic priest who really needs therapy, in my opinion.  He had a shitload of shame and guilt about seeing me, and it came out in various ways, starting with the simple act of showing up for his session.

(for the record, I don’t judge a priest who wants to see a sex worker, for wanting to see a sex worker.  They are adult men with natural needs that must be met.)

It shouldn’t be complicated.  I understand it’s in a congested urban area and sometimes finding parking is a challenge if you don’t want to pay big bucks for a parking garage, but come on!  My hotel was in downtown, right off the freeway, and he had my address and room number!

He was 25 minutes late, so I started to text him and email him, asking if he was okay and if he was still keeping our appointment.  Eventually, I got an email from him saying that he was downstairs and his cell phone died, and he “couldn’t remember” my room number.  He was “borrowing” someone’s smart phone.

I went down to look for him, and he wasn’t in the lobby like he claimed! Huh?

Are you full of shit, buddy? I wrote to him.

He materialized 20 minutes later with his cell phone in his hand, wanting to keep the session.  But now, I’m stressed out and rushed, because I had another session scheduled for later in the afternoon.

I kept the session, and I let him have it, once I learned he was a priest.  When he undressed, I saw he was wearing a medal of St. Anthony and also a scapular.

“Wow, haven’t seen one of those in years.  Keeping it real!  Catholic, huh?”

He blushed and looked embarrassed: “I’m actually a priest.”

“No shit? Currently? A full priest? Ordained?”

“Yes.”

I started to grill him a little bit, to see if he was lying.  I asked him about Catholic stuff.   Many years of Catholic school gave me an adequate but completely mediocre education…but boy, did they fill my head with theology.  I know the entire mass by heart, and so, so many prayers.

The dude was legit: seminary, eight years of Latin, six years of classical Greek.

When I ascertained that he was really a priest, I landed on him like a ton of bricks.  Readers will know that I am not a fan.  The nuns don’t make me very angry, but the priests do.  All of them.  It’s nothing personal, I just think they’re awful.  The only ones I have respect for are the ones who devote their spiritual path to serving out in isolated monasteries, with only other priests around.  That’s sacrifice and dedication to God.  I can admire that.   The rest of them are in it for the power.  And we all know what they do with that power.  It’s not a secret anymore.

“You’re lucky you didn’t come to me wearing your collar, priest.  I would have made you fucking eat it.  I wonder if I should make you eat those stupid dog tags.”

I’m not going to lie: I rode that man like a donkey.  I wish I could see a video of that session, because I was in fine form.  He really brought out my sadistic side.  I was extremely cruel.  Usually when I top I’m not that mean, because it’s not my personality, but I was mean to that priest, and it was completely authentic.  I was surprised at how angry I was with him.

I made him go to the mirror and slap himself.  I made him tell me the things that he hated about himself.  He smelled bad, and I humiliated him over that, too (I was surprised—clergy members tend to be pretty fastidious, I’ve noticed.  But this one needed a shower).

“Saint Anthony, huh?”  I mocked as I beat him.  “Let’s hear some prayers, priest.  Let me hear you pray.  Pray to your patron saint for the pain to stop.  Let’s hear it.  Grovel to Saint Anthony, and let’s see if he gives you some mercy.”

I was paddling the shit out of him with my heavy wooden paddle.  I beat the hell out of him.

“You know why I hurt you so much?  It’s because I DON’T RESPECT YOU.”

WACK WACK WACK THUD THUD THUD

“Roman Catholic, huh?  Church that likes to burn women?  Do you have a flock, priest?  Do they know that you’re a filthy degenerate?  Do you make them call you ‘Father’?”

His ass was hamburger.

“You know, there’s a long history of masochism in our holy Church.  They’d falgelate themselves walking on the road to Wittenburg. Does this pain make you feel closer to God?  Do you feel closer to God right now, you pervert?  Are you going to devote this pain to God?  Consecrate it?”

I was bullying him.  I was bullying him hard.  There were tears in his eyes.

But he still had his erection.

“I’d drown every one of you in the river if I could.  I’d do it with my own hands.  A little baptism that you wouldn’t rise out of.  Full immersion, like a protestant.  Till you were dead like an unwanted kitten in a bucket.”

