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?”


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.”


“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.”


“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.”


“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!”


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.

Back from the Bay

Sorry it’s taken me so long to update!

My trip to San Francisco was a financial success.  When it was all over and I did the math, I made $2400 in profit–that’s after I deducted hotel and travel costs.

I think that I pushed myself too hard, however.  I don’t like to do more than two or three sessions in a day, because they are often very emotionally draining, and a lot of them require a lot of preparation and clean up.  All but the easiest sessions take planning.

But I really pushed myself, especially the first day I was there: six hours of sessioning.  I staggered them with an hour in between, but it just wasn’t enough downtime–the clients were like a herd of cats, some arriving early and stressing me out with their impatient text messages, some taking twenty minutes in the shower afterward.  I was doing costume changes (and sometimes showers) in between the sessions, not to mention wiping down all the hotel room surfaces and spraying down all my gear to keep in clean, and emptying the trash and putting in new trashcan liners, because what guy wants to see piles of used latex gloves and used CBT clothesline in the trash when he meets me for the first time?  Ditto for the used bath towels!

Two of the sessions were foot sessions.  Normally I don’t like those, because my feet are ticklish and I just plain don’t like the feeling, but on that day, they were optimal!  Easy peasy!  Lot of foot worship, lots of talk about feet, and some trampling (I used the computer chair for supports as I walked up and down on them, and  then the wall), and that was that.

The others…look, there were too many to give you a blow-by-blow account.  They were all nice to me, though, except for one Portuguese guy who seemed to be having a bad day.

It was over by 7 PM.  I didn’t clean up after the last session.  I just took a long, final shower, took the extra sheets off the bed that I’d used as a barrier, and collapsed.  I did send Heinrich a text message telling him that I was okay.  That was it.

The next day I got up early and started getting ready.  I had to drive to a new hotel for a 12 noon session, but the new place wouldn’t let me do an early check-in.  I was there at 10 AM and couldn’t get into the room.  I kept the heat on the front desk, which I’m not very good at (yeah, some domme I am, right?), but it was no dice.  They claimed full occupancy because of a convention.  My client, an engineer whom I was actually very much looking forward to meeting, waited for half an hour and then walked, because he had to get back to work.  I felt awful about it!  I apologized profusely and offered him 50% off of the session fee if he rebooked–that’s the best I can do, right?

I checked in at 1:30 and did three sessions that day.  The most notable one was an Indian gent, a victim of the colonial English boarding-school system, who wanted to be caned.  I cannot begin to tell you how much money I have made over the years off of the victims of corporal punishment in British schools!

I collapsed again, then woke up and traveled to Union Square, in San Francisco.  And I did it again.  More.

My emotions were all over the map: I was very exited, even exhilarated, to be doing something that I knew that I was good at.  When the envelopes of cash started piling up in the hotel room safe, well, that felt great, too.  And it felt good to be out of town…especially when I got to beautiful downtown San Francisco, which is my favorite city on the West coast, and which I hadn’t visited in years!  The hotel rooms were beautiful and some of the sessions were a lot of fun.  I’d been a little worried that I might have lost my touch.

On the other hand: the constant stage fright that comes from meeting a client for the first time.  I’d screened all these clients, so I knew who most of them were, or at least that their references from other sex workers checked out, but they were all new to me.  Some I’d corresponded with extensively via email, and some of them I knew from a short paragraph of session requests.   But I didn’t know them, and in the back of my mind, I was always wondering if the man who walked through the door would be dangerous (on the second day, I started hiding the money in various places is the room, that if he made me open the safe and robbed me, he wouldn’t get all of it).

Then we have Heinrich, who was, shall we say, in a bad mood.   I’ll get to that later, but you don’t really need me to spell it out of you, reader.   He was saying exactly what you’d think he would be saying.

I traveled home, got some exercise, and settled down, trying to decompress.  It was a very intense three days.  My first sessions since last July (unless you count that old guy I sold my ballet flats to on Craigslist)!  But, I thought that I was fine.

Fine, really.


Out of nowhere, I started to feel very, very weird inside.  Bad, weird feelings.  I felt scared for no appreciable reason.  Then I was beset by an intense and totally uncharacteristic feeling of paranoia.  I became worried that my mother knew exactly where I had been, that she found out on my computer, and she read my blog, and any minute she was going to call me out of my bedroom and tell me that she knew I was in San Francisco prostituting myself, and that my brother knew, and so did everyone else!

