Covered in Ants: What Could Go Wrong?

   Just when I think I’ve seen it all…

    I had a very bizarre session request at the Studio the other day.  Truly bizarre.  Without a doubt, it is a contender for Weirdest Session Request of All Time.

     A man (who, incidentally, seemed intelligent and friendly and not obviously mentally ill) told me that he wanted to be stripped, covered in ants, and locked in a cage.

      He told me this in the consultation room.  I literally did not know what to say to that.  I was speechless.  For a few seconds I just sat there, blinking in confusion, like a mole thrust suddenly into sunshine.

      “Wow,” I eventually managed.  

       “I’m really looking forward to it!” he said.

       “Uhhh….this is going to present certain logistical challenges, but I’ll see what I can do,” I said.  I mean, what else could I say?  “Um…where are we going to get the ants?”

         He reached over and opened his briefcase.  He took out a padded envelope.  Inside of the envelope were three plastic beaker-shaped containers filled with live ants. 

         “You can buy them online!  Kids get them for ant farms and science fair projects and stuff!”

          Oh, my 8 readers are going to love hearing about this one, I thought to myself. I was amazed.  Truly amazed. 

          I asked him if he could come back in an hour, after I’d had the time to consider how I was going to execute this thing. 

          For what it’s worth, I was going to give it the old college try. I sat down in back with a yellow legal pad and put my mind to work.  I got on the computer to see if the guy could die if he was stung by ants and had an ant allergy (some people are allergic to bee stings…I was wondering if there was a similar allergy to ant stings).  

          In the end, though, I decided that I had to pass.  The deal-breaker was that I couldn’t figure out a way to contain the ants.   It is problematical to deliberately introduce vermin to the Studio.  If the ants got free and escaped, they’d eventually die, sure…but who knows when?  Insects can live a long time without food and water.  What is the staff supposed to say when a client looks at the wall and sees a big black ant climbing towards the ceiling?  Gross!  

  I thought I’d go down to the $.99 store and buy a few plastic tarp dropcloths to put on the floor underneath the cage.  Then get some ant spray and spray it on the ground in a big circle around the cage…

    ….but even that wouldn’t do, because clients spend a lot of time on the floor.  Even if I mopped up the ant spray after the session, what if I didn’t get it all, and some dude got some on his hand, and then rubbed his eye with his hand?  Or put it in his mouth?  

       Ultimately, I just couldn’t make it work.

       “Do you think we could maybe do this at your house?  Or your hotel room?  I could bring a collapsing dog crate for the cage….” I offered when he came back.  

       Alas, he was visiting from out of town.

       The session was not to be…at least, not with me.

        I don’t think any prodommes read this blog on a regular basis, but if you do, and you do this guy’s session with him, would you please drop me a line and let me know?  I’m DYING to hear how this one plays out!

          P.S.  Want to hear some of the other top contenders for Weirdest Session Request of All Time?  OF COURSE YOU DO!!!

          In no particular order:

          Tooth extraction.  A man wanted me to pull out one of his teeth.  This client is a notorious dungeon barnacle (“dungeon barnacle” is a term I coined for those obsessive clients who are constantly–constantly!–making the rounds through every commercial dungeon in town).  Every mistress in town has met this guy.  Rumor has it that he is a dentist who lost his medical licence, but I cannot confirm this.  I can tell you that he knows a hell of a lot about teeth and he will talk your ear off about it if you let him. (I passed on his session, btw.  Besides being gross, it sounds like a great way to get arrested for practicing dentistry without a license.  Oh yeah, The New York Post would have a good time with that one.)  

         Punching a man in his face in front of all the other women.  He specifically wanted his nose broken.  I punched him once, but I am a weak little creature without any punching training, so his nose did not break.  Yeah, epic failure, I felt like a loser!  Then it occurred to me that if I did break his nose, blood would get all over the place and the Surgeon would definitely not approve of that (he made me get tested for Hepatitis when we started having sex), so I bailed out.  Another girl did the deed.  I don’t know if his nose actually broke, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it did. 

