I Want a Tree House

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Humorous anecdote: I was at the Studio the other day, and it was a full house–there must have been ten women on shift.  I was in back talking with A.  I’ve mentioned her on the blog a few times.  She’s the spooky  mathematician who does research on fractals.  Anyway, someone called and we could overhear the manager, Frau Farbissina, on the telephone.

    “You vant to know who iz smartest mistress at zis place?  Intelligent mistress?  Iz zat vat u ask?”  Frau spoke into the phone.

     There was a pause.  Then: “Smartest mistress iz Margo or A.”

    She said that in front of all those other bitches!  BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!

    I bit the insides of my mouth to keep from laughing.  A, not nearly as polite as I am, burst into giggles and held up her hand to give me a high-five.

                                *                                    *                                   *                                *

       OMG!  I want to be rich so that I could buy a tree house!  I want a tree house before I die!

       I googled tree house images and spent half an hour in tree house fantasy land.  I love wood and I love trees.  One day when I make better money I am going to have a home full of beautiful wooden furniture.  It makes me feel good inside to be around animals and wood.  Wood is spiritual because it contains the ghosts of trees.  

      I am an atheist but I understand why the pagans worshiped trees.  I wish I had a time machine so that I could go back and see the European hardwood forests before they cut all the trees down. I am reading The Conquest of Gaul right now.  Caesar writes about the spectacular forests.  

      What is your favorite tree?  I like the birch and ponderosa pine.



Dear Miss Margo: I will be returning to NYC shortly and would like to meet up again.  Are you game?


I’d love to see you again!  I enjoyed our time together very much.  You were a very gracious host…

I finished the book you gave me to read, The Painted Word.  Wolfe is exceedingly witty, isn’t he?  I read it on the train to D.C.  and kept laughing.

Right now I’m reading The Conquest of Gaul by Caesar and Diary of a Seducer by Kierkegaard. 

  Please email or shoot me a text whenever you’d like to get together, sir.  I look forward to it!


Two of my favourite books. Caesar Gallico ends up with the second most famous quote he ever uttered: Alea iacta est!

So they are and your poor ass shall feel the might!

 From the latter the following comes to mind: There is no art in seducing a girl, but great happiness in finding one worth seducing.

 Give me a couple of days please and I shall suggest an evening.



Fortinbas, I’m swooning!  I love a man who can quote without Bartlett’s Familiar, lol

        I’ll keep an eye out for your email.  Enjoy your travels.


I cannot lie: I had to revisit the Kierkegaard quote to get it right.  🙂       

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     (he did not revisit the Kierkegaard quote.  I googled it and besides, he wrote and sent it to me within 2 minutes.  He quoted it from memory. And who knows Diary of a Seducer…?  It’s an obscure book!  I never heard of it till my analyst recommended it, and I’m a ravenous bookworm!)

   Talk nerdy to me, baby!  God I love well-read men! 

What the Hell Did I Just See?

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      I was going to write an introduction for these weird ads, but I think that they can be presented without editorializing.  

      Ummm….what the hell did I just see?

     It’s not just me, is it?  All of it…especially that thing she does with the egg.  That suggests what I think it suggests, doesn’t it?  

     Our second ad, for Finlandia cheese, is just plain bad:

The Cheese Masochist.  Huh?

          I don’t get it.  Can your ad team, Finlandia.  They fucked this one up.  Hire new people. 

       Here’s another good one.  Remember Dave, from my recent post ‘Morning Rant?’  Dave, the bad client I had to fire because of his boundaries issues?

       Well, Dave mailed a card to me at the Studio.  I’ve gotten lots of cards from clients before, and without exception I have found them all either touching, charming, or funny.  

      Until now.

       Dave’s card wins the award for Grossout Awful Card of the Year.  It is creepy and inappropriate–if you had to deal with this guy, you’d understand.  I passed it around the Studio–everyone else thought it was in bad taste, too.

      The card also came with 4 tickets to Cirque de Soleil.  I didn’t ask for these tickets and I don’t particularly enjoy Cirque.  However, if Dave wasn’t a CREEPER, I probably would have taken a few friends and gone to the show anyway, because I have friends who are big fans.  

      I decided not to go because I don’t trust Dave as far as I can throw him.  He’s not dangerous…but I KNEW there had to be a catch to these tickets.  I KNEW it!  