WACK WACK WACK

“Do you see the face of God in me now, priest?  Cause I FEEL like God, when I hurt you.  Did you ever wonder why you chose to love a God who is such an awful sadist?  Do you think He loves you?  Think He loved Isaac?  God loves it when you suffer.   It makes his dick hard.  Let me hear you call on God, priest.  Let me hear you pray to God when you have a bleeding ass and a hard cock.”

WACK WACK WACK

“I can’t do that,” he whispered, and he was crying for real now.

No mercy.  Not for these guys.  Sorry.  No mercy in the war against priests.  These assholes with the magical powers who control access to heaven for the rest of us.  Who do they think they are?  Fuck em.  Fuck em up the ass sideways, without lube.  Protestants suck too, but at least they don’t have PRIESTS running around WITHHOLDING AND CONTROLING SALVATION from decent Christians.

Galileo, I thought, I devote this episode of clergy harassment to YOU, homeboy!

The Priest’s dick was still hard, and he didn’t safe out, so I kept going.

“Hear any confessions recently, priest?  Makes your cock hard to be privy to so much information, especially from women, amirite?  People coming to you when they’re scared and guilty, because they need absolution?  They NEED it, so they won’t go to hell?  And they all crave your approval, cause you’re the guy with the magic powers?  Mister Six-Years-of-Greek?  Let’s hear some Greek!  Get Greeky for me, baby!”

WACK WACK WACK WACK

Readers, strap-on is not something I like to do in session (although, natch, I’ve done it…I’ve done it with boyfriends and it was fun, but with clients, it’s too personal), but if I had my big fake cock strapped on, I would be fucking this guy.  I’d be making him blow me.  It would be an episode of Facial Abuse.com.

He came so hard that he screamed at the end.

Then he asked to use the shower.

I did something I’ve never done before, and WOULD never do with almost any other client: I denied him.

“You come to me stinking, you can go back home filthy.  And I know you want to have a shower to wash away the pain of the guilt.  Marinate in it a while.  You ever come to me again smelling like BO and ballsack, I’ll turn you away at the door, and it doesn’t matter how good your money is.  A shower takes less than 5 minutes.”

He left, and I had to scramble to get ready for my next session, which was AWFUL.

More on that tomorrow.

P.S.  Here’s another example of his guilt coming out as hostility: he brought me a bottle of wine.

(Obvs, I could not drink the wine.  I opened it and poured us both a glass, and then didn’t drink from mine.)

“That’s nice!” you say.  OF COURSE IT IS, right….?

BUT…it was a bottle of $2-Chuck.  Two-buck-Chuck.

Now, I would never judge anyone for bringing budget wine.  Or even for drinking two-buck-Chuck!  Two-buck-Chuck can be FINE, but it’s to be drunk at home with your spaghetti after a long day.  I am not a wine snob.  You can get perfectly decent wine for everyday consumption for less than $10 at your local Trader Joe’s.

BUT…you do not GIVE a bottle of $2-chuck as a gift.  You don’t.

You can bring budget wine, less expensive than $20 or even $16 depending on where you live in the country….but if you can’t afford that much for a bottle, you SHOULDN’T BE GIFTING A BOTTLE.  This isn’t Christmas Secret Santa at the office!

I know priests don’t make a lot of money, at least at this Priest’s level.  But they do not live in poverty, and, if he wants to give wine as a gift, he can pony up enough for decent house table wine.

He bought that bottle to me as an expression of his insecurity and disrespect.  He didn’t drink any himself, but gave it to me.

One of My First Ads….

One of my first sex work ads…I found it in my files while I was cleaning out this computer….

 

(Please keep in mind that while it sounds like I’m bragging, this is an AD.  I’m a terrible salesperson, but I have to write ads promoting myself)

 

My ancestors hail from a cold snow-blasted place, and I look it. I am a tall red-haired beauty with classic Northern European features, blue eyes, and excellent skin. 