      I’ll add others later if any come to me…before I forget, one more quick update…

       Remember Joey, from my blog post “Tales from the Biz?”  The blackmail fetish guy who gave me all of his personal information and tax returns and bank statements?  I’d go through his wallet and take photos of his cards and ID?

       Remember how I said that I was concerned he’d play his strange little game with the wrong Mistress–someone who wouldn’t feel obligated to protect him from himself? 
       Well, it came to pass.

       Sure enough, Joey eventually got tired of me–he got too familiar, so he wasn’t as scared of me anymore.  So, he started seeing someone new.

        “Hey–whatever happened to Joey?  I haven’t heard anything about him in a long time.  Is he still coming around?” I asked her.

        She started to laugh.  “He can’t afford to.  I maxxed out two of his credit cards and he got in trouble with his wife.”

        “You did?!  You really did it?  How much did you get?  Did he call the cops?”

       “Of course not!  What’s he going to say?  Officer, I gave my dominatrix all of my credit card information and she used it to buy stuff?”

       “Yeah, but it is still sort of illegal.  What did you get?  God damn, I am way too nice for this business.”

       This mistress runs a small boutique cat and kitten rescue out in Brooklyn.  She charged, like, $800 in cat food to Joey’s card and then something like $2000 in prepaid Visas that she used to pay vet bills, and then she went to Bergdorf Goodman and bought some expensive handbags.

      “That’s a real Fendi!” she said, gesturing at her purse.  “No Canal Street knockoff shit here!”  

        Well, while I don’t really regret not ripping him off–I just couldn’t bring myself to do it–I still don’t know what to make of this.  I mean, I guess he brought it on himself.  Joey would bring me anything–anything, the keys to the castle!  He’s lucky nobody sold his information to Russian identity thieves!

        Picturing his wife finding $800 in cat food on his banking statements is pretty funny, though.  “Joey?  $800 of Science Diet Kitten Formula?  But we don’t have any cats!”

        And then I’m picturing the mistress, lounging on her sofa in her apartment, surrounded by kittens and Fendi bags.  

       Cracks me up.

Gustav Mahler: Symphony No. 5 (in C sharp minor)

       My mind is broiling in thoughts about music and art right now.  I’m trying to finish a blog post about my family history and Beethoven’s 9th symphony and the film Immortal Beloved (trust me, it all comes to bear).  I’ve attacked this blog post badly by four different angles over 18 months, and I’ve decided that I just need to finish it.  

       I take out my art history books early in the morning when I can’t go back to sleep.  Searching for something on the tip of my tongue.  (Umberto Eco’s On Ugliness has proved especially fascinating.) 

       I search YouTube for the music that I can’t specifically name, but which I recognize immediately when I hear it  (I remember the composers).  Music from a specific time in my life–my early adolescence.  

     I found this piece, which I haven’t listened to in its entirety in at least ten years:

This poem, as well, from The Narcissus Flower, by Rita Dove.  I think I read this poem late–maybe early undergrad…?  It is about the myth of Persephone, a maiden goddess who was abducted by Hades, the King of the Underworld.  It is told in first person. 

And though nothing could chasten 
the plunge, this man
adamant as a knife easing into

the humblest crevice, I found myself at
the center of a calm so pure, it was hate.

The mystery is, you can eat fear 
before fear eats you,

you can live beyond dying–
and become a queen
whom nothing surprises.

Is that why I have chosen to live as I have…? 
The Narc

Time Heals

      Hi Party People…!  

      Don’t worry, I’m fine (well, sort of…I’m okay).  I know I’ve been neglecting the blog, but it’s been intentional.  I’ve been sorting through my feelings and trying to heal.  I just re-read February’s posts…God, the anguish and pain there is enough to make your hair turn white.  

     I feel a lot better, but frankly, I wish that was more complimentary.  I resent the fact that I still think about the Mathematician and what he did to me every day, and I wish that there was some way that I could evict him from my brain.  I resent that he takes up so much real estate in my mind and my heart.  