The Wages of Sin

(Because, you know I told them all lies about where I was going and what I was doing!  I said that I was going to tutor the GRE at UC Davis and to visit an old friend from my undergrad days who moved out to Sacramento!)

And then I thought: Oh my God, what am I doing?  Heinrich says I’m lost and out of control and he’s right and nobody will ever love me!

I didn’t freak out–it wasn’t quite as bad as the panic attacks I had from time to time when I was in the pressure-cooker of my Ph.D. program–but I felt very bad, friends.  Very bad and weird inside.

In another time, I would have drank.  I didn’t do that, I’m happy to say.  Instead I just sat with it and waited it out.  The bad feelings are terrible sometimes, but if you wait long enough, they eventually go away.

….and so they did.  I had a very rough night, but when I woke up in the morning, I felt much better.   Not 100%, but much better.

I deposited all my money in the bank and bought my mother some nice presents for Mother’s Day.  I got her one of those clear plastic bird feeders that attach to the window with suction cups, because she likes to watch the birds in the yard:

Momma’s new bird feeder

I also bought her one of those expandable garden hoses that you see advertised on TV all the time.  I have no idea if it’s a good product or not.  She says she wanted it.  And I got her flowers and a gift certificate to the local movie theater.

After I did that, I started to make a few phone calls, because I knew that I needed some help.  I don’t want another bad-feelings paranoia attack like I had when I came home.  That way lies relapse.  I cannot start drinking again.  I feel like I’ve finally turned a corner on my sobriety, after years of trying, and I cannot make that vulnerable.

I needed to find a new shrink, because, right now, the only people on earth who knew that I was doing sessions in San Francisco are a few internet friends…and you, the readers of this blog.

And I needed to find a new shrink before I went back to the Bay Area to work.

Next, on Pieces of Margo:  I doctor-shop for a sex worker-friendly therapist in my stupid little town!

Back in the Biz: San Francisco

I may as well ‘fess up: tomorrow morning, I’m getting up at 4 AM to travel to the nearest very big city to do some professional BDSM.  Mistress Margo is coming out of retirement.

I’ve know I was going for a few days now, but I didn’t blog about it because I hadn’t told Heinrich, and I didn’t want him to learn about it by reading it on my blog.

My motivations are entirely financial.  I am compelled by necessity.  I have applied for 42 jobs since late February, ranging from legal assistant and research analyst to part-time receptionist and data-entry clerk.  Five interviews.  Two potential employers told me that I was over-qualified and that I ought to “aim higher.”  One told me that he was sure I would “do well.”

Aim higher, at what?  Do well at what?  All that I’ve done since grad school is teach undergrads, tutor, and assist other professors with data management or research projects.

I have sold a few minor articles and I also landed a job editing manuscripts for academics in South Asia.  The editing job is nice, but it is not full time.   The semester is almost over–I have one more check coming in, and then it’s done.

I check the job ads every morning.  I’ve applied for awful shit that, if you’d asked me two years ago, I would have sworn I’d never do, like write executive summaries for a bio-science lab that does fucking vivisection.  Office manager for a dentist.  The only reason underemployment has not driven me totally stircrazy is that Heinrich has me writing all the time.  That, and a gym membership.

I’m fed up.  It cannot go on.  I still intend to get back to NYC this summer.  I have earned and saved money for that, but it’s not enough.   I’m done with editing manuscripts at the kitchen table, waiting for the phone to ring and hitting the refresh button on my email.  It’s fucking intolerable.

So, last week I started to search.  Where, in the sex industry, could I ply my former trade?  There is no market for New York-style prodomming in this town (which is why I came here, in my Escape from New York.  Oh, THE IRONY!  JOKE’S ON MARGO!).

I did my research, found the market, and put up new ads.  I wanted to see if there was any interest.  There was.  Not like in New York, but there is work to be had.

I put off talking to Heinrich about it for as long as possible.   I knew he would be against it.  But the fact is, I have to live, and he does not support me.

I have a session tomorrow morning at 11 AM and another one at 12:30.  Another one in the late afternoon, unless he flakes.   I’ll also work the next day if I can.