      I sold the tickets on Craigslist.

      The day after the show, Dave sends me an email asking “Where were you?  I was sitting four rows behind you and didn’t see you all night!”

      I knew it!  I knew it!   Dave, you creeper!  Did you think I would allow my friends and I to be ogled by your creepy pervy self?  UGH!  

       Here is Dave’s creepy card.  Might wanna have your barf bags ready.  And you better believe that I’ve been handling this with gloves.  God only knows what’s on it.

      Well, hell, I keep rotating the images, but blogger won’t upload them right-side up.  The text over the first face says “Before meeting you.”  The text over the smiley face says “After meeting you.”   The note on the tickets says “4 tickets rather than 2.  My goal is to always exceed expectations.” 

      Oh yes, Dave, you exceeded my expectations…too bad it was in a negative direction.  I knew you were going to be a pain. 

      Don’t pity him, reader.  He’s a stalkerish drama queen and despite what he says, there’s nothing submissive about it.  I should have been paid submissive rates; that’s how much I had to put up with from him.  I’d bet good money that his household can’t keep babysitters, nannys, or housekeeping staff younger than 35 or 40.  He’s a lech.  I earned every penny from him and I do not feel adequately compensated. 


     The text above the deranged cyclops face says “While engaging in tawdry acts with you.”  HURL.  And see?  He signed with a little D for “Dave.”

       I’m not sure what “tawdry acts” he’s thinking of, because there is no way I would treat him in a manner even remotely flirtatious or sensual.  The tawdry acts must all be in his mind.  I’m sure it’s a swamp in there.  

      Hey Dave!  Do your colleagues at Citibank know that you used your company card to do telephone consultations with me while on lunch break at the Citibank cafeteria?  I hope you washed your hands before you went back to work, Perv.  

      I need to take a shower.

For the One Path of My Flight is Direct Through the Bones of the Living

    I’ve been forwarding my Abduction Weekend series drafts to Heinrich for approval before I post them.  Most are heavily edited, but he is still wary–understandably–about posting some of it online.  Naturally, I want to respect everyone’s privacy, so I’m re-tooling a few parts. 

     In the meantime, here is an excerpt from the poem I was forced to memorize and recite upon request…often in extremely distracting circumstances.  Heinrich tells me that I am fortunate, because he wanted me to recite Goethe.  There is no way I could have managed that; my German is too rusty now. 

      He knew that I like birds, and he wanted me to better understand the mindset of himself and the men who had me in the following days.  It is interesting that he did not want me to meditate upon my own predicament but instead focus on his/their experience. 

From Hawk Roosting, by Ted Hughes 

My feet are locked upon the rough bark. 
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly –
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads –

The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:

The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.

And also:

Schon war ich auch, und das war mein Verdeben.
(Fair I was also, and that was my ruin.) 
                                    –von Goethe 

Men in My Life: The German, the Dane, and the Imaginary Cannibalistic Serial Killer & Culinarian

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    I dunno about The Painted Word, man.  Tom Wolfe is very witty, but like Christopher Hitchens, he rubs me the wrong way.  MMM.

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     I told my analyst about my birthday gift to myself, my Abduction Weekend.  I shared some humorous anecdotes and told her about some of the things that happened that I can’t tell anyone else, like some of the sexual details.

      “What did you like the most about it?” she asked me.

      I had to think about that one for a minute.

      “It was an adventure.  I didn’t know what was going to happen to me.  I was afraid, and that was very exciting.  I knew it was dangerous.  And it was fun to be at the center of all that male attention.”

      I paused.

      “I didn’t think about the Mathematician once the entire weekend.  Now I have a bunch of fun new sex memories in my head, instead of the old ones with him that were intrusive and still hurt me to think about,” I said.  I felt myself smiling, but it didn’t feel like a gentle smile.  It felt like more of a sneer.  It probably wasn’t nice to look at.  

      “Were you attracted to any of the men?”

     “Oh yes, definitely, to a greater or lesser extent.  I’ve always thought Heinrich was very attractive, I just never acted on it because I didn’t want to fuck up the friendship.  I wasn’t attracted to that meathead Dudebro until the very end, but I figured out exactly why Heinrich asked him to be there.”

      “Why is that?”

      “Hatred is an aphrodisiac.  So is anger.” 

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       Speaking of aphrodisiacs, I