      I especially dislike that I still have such a diversity of memories and emotions for him.  It kills me that I fell in love with this lying scumbag.  It kills me.  

      It kills me that I still miss him sometimes, even though I don’t want him anymore. 

       It kills me that I sometimes still have really awesome, fun sex dreams about him.  I wake up from them and reality comes rushing back in and I become furious with the wretched perfidy of my own body.  I wish I could somehow pry his presence out me with a crowbar.  

       I try not to obsess, I really do, but on several occasions I have pored over our text message conversations and emails since, say, Thanksgiving…and the things that he said to me in order to foster my misconceptions really burn me up.  So much manipulation…

       I’m also bothered at the fact that I was laboring under the misconception that I was the partner in the relationship who had to prove to be trustworthy and righteous.  I thought that he was wholesome and innocent and sheltered.  I thought…I am poor and younger and not established, I have no property and almost no family, I need to prove to him that I’m a great emotional investment and not some flaky sex worker grifter! 

       Who turned out to be the grifter, hmmm…? 

        Not Miss Margo.  That’s for sure.

        To think that it never occurred to me that I was being manipulated and taken advantage of by an older man who is probably smarter than I am and who could have motives and a history far more sinister than I could ever imagine is unsettling.  Truly unsettling.  

         A few people I know, including my analyst, are inclined to give the Mathematician the benefit of the doubt–he really did fall in love with me, he got in too deep, he had no idea the relationship would go the way that it did, by the time he knew that he needed to tell me the truth it was too late, he fell in love with the fantasy, that he basically harbored no cruel intentions but he totally fucked it up.

       Unfortunately, I can’t believe that.  Too many red flags in our correspondence and what I found in his background.  If you could read the file in the safety deposit box, maybe it would be more clear…just take my word for it.  

      It’s a horrible feeling to know that you’ve been taken advantage of.  I think it’s one of the worst feelings in the world–right up there with being stolen from. 

                   *                         *                            *                     * 

       What else…?  I’ve been trying to stay busy.  I went to the Suspension fetish party on Sunday with a friend from the Studio and some others.  Suspension is, consistently, the best fetish event I’ve ever been to outside of the big annual balls in a few North American cities.  The venue is comfortable and upscale and the crowd is dressed to impress and authentically kinky.  Very few tourists or male doms in black jeans and fanny packs.  Thank God.  

      I don’t go to many parties, but when I do, I almost always go as a domme.  Single femsubs attract way too much sleazy, unwanted attention.  I’m not talking harmless flirtation here.  

     Because I was attending Suspension with some dominant female bodyguards, however, I thought it was safe to let the my freak flag fly.  
       I wanted to write more, but I’m at work and I’ve just been called away…if I can update later, I will.

     Don’t worry, the blog is not going away.  I just needed a breather to try to get my head on straight.  I’m feeling very inspired to write again recently.  

The Worst Session Ever

     I almost wasn’t going to write about this because it’s so embarrassing, but I think it’s worth sharing because it’s important.  Consider it a cautionary tale.  

     I had one of the worst sessions in my career the other day, and it happened because the MISTRESS blew it.  Blew it in spectacular fashion.  

     She didn’t just blow it–“blowing it” suggests that it happened accidentally, despite one’s best intentions.  She DID IT ALL WRONG, and I’m the one that “blew it.”  

      The client is the one who paid the price.  He paid in several ways.

      Ironically, if you told me beforehand that this session would go all wrong, I wouldn’t have believed you.  I would have thought that it would be impossible to fuck this session up.  It was supposed to be a simple, fun session–a blast, really!  

     This guy came into the Studio and hired myself and two other dommes.  He wanted to live out a very old, cherished fantasy: when he was 13, he said, he’d been caught setting off fireworks with his friends against his parents’ permission.  His fantasy was to be corrected and disciplined with a spanking by a maternal figure and her two adult sisters.  He wanted to be spanked to the point of tears.  He wanted to be made to cry.  He said that he was a fairly experienced Switch, so he knew what he was getting in for.  