It’s a completely new market for me.  New market, new clients–I can’t even fall back on my old regulars.

And I’m working all by myself.  I don’t even have my New York sex worker friends for the support and camaraderie.

But I am refreshed, recharged, and well-rested.  My head is clear and in the right space.  I am secure in my sobriety.  I am ready to work again.  Heinrich and I worked out a few things–I won’t be subbing for anyone.

Tomorrow is going to be a very long day.  Hopefully, it will also be lucrative.

I’m bringing my laptop.  I might be blogging from my hotel room.

San Francisco, here I come.

Such Was My Recklessness

When I decided to seek help about my drinking problem, I went to the campus counseling center and started meetings with a counselor there.   I didn’t see her for more than a few months, because I made the mistake of confiding to her that I was working weekends at my first dungeon (what can I say?  My secret job, and its attendant issues, seemed germane to my drinking), and that revelation had an immediate chilling effect on our relationship.  To my complete surprise, she judged me about it, in a very harsh and unprofessional (to my mind) fashion, and thereafter I felt her disapproval and suspicion in our conversations.  I felt uncomfortable with her (or, more accurately, I was acutely aware of her discomfort with me), and eventually decided to stop our sessions.

Which was fine.  I was no longer getting the full benefit of her expertise, and I wasn’t impressed with what perspective I was getting.  I felt that she was making a lot of assumptions about my personality and motivations that were not just unflattering but downright wrong.  For example, she told me that I was working at the dungeon because I wanted attention and validation from men.

She did give me one insight into my character that had previously eluded me and that I never would have come up with on my own, however.  I’ve never forgotten it.

I was talking about my drinking, and I said that the reckless drinking was really out of character for me, because in most other aspects of my life I was cautious, thoughtful, and risk-adverse.  Really!  I’m the opposite of impulsive.  I don’t act quickly or rashly.  I’m the sort of person who always wears a helmet, buckles up, drives the speed limit at all times, and doesn’t eat food that’s been left at room temperature for more than an hour.  I don’t often try new things, or make a trip to a new place, be it across town or out of the country, without detailed travel instructions or an itinerary.

“Margo,” she said, dead serious, looking at me over the tops of her glasses, “you are absolutely not risk-adverse.  At all.

I was incredulous: had I really done reckless things?  Moi?  Madame, surely you jest!

But after careful contemplation, I must admit that the record will show that I have taken risks, and put myself in situations, that were not just unnecessary, but dangerous and even potentially fatal.  I even mentioned it in the copy of one of my proSub ads–I cribbed a quote from de Sade, in which he asserted, as reason for his libertinism and depravity, that a man’s humanity is incomplete until he has had every experience.

And so I have pursued every experience.  My adult life has been characterized by the deliberate and relentless exploration of my sadomasochism, a journey of personal discovery that I ultimately prioritized in my life.  It is a serious business to me, and I approached it with the earnestness of a devoted scholar.  To see how far down the rabbit hole goes.

Because isn’t that what it all boils down to, really?  Isn’t that what I was doing there, in all those dangerous places, with all those (potentially or overtly) dangerous people?  Isn’t that what I was doing when I went back, when I stayed, when I went deeper and still yet deeper?  Over and over again?  I started prodomming when I was desperate, vulnerable, and very isolated–it really was survival sex work–but why that, among the handful of desperate options (why did I perceive it as an option at all?)?   I did it for the (potentially) fast money and because the flexibility of the job fit my grad-student needs and lifestyle, but really, really, I did it because I was fascinated and I wanted to know, to explore that part of myself.   My clients were my teachers.  Even when I did not want them to be.   My lovers were also my teachers, including the dangerous one with the scalpel whom I loved best, and who cut my heart for five years.

I pursued every experience.  I sought them out online, on Fetlife, on Craigslist, in the dark corners of the internet, and I put up ads so that they could find me.  I took trains to meet strangers in parts of the country I’d never been to before.  I took airplanes.   I went to their houses, their dorm rooms and brownstones and walkup apartments, and a million hotel rooms in cities on three continents.   I got into their cars and climbed aboard their boats.  And they came to me, both in my home and in the fantastical rooms of the Studio and the other dungeons in which I worked.   They have needs and compulsions, too.