Sadomasochism is the definitive aspect of my sexuality.  Perhaps because I practice it in my private life, I approach my sessions with uncommon enthusiasm and generosity of spirit.  My clients comment favorably about my graciousness, sexual and intellectual curiosity, technical expertise, and attention to detail.  I am not a harsh, bullying, “angry” type of domina.  I seldom raise my voice in session as I do not believe that I should have to scream to compel obedience.   My manner is controlling and firm, but ladylike.   Like a competent prison warden, I consider gross displays of brute force to be vulgar and a hallmark of amateurs.  I WILL control you, however, and I am very interested in understanding what makes you tick.  I intend to know you very well….

I am an excellent submissive and am happy to help you explore your dominant or sadistic fantasies.  As a Sub, I am well-trained in protocol, obedient, possessed of a high pain tolerance, and desirous of exceeding your expectations and demands. 

Back to Work: Updated!

Update:  I’m home safe.   Highlights from two days and three nights in San Francisco:

Cuckolding fantasy client did not allocate his time well, and we had to reschedule the session because his flight was late coming in to SFO.  I know he’s good for it because he paid a deposit for the session and also bought me that dress.  So, I’ll see him next week.

One of my clients LEFT HIS WRISTWATCH ON THE DESK.  I didn’t notice, but he called me frantically about an hour after he walked out the door.  Sure enough, there it was.  I looked at it; it had an inscription on the back.  I bet his wife bought it for him.  I locked it in the hotel room safe so that he would be safe for him, and he picked it up the next morning on his way to work.

I was ripped off by a shady motherfucker.  I should have known he was up to something, because he seemed nervous–but clients often seem nervous before a session!  I thought he was just a weird young guy without social skills with women.  The session was gross, it was a lot of body worship, and you know I really don’t like body worship, but I put up with it–since I’m only doing this two days a week, I’m trying to take every session that I can as long as the client passes screening and doesn’t ask for anything outside my boundaries, it’s not like in NYC where I would encourage body-worship clients to see another mistress at the Studio!  So anyway, this guy….he gave me the money in an envelope, and when he was in the bathroom, I put it into the safe.  I opened it and peeked inside, and it was a substantial stack of money.  But I didn’t take it out and count it!  I was stupid and violated the first rule of sex work: always get the money up front!

And you KNOW what happened next!

When he left, I immediately took a shower to wash his slobber off my skin (and watching him jerk off for an hour was fucking hideous and the images are burned into my brain.  Therapy, yes, I need it!).  Then I took the money out of the envelope to put it with the rest of my cash.

That motherfucker.  In the envelope were two $20 bills on top of a stack on $1s.

I flipped.  I blew his phone up.  He didn’t answer and it started going straight to voicemail.  He’s BLACKLISTED on every blacklist I have access to, and he’s lucky I don’t post his information right here!  If you’re a sex worker in the Bay area and you’re reading this, contact me at piecesofmargo@gmail.com and I will tell you who this person is!  He’s an ugly fatassed disreseptful Indian guy with an ugly useless penis!  So gross!  He tried to kiss me on the mouth, too!  Your penis really is gross, dude.  I have seen a lot of wangs in my life, and that one was totally in the bottom 10%.

I stayed two nights at the Hilton.  Hiltons are boring-as-hell business hotels, but they are totally anonymous and huge, so they’re good places to work out of.  They charged me $20 for a pay-per-view movie (Intersteller!  It was good!) and the internet was really expensive, too.  Expensive internet is bullshit!  I hate it!  Why is internet free at Starbucks and Motel 6, but $24.99 at the Hilton?

10 AM client was interesting.  He looked like he’d been in a car wreck or some kind of accident (I didn’t ask, because that would be rude), because his face was scarred, and he had scars on his shoulders, too.  His body was muscular and very dense, very masculine.  The interesting thing was that even though he looked rough, his movements and mannarisms were very graceful.  Delicate, even.  I found the juxtaposition between his ugliness and grace intriguing.  He was very sensitive and considerate: he brought me hot chocolate from Starbucks in the morning.  He was a very impressive sub.  Good client, I liked him.

After hotel costs and travel expenses, gasoline, and money for the parking garages, I still cleared over $1600.  YAAAYYYYYYYY!