     That’s it.  Roleplay and straightforward domestic discipline.  What could go wrong? I’m telling you, I was delighted when I booked this session.  I knew that I could do it well, and it sounded like a lot of fun for everyone!

       And did I mention that this man was a really cute, standup guy?  He was!  He was about 40, blonde, and boyishly good-looking.  He was wearing khakis and a nice white shirt with button-down collar and a beautiful sky blue merino wool sweater.  A smallish guy.  Well-proportioned.  Adorable!  And best of all, he was thrilled to be there!  He was a little nervous, but also very happy and enthusiastic.  It was a very special occasion for him, he said–he was visiting from out of town and had allotted money just for this occasion, and his wife was away for two weeks, so he would have time to heal from the inevitable bruising. 

      He hired myself, an inexperienced young black-haired girl named “Susan,” and another domme named…let’s call her “Audrey.”  

       I knew that Susan was a good egg–she’s a lifestyle submissive who’s still learning.  Sweet personality, and all of the lights are on upstairs.

      I couldn’t say the same of Audrey.  I’d never worked with her before because she usually works the night shift, but she struck me as pushy and impatient.  And she had tattoos on her arms that looked like very poor decisions.  

     We had a little powwow in the back while we were getting dressed.  

     “Okay, who’s going to run this thing?  Who’s going to be the mom?”  I asked.  Because that’s usually the best way to do sessions with multiple mistresses, I’ve found–one person leads and the others support and enhance it.  

       Audrey said that she would be the Mom. 

       I foolishly agreed to this.  I really regret my decision.  I just assumed that she would be competent because she was experienced (or so she said.  But really, how experienced could she be, at her age? stupid, stupid, stupid!). 

       I started to become concerned about her right away, when the three of us were consulting the client prior to session.  We were going over what he wanted.  He knew exactly what he wanted, and he was explaining it to us.  I was taking it in and making mental notes.  

      Audrey kept interrupting him.   She wasn’t paying attention

       This is simply unprofessional.  If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a hundred times: clients complain that the session wasn’t a success because the client didn’t get what he wanted, even though he expressed it beforehand in no uncertain terms.  

      We got through the interview and decided to begin.

      Audrey yelled at him to get undressed.  He immediately looked startled and concerned, and I don’t blame him.  This wasn’t according to plan.  Parents don’t ask their kids to strip down naked to receive discipline.  What the heck was she thinking?

      “Um, could you pull my trousers down, please?”  He asked.

      Audrey gave a big impatient sigh and said that she didn’t undress clients. 

      (While I understand her preference, I felt that this man’s request was perfectly reasonable.  His grooming and hygiene were impeccable and he clearly wasn’t a cop.  What was the problem?)

      I immediately decided that this was off to a bad start, so I stepped in and took control.   I really wish I’d maintained it. 

       I walked right up to him and got in his face.  I gave him my newly patented owl stare.  In my heels, I was a few inches taller than him.  He had to turn his face up a little to see me.  

      “I just got off the phone with Jimmy’s mother,” I said, in my coldest, sternest voice.  I didn’t turn up the volume–I lowered it, actually.  I am not an angry, shouting type of domme.  I don’t think one should have to raise their voice in order to command attention. Besides, cold and calm in scarier.  “Do you know why she was calling me?”

        It had the desired effect.  I had his full attention.  I saw him swallow and then he said, “Um, no.”

       “Oh, really?  You have no idea why she called me, hmm?”

      He shook his head.

       “I know you’re lying to me, and you’re only making it worse!  She caught the two of you setting off firecrackers behind the house.  What do you have to say for yourself?”

       “I’m sorry!” he squeaked.

        “Oh, you will be.  You will be very sorry.  What did we tell you about playing with firecrackers?  Speak up, young man!”

         “You told me not to do it!” he looked scared.  This was going well.  