I gave a man the key to my house so that he could enter at the time of his choosing and take me God knows where, with God knows who.  I rode on the back of motorcycles drunk.  My boyfriend gave me drugs and I let him without knowing what they were or what they would do to me.   I let people lock me in cages, closets, hoods, and, (nearly) a barn.  I let them bind me with rope and suspend me from ceilings.  I let them put metal police restraints on me, cover me with a blanket, and take me for a car ride.  I let him throttle me with his hands, his leather belt, the terrycloth belt of a bathrobe.  I let strangers beat me with everything you could imagine, sometimes for money and sometimes for free.  I let a psychopath come to my house and put me in traction.  Such was my recklessness in pursuit of myself.

Such was my recklessness.

I still haven’t had every experience.  My humanity remains incomplete. I have come to understand that the rabbit hole is bottomless.   The obsessions cannot be quenched or exhausted.   Like a dying star, they change, grow, and expand outward, incinerating and enveloping you in their orbit.

If there is no end to it, do I stop?

What else is there?

(9) Working at Arkham Asylum

      It’s Saturday night, so I’m going to take the easy way out and answer a request from the mailbag:

“I love stories about the wackiness of your co-workers. Mental illness, workplace dysfunction, drug abuse, stupidity! I love it all. I guess when I did a lot of scenes at dungeons, I didn’t want to admit how little I knew about these women. Even when I became someone’s regular, it was only four hours a month together in a highly controlled setting. In my mind they had perfect lives — creative outside work (music or art), great sex, incredible parties. It was part of my fantasy. “
      My nicknames for the Studio were “Arkham Asylum” and “Bellvue.”  The organizational culture of the Studio was highly dysfunctional (not all dungeons are like that–the other two I worked at were friendlier and pleasant).  The dommes were a constantly-revolving cast of colorful characters, the likes of which I have never met anywhere else.  The personalities were all over the map, but what we all had in common is a non-conformist mindset and a willingness to take risks.  The Studio was a rogues’ gallery of misfits, adventurers, free spirits, and grifters, but I never met a single fucking sheep there.  

       All of these things happened in dungeons during my tenure:

      A domme was using coke with a client at 2 AM.   She got angry and smashed his Rolex watch.  There was a huge blowup about it with the manager, but eventually, the client went home and ate the loss.  I mean, what was he going to do?  Call the police and admit to using coke in a dungeon in the middle of the night?  By the way, the domme was not fired.

        Four assaults.  To be fair, one woman instigated three of them.  She punched one domme in the eye, followed another girl into the supply closet and throttled her there, and slapped a third.  She got the boot after the third assault, which is good, because she was traumatizing the clients.  She is still practicing. 

        One domme was in the New York Post for throwing a puppy out of the window of a guy’s apartment (the dog survived).  

        One domme I know went on a 6-hour session with a client and flipped her shit in a bathroom at The Yale Club.  She ripped the toilet lid off of the toilet, and was forcibly ejected for the premises.  The client tried to stick Studio management with the repair bill.  NOPE.  (I’m inclined to believe that the client must have done something to her, but who knows?)

           One woman married three different guys, each one in a different country, and none of them knew about each other.   Women run around and cheat, of course, but I’ve never heard of one committing bigamy (whatever the female equivalent is).  Very weird.

          One domme was a kleptomaniac who was blacklisted from every store in a 3-block radius.  

           One had a SWAT team raid her house.  We saw the television footage. 

            Some bitch stole an entire rotisserie chicken out of the fridge.  She took the whole thing.  I’d just bought it from Whole Foods because I was going to a potluck dinner after work.  It was probably still warm when she took it.  Who steals a chicken?

          Those are the incidences I can think of off the top of my head.  I wondered if it would be tacky or disloyal of me to blog about these things, but hell: it’s already public knowledge.

          I would also like to state that I was not close to any of these women.  I didn’t even know their real names until I read about them in the paper.   

(6) Murder Victim

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

         I expect to receive criticism.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         And with that, I went in.  Sight unseen.

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

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

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

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

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

          He nodded.

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

         He said that he would not hit me. 

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

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

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

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

           No.  Nothing so pedestrian.

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

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

           I didn’t resist.

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

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

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

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

            He let go and stood back up straight.  

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

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

            What if he doesn’t let go this time?

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

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

           He’ll let go, I told myself. 

             And he did.