The only hard thing is that I’m doing this all by myself.  It’s really isolating to work all alone in the hotel rooms.  At the Studio, I had domme friends, and it was great for support and camaraderie (not to mention all the drama and hijinks!).  Now it’s just me in the hotel, IMing my internet friends.  At least there’s sex worker Twitter!

I’m getting my own apartment the first of June.  I’m apartment-hunting now.  And I’m also going to get A PARROT!!!!  I can’t get another Senegal, because it will hurt my heart too much to see a bird that looks like Parrot (Parrot RIP).  But, I will get a Jardine’s or a Meyer’s, if I can find one at a bird rescue (I don’t think it’s right to buy parrots from breeders.  I got Parrot off of Craigslist when her old owner wanted to re-home her).

*                               *                              *

 

I’m about to leave for San Francisco again.   I have a 2-hour session booked for tomorrow morning at 10 AM, and I need to get there early to prepare for it, so I’m going to my hotel tonight.   I wish I had access to a dungeon–I’m emailing a few local Dommes to see if I can rent their private facilities, but they have no idea who I am or who my clients are, so I don’t blame them for being leery.  What I did do this time was spend the extra cash and reserve a full hotel suite instead of just a room, so that I have more space to work and furniture to work with.

I’m only working two days this time, instead of three, and I’m capping my hours of sessioning at four.  I’ll make an exception if one of the foot-fetish clients from last week wants to see me again, or if I get a last-minute request for a session that’s super fun and easy, like straight spanking or a domestic discipline scenario (I remembered to pack the good leather belt, the wooden hairbrush, and the new bar of Ivory soap this time.  And my satin robe.  Cause you know angry Mommy has to put you in your place wearing her satin robe, it’s like a national law or something, lol).  I am only doing domination, no switching and no submission.

I have a session Friday afternoon that sounds kinda interesting: an elaborate cuckolding humiliation roleplay.  It’s all talking–I don’t touch the guy or do anything to him besides carry the fantasy through discussion.  Which means it could be great, or it could be a total grind depending on whether the back-and-forth is easy.  He has very specific dress preferences: I need to be wearing a certain type of black cocktail dress and black leather high heels.  I told him I’d get the dress, but he’d have to pay for it, so he sent me the extra money via GiftRocket and I picked up the dress at Marshall’s this afternoon.

I’m bringing my laptop, so I might be blogging (and, oh yeah, if this run is as lucrative as last week’s, I am going to throw out that heavy, wheezing, dying Wal-Mart Acer and buy a new machine!).

I come back on Saturday afternoon.  On Sunday, I have my addiction-recovery therapy group, and then later that afternoon I am going to see this guy I met a few days ago, an old Jungian psychologist.  I could not find a practicing Freudian in this town, so I decided to check out the dark side, as it were.  This guy’s website cracked me up.  All the other therapist websites I visited had hokey photos of people crossing bridges, fall leaves floating on water, baby plants bursting through soil, shit like that.  This guy had a graphic of the moon during an eclipse.  I started laughing.  RAD!!!

I am very leery about having a male shrink.   I’ve never had one before.  I mean, the last thing I need is a sleazy male authority figure in my life (Heinrich asked, sarcastically, “What could go wrong, ja?”).  I’ve viewed them with skepticism ever since my father’s psychiatrist asked me out on a date.  When he was at work in the hospital.  In his fucking office.  While my father was institutionalized.   No shit, the scumbag DOCTOR asked me out to dinner and to go skiing (and if you only knew what he’d just diagnosed my father as having!)!  I should have reported him to hospital management and also his professional organization, but I didn’t.  I was very young, only 22 or 23, and I didn’t know what to do.  I was also kinda stunned about the situation my father was in.

Okay, I have to leave now.  It’s time.

I took one of my leftover Antabuse, even though the doctor told me not to take them anymore, because I know that I am putting myself into a situation where I could be tested.  I know the neuropathy is bad, but I would rather have numb shins than relapse.

I also brought the owl PJs Heinrich bought for me, so that I can wear them in my hotel rooms at night.  Even though he is unhappy with me.