         “Do you know what would happen to us if you caught the brush on fire?  It’s the middle of summer.  It’s a tinderbox back there!  Don’t you realize that we would be legally liable if you caught the neighbor’s house on fire?  Or ours?  Or, God forbid, if one of those firecrackers took Jimmy’s eye out?  If one of you ended up in the hospital?  I’m so ashamed of you!  How could you be so irresponsible?” 

       “I’m sorry,” he repeated.  He really looked miserable.  Ha!

        “We are going to have to teach you a lesson, young man.  You are never going to play with firecrackers again.  You know, I cannot believe that we are going to have to do this to you at your age.  Having to spank a big boy like you!  You should be embarrassed.”

          Then I reached out, unbuttoned his pants, and roughly yanked them down.

           And then, unwisely, I turned him back over to Audrey.

           “Go to your mother!”  I said, and pointed to her.

            The scene was set!  We were back on track!  Things were going great!  How could she mess it up?

            Well, she did.

             Audrey sat down in a chair.  “Come here!  Over my lap!”

             Inwardly, I groaned.  The couch!  He asked for the couch!

             I looked at her, over his back, and gestured towards the couch.  

               She ignored me.

               He came out of it–broke the spell, dammit–and meekly asked, “Do you mind if we use the couch?”

              She rolled her eyes dramatically.  A big sigh.  Because yeah, it was such an imposition on her to paddle this guy over the couch as opposed to the chair.  

              She moved to the couch and got him into position.  I held his hands down and crouched so that I could look into his eyes.  I did that so that I could check in with him and also continue to lecture him while he took his punishment.  

              I wish I hadn’t done that.  I wish I would have stood standing.  

            So that I could see, and not just hear, what Audrey was doing.

             Sounded like she was hitting him pretty hard.  Definitely not much of a warm-up.  He was trying to be stoical about it, but after a few minutes he started to moan and make little yelps.  His face was red and he looked like he was in a lot of pain.  I had no idea whether that was typical for him, though.  He was also cringing and bracing his body a lot.  

          I got his attention.  “Hey.  Are you okay?”

          “I guess so,” he gasped.

           The sound of the spanking changed.  What the fuck was she doing up there? 

           He yelled.  A real loud yell this time.

           I popped my head up to take a look.

          What do I see, but this smiling, cheerful IDIOT beating the bejesus out of his ass with a heavy wooden paddle.  Yup!  Just whaling away!  Hitting the same place, over and over again! 

           I tried to get her attention.  When she saw me, I gestured to her to lighten up.  Slow the hell down, woman.  I also pointed at his ass.  She’d pulled his boxers up halfway.  She couldn’t see what she was doing. 

           She just kept going, like she didn’t understand what I was asking.  

         I looked at Susan.  Susan was holding his feet down.  She looked scared.

         “Audrey,” I said.

         The client screamed again.  Poor guy.  

         “You guys suck!” I heard him hiss.  

         Yup.  A client just told us that we suck.  And I could tell that he was not saying this just to provoke a reaction.  I could tell that he really meant it. 

         I finally did what I should have done the minute I popped my head up and saw what she was doing:  I reached out and physically stayed her hand.

       “Audrey.  Stop it.  Back off.”

       “What?  What’s up?” she smiled at me, like she had no idea what was wrong.

        She didn’t know.  She was really that stupid.

        “Let me do it,” I said.

       She shrugged.  “Okay!”

       He got up.  He did not look happy. 

       “Are you okay?” I asked him.

       “I guess,” he said.  He looked a little pissed off, actually.  If he wasn’t such a nice guy, he would have probably punched her in the face.  That’s usually what men do when they’re being physically assaulted

         “Audrey, why did you pull his boxers up?  You couldn’t see what you were doing.”

         “I didn’t want him to get his disgusting cock on me!” she laughed.  

         That pissed me off.  “I’m sure his penis is not disgusting, Audrey, and if it bothered you, you could just put down a barrier.” 

        Nothing about this nice man was disgusting.  What was with the insults?

        “Do you want to continue?” I asked him.

         I could see him debating.  Then he nodded and said, “Okay.  With you.”  