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

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

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

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

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

            He let go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

           “Let me finish getting my breath.”

           He waited.  Still calm.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Why did I sit in that chair?

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

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

           Down we went.

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

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

           What does he want?  I thought.

           He wants a dead girl.  

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

            He let go.

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

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

             “No, thanks,” I said.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

            I went home.  

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

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

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

(2) Clients and Lying

        When I started working in the Biz, I took it as a given that clients would lie to me.  I expected that they would lie to me for the same reason I lied to them: to protect themselves, to keep a barrier between what we did together and their regular lives.  I expected them to lie about identifying information: where they worked, what town they lived in, and whether they were married or in relationship.  

        I was surprised to learn that some of them would lie about other things, trivial things, inconsequential things.  I found the lies amusing, then baffling.

         I had several sessions with a young African-American client who told me that he worked in a parking garage.  He told the mistress he saw months later, after me, that he worked for Google. Another mistress told me that he worked in administration at Hunter College.  Why?

        They lie about mistresses they’ve sessioned with in the past.  They lie about their BDSM experience, minimizing or exaggerating it.  They lie about needing their glasses to see clearly.  They lie about how much they’ve had to drink.  I had one tell me that he was fighting his ex-wife for custody of his young children, and then, later that summer, tell me that he was childless.  

         They would lie to me about the origins of their fetishes, as they understood them.  I heard fantasies of incest and criminal child-abuse rings that struck me as too fantastical and lurid to be true (and others, sadly, that I could only hope were untrue).  I heard all manner of stories about imaginary dominas, girlfriends, co-workers–at least those lies made sense, as they followed an erotic fantasy.  

        Some lies were the same lies that men commonly tell women in order to impress them: lies about military service or serving in combat, lies about cars (one guy claimed that he had a Jaguar, but did not know its country of manufacture) or jobs in high-status employment, like the entertainment industry.  A guy who owned a pest-control/extermination business told me that he was a career police officer. 

        The lies seldom offended me, even when I believed them, and later found out I was wrong, as with Mr. Parking Garage-Google-Hunter College.  I wasn’t offended.  I was merely confused: why would he tell me that…? 

       I can’t begin to answer that, but I can tell you what I would tell the new girls in the Studio: you have no idea who the guy sitting across from you in the consultation room really is, and, more often than not, the fact that he is even there means that he probably isn’t the most, ahh, forthcoming person in the world.  They have all sorts of reasons for being there, and those reasons are not always the reasons they readily admit to.  

Reader Mailbag: “How Did You Get Started in the Biz?”

              Am still too apprehensive to post the rest of the New York trip.  I think it might look weird to outsiders.  

        In the meantime, here’s an installment of Reader Mailbag!   

   “Why did you decide to start working in the Biz?  How did you get started?”
                                                    –Random Internet Stranger

      Translation: “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

      Well, I decided to do it for the same reason practically everyone else goes to work: I needed the money. 

      I needed it badly.

      And I was desperate.

       My story is not unique.  I have seen many women–many women–come into the Biz scared to death, on food stamps, living in temporary housing, or with a looming appointment in Housing Court, or because they were illegal or quasi-legal immigrants without the ID to get hired in industries in which they were experienced.  Some had criminal records which made it hard to find a “normal” job.  

      In my case, I’d just left my psycho Ex, John, and moved into an apartment where my name wasn’t on any of the bills, so that he wouldn’t be able to find me.  The cost of the move (first and last months’ rent, plus hiring movers) and the lawyer’s fees involved for taking him to court for stalking and harassment left me with about $300 in the bank. 

       It was also May.  I was employed by my University as a research assistant, but the contract for my job ended with the Spring semester.  I typically relied on my savings and freelance work to get me through the summer until school/work started again, but in between class and work, final exams, court, and the stress of avoiding John, I hadn’t been able to secure summer employment.

       I was in trouble, and I was vulnerable.  The only people I knew in the Tri-State area were associated with my school.  My family was thousands of miles away and didn’t have the means to help me even if I asked them to (which I hadn’t).  In fact, I had yet to terminate my relationship with my degenerate father, who was still calling me for money.

      With unemployment looming, I applied to various jobs, most of them of the “fast cash” variety: restaurant industry, tutoring, pay-per-word writing gigs.  I prepared myself to sell my jewelry. 

        And then I saw an ad in the back of The New York Press, a doomed little alternative-weekly mag.  It was sandwiched between ads for Asian massage places, gay hookup chat lines, head shops, and the like (you know, the ads everyone reads furtively on the subway).  

         “Attractive women wanted for house of domination in Manhattan.  Fetish, fantasy, and roleplay only.  No sex.  Experience preferred but not necessary.”

          I thought about it.  I cut the ad out and put it into my purse.  And after a few days…I called. 

         “Have you ever worked in this industry before?” asked the receptionist.

         “No, but I’ve done BDSM for years in my private life.  I know what it is.  I have gear.”

           She asked me to describe myself.  I started stammering my professional qualifications.  My credentials.  Ha!  Ha! 

           She started laughing and then cut me off: “No, what do you look like?” 

          Tall, slender, blue eyes, reddish-blonde hair.  Good face.  Good skin.   No tattoos. 

          She scheduled me for an interview with the boss the next day at 4 PM.

           (Note: sad but true: in every dungeon I’ve ever worked, white girls get preferential treatment in hiring.  Management wants to keep a few women of color on staff in order to have dommes for every fantasy…but just a few.  I’ve seen gorgeous, friendly black women come in for interviews and not get hired because the dungeon already had “enough black mistresses.”  It sucks.  The sex industry is really, really racist.)

         I rode the PATH train to Harold Square.  I wore a conservative black sleeveless sheath dress, stockings, and low heels.  Normally I’d wear office clothes to a job interview, but what do you wear to interview at a dungeon?  Leather pants?

          The dungeon was very close to the Empire State Building.  I walked by the door twice, looking for it.  There was no sign, of course.  Just a glass door with number decals.

            I pushed the button and announced myself, and then she buzzed me up.

         I took the elevator up, and when the door opened, I stood in front of a huge metal door with DANGER stenciled on it, and a big BEWARE OF DOG sign.  The door had a tiny window.  The glass was foggy and had chicken wire through it.

        The door swung open and I was greeted by the receptionist who’d spoken to me on the telephone.  I can’t remember her name now, but I remember her face and her voice.  African-American, mid-30s, pretty, with short hair.  She was very energetic and she was funny.  Later, I learned that she’d been working the phones at massage parlors and escort agencies for years, and also as a phone sex operator when phone sex lines were popular. 

         She asked me if I needed to use the bathroom.  Then she put me in a room to wait for the manager.

          It was a little room with a purple vinyl loveseat and mirrors all over two of the walls.  The lighting was dim.  There was a dresser with an ashtray and candles.  A fake silk plant in the corner.  And on the wall: a rack with paddles and cuffs and floggers.

        I could hear female voices and the sound of high heels on the wooden floors.  

         And then: the unmistakable sound of someone getting a spanking.

          Was I nervous? Yes.  A little bit.

          The manager came in.  He was wearing jeans and a button-down denim shirt.  He had long-ish, wavy sandy-brown hair and glasses.  Let’s call him…Paul.

          We made small talk, and then he explained what the dungeon was, what the work consisted of (more or less).  He told me that he was running a legal establishment and he didn’t want any problems with the cops.  He spoke easily and took notes on a yellow legal pad.  He looked at me over the top of his glasses.

            “Did you ever teach?” I asked him.

            Academics.  I always know when I’m speaking to one.  Yeah, Paul was an ex-academic.  Smart guy.  I liked Paul.  He was always straight with us, always fair, usually friendly.  

          The interview was pretty mundane.  It lasted maybe 20 minutes.  I don’t see any reason to reproduce it here.  

          One thing that he did tell me, though, which is relevant:

          “This job will change you, and it will change your sexuality.  You say you’ve done this at home.  This is not like what you do at home.  Sex does not look like what you think it does.  This job will change you.  I tell everyone that.   I’m honest.  I can meet the eyes of every girl I’ve hired in this place if I run into her on the street, because I’m honest.”

             I had no fucking idea what he was talking about then…but now, I understand.  

             He hired me on the spot and told me to come back the next day.  I would be trained by sitting in on sessions and watching the experienced dommes work.  There was no hourly wage, no benefits.  The mistresses were paid in cash at the end of the shift. 

            That’s enough for now. 



      Sex work is not easy money.  It is instant money.