           I got him into position and pulled down his boxers.

          There was nothing for me to work with.  His butt was hamburger.  I mean deep red bruising.  The skin was hot to the touch and I could feel it swelling under my hand. 

           He hired us for an hour, and this stupid, inconsiderate, incompetent bitch had turned his ass to toast at fifteen minutes into the session.  She did that much damage in less than five minutes. 

        I did the best I could and hit him much more lightly on the sides and the bottom where it wasn’t as bad.  I resumed the narrative, trying to get back into the fantasy.  

         Alas, it was no use.  He was simply in too much pain to enjoy it.  It was all too much, way too fast, and he was emotionally upset. And I don’t blame him one bit.

          After five minutes, he said, “I think I’m done.”

        Twenty minutes into the session.  Twenty minutes!

        “Audrey, would you please get the gentleman a glass of water?”  I had to get her out of the room.

         When she left, I said to him, “I’m very sorry.  That is absolutely not the way that I would have conducted the beating.  I didn’t see what she was doing at first.”

        “Yeah.  I wouldn’t have done it that way, either,” he said.

         I was mortified.  Just mortified. 

         “Would you like to do something fun for the rest of the time?” I asked.  I mean, he paid for the time.

          “I don’t know.  Like what?”

          He was looking at Susan.  I could tell, during the consultation, that he was most sexually attracted to her.  He really liked her.

          A little lightbulb went off in my head.  Inspiration!

          “Want to watch me spank Susan?”  Dudes love that girl-on-girl shit.  

         He brightened.  Thank God.  “That could be sexy!”

         I hate that girl-on-girl shit, but what the hell.  Cut me a slice of that giggly, sexy, girly cheesecake, sir!  Extra-large, please!

          So we did that.  I tried to make it playful and sexy, like Susan and I were actually girlfriends.  She was a very, very naughty girl.  Blah blah.  Always coming late to class!  Wearing skirts that were too short!  

         He really seemed to be enjoying watching us, which was a relief.  At I’d managed to salvage some of the session for him. 

        “What about you?  Could she do it to you?” he asked, hopefully.

         “Absolutely!  Do you want to take turns with her?”

          So we did that.

         “This is really hot!” he said.


         She saw him spanking me over his knee–he was being very gentle and fun with it–and said, “I hope you know that it costs extra if the mistress is submissive to you.”

         I groaned inside.

         “Don’t worry about it, Audrey,” I said.

         “It’s the Studio rules.”

          “We can talk about it when we’re done, Audrey.  That’s all.  You can go.  I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

           She left.

           The three of us goofed around some more until the time was up.

         “Thanks a lot, Miss Margo.  You really went to bat for me today.  You and Susan were great.  It should have been just you two,” he said to me.

         I told him that I was sorry that he didn’t have the experience he wanted, and I offered to refund my cut of the session fee.  I didn’t think that I deserved the money.  

         He was such a gent that he insisted I keep it. 

        So, I gave him my card and insisted that he contact me for a free session the next time he was in New York. 

         He left in a pretty decent mood, but I know that there was no way that he went back to his hotel room than night and had a good feeling about that session.  If I was him, I’d feel violated and ripped off.  And very, very disappointed.  

         Susan and I cleaned the room.  Then I went to talk to Audrey.

        She saw me and said, incredibly: “That was fun.  I had a good time.”

         “Audrey, you know that you basically assaulted that man, right?   That session was a train wreck.” 

         She looked at me blankly. “What?  He said that he wanted to be hit until he cried.”

         “Audrey, his ass was toast in five minutes.  That wasn’t what he wanted.”

         “He said no safeword!”

          She didn’t get it.  Unbelievable!  How can she be so STUPID?

        Worst session ever.  EVER.

         If any of my readers sees prodommes in NYC, you can email me and I’ll give you her information, so that you can STEER CLEAR of her.  I was appalled!  Appalled at her behavior!  She’s dangerous!

          I am also disappointed in myself, for letting it happen.  NEVER AGAIN.

I’d Rather Dine with Hitler

      Just checking in…

      You know, I hate to have another blog post where all I do is grouse and complain, but I have to ask…did someone, somewhere declare March to be official “Creepy Client Month?”  

       Because no sooner had I pulled it together emotionally well enough to really get back to work, when these scumbags started crawling out of the woodwork.  There was a lying, asshole physician (imagine that!) on the Upper East Side (NO, not the Surgeon) who had a leather gimp outfit like in Pulp Fiction–which was surprisingly difficult to look at for two hours, by the way–who tried to cheat me out of my fee.  There’s been a guy named Dave who keeps calling me at the Studio for phone sessions, which doesn’t sound so bad, but believe me, listening to him alternately lie about all the ways he intends to “serve” me and jerk off gets to be intolerable after an hour and a half.  Dave also mailed a strange, creepy card to me–I’ll try to post a picture later today, because you guys are going to LOVE this one–that I will not handle without latex gloves, because I am convinced that it has been contaminated with semen or some other grossout substance.  Dave wants me to go see a show with him and wants to do my laundry….uhhh NO!  He is also badgering me for attention, free attention,  because nothing demonstrates appreciation and sincerity like trying to get your prodomme to work for free!  

         Yesterday I turned down a session with an old, drunk Indian man who tried to kiss me.  He was wearing a bad wig and a bunch of jewelry from the $.99-store and looked like the crossdresser from hell.  I just could not go through with it.  No way.  So, I didn’t do it, but I still can’t get the image out of my mind.  

         Finally, we have the worst of them all…a lecherous old creep that I’ll call “Mr. Wang-in-the-Face.”  Don’t worry, I got out of there unmolested and with my money, but he was a very, very trying client.  

        He wants to see me tonight for dinner.  Readers might find that strange, but I’ve actually been hired to eat or go to the opera with a client about half a dozen times in my career.

       Now, the question is: is it worth it to be seen in public with this awful creature (and I’m not calling him that because he’s ugly, even though he is, I’m calling him that because he’s disrespectful and has shit for personality) and sit through dinner at The Palm for $300?  

        Serious question.  Serious! You can tell how unlikable this man is by the fact that I am seriously considering whether it’s worth the money to put up with him.  Because it should be a no-brainer.  Shit, for $300, I’d usually be willing to suffer through dinner with Adolph Hitler!  In fact, I’d rather dine with Hitler than Mr. Wang-in-the-Face!  

      “Dining with Hitler”–that sounds like the name of a rock band. 

      Two hours.  $300.  Two hours.  $300.  

      Still not sure if I’ll do it.  If I do, I will try to take lots of photos.

 In the last week, I’ve written three long blog posts about each of these clients.  I didn’t post them because I hate to whine and I feel bad complaining about my bread and butter.  Most of my clients are pretty good to me.  There’s just been a string of these bad ones recently. 

Hawt or Not? Please Advise

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   Now, I know that men and women often have different ideas of what constitutes “hawtness.”  I know that several of my 8 readers are men, so I thought I’d consult you guys (if I asked the guys at school if they thought this outfit would look good on me, I might get some weird looks).  

    This is a piece of clothing for work at the Studio, so imput from sub men is especially valuable.  You can comment anonymously if you want.  Or email me. 

     So I ask you: Is this a hawt outfit for a domme?  Would you want a woman wearing this while she was putting you in your place, where you belong?  

       Or is this outfit a bad, bad, cringe-worthy idea?  Would I look like some tard reject from Kill Bill?  

      I’d wear it with bare legs–I have nice long legs.  Maybe boots.  

      Please advise.  C wants my measurements.

     I think the metal bras are a safer bet.  I’m definitely more of a leather domme than a latex domme, but this is a little too heavy metal for me.  

     Or is it? 

The Long Arm of C (or, Woe Unto Alec…Woe to the Max)

    Somewhere in SoHo, there is a dark-haired gentleman with a passing resemblance to Alec Baldwin who has recently gone on a string of terrible first dates.  

     He meets the women on a popular internet dating site, and after a few emails, proposes drinks and dinner at a fun, trendy restaurant.    The women he meets–four or five in all, thus far–are all twentysomething and quite attractive.  They’re all in a great mood when they meet him, and launch into their cocktails and conversation with gusto.  

     He’s delighted, and thinks that they’re really hitting it off.  

    And then…something bad happens. 

    Out of the blue.

    One girl took offense at a joke he made–a joke which he honestly thought was harmless and inoffensive by any possible standard–and threw her vodka-cranberry in his face (and all over his white dress shirt), picked up her handbag, and walked straight out.  This was post-entree.  They were waiting for dessert.  

      Another date ditched him halfway through dinner.  She just excused herself to use the restroom, and never came back.  He sat there awkwardly, waiting for her.  Calls and text messages went unanswered.  Waitstaff looked at him.  

     And so on and so on, with the other two.

     Four bad dates in a row.  Four humiliating dates in a row.

    The man–let’s call him “Alec”–is starting to get very, very concerned.  

     Alec doesn’t know what’s happening to him.  Has he been cursed?  Has run out of mojo?  

     I could tell him.  

     He has, in fact, been cursed. 

     Cursed by my friend at the Studio, C.   Miss beautiful, violent, “Get paid for it, Red” domme.  

      You see, last summer, Alec and C had a relationship…a brief relationship, but C really liked him.  C was trying hard to do right by him, you know, be his girlfriend.  C was saying weird shit that is totally uncharacteristic of her, like This guy makes me think about babies. 

     Alec did her wrong.

    It wasn’t quite as bad as what the Mathematician did to me, but it was still pretty bad.  What Alec did to her was a pretty shitty thing to do.  And he didn’t have to do it.  

    (Personally, I think the man must be out of his goddamned mind to have done what he did to her.  I wouldn’t do anything bad to C.  This is the type of woman who will stab you if you step on her nice shoes and the wind is blowing in the wrong direction that day.  What the hell was he thinking?)  

      Alec broke her heart.  

      Bad, bad idea, Alec.  Bad idea. 

      So now it’s March.  C’s memory is long…and so is the reach of her arm.  

      All of Alec’s bad first dates have been friends of C’s.   Alec still hasn’t put 2 and 2 together.  Who knows if he ever will?  He’s probably forgotten all about C by now.  

      But she sure hasn’t forgotten about him.

      “Hey Red!” said C, coming over to talk to me.  She leaned against my locker.  “I want you to go on a first date with Alec.  Start cruising his dating profile.  He’ll see you looking and hit you up.  I’ll buy you an awesome piece of domme gear if you do this for me–well, I’ll make a slave buy it.  Is there anything you’ve got your eye on?”

     Miss Margo has, in fact, had her eye on this awesome metal braand this one–for some time.  I think both of them would look great on me.

      “Make him take you someplace fun and be sure to get some appetizers in.  He’s a pretty good date.  You’ll enjoy yourself.  Then say ‘You know, you’re just not working out for me,’ and walk out.  Or ‘I thought you would be more handsome.'”  

     “I dunno, C.  That’s kind of mean for me to do…”  I drifted off.

     “Yeah, cause guys have treated you so well recently, right?  They’re fucking scumbags.”

      She has a point.  I am not exactly a big fan of the XY-Chromosome Club this month, if you know what I mean.

      “I’ll buy you two awesome pieces of domme gear and get you an 8-ball of coke–ha! look at your face! Relax, you nerd, I’m just fucking with you–if you go back to his apartment, make out with him, and make him think he’s getting laid.  Then, when you see his dick, just leave immediately!  When he takes it out of his pants, look repulsed or disappointed, and get your bag and leave!  Yeah!  He’d never get over that!”

     Oh my God, I thought.  

     Even at my meanest, I don’t think that I could do that.  Boy oh boy, am I glad that I am not Alec.  

     A cranberry juice in the Mathematician’s face, though…that is kinda fun to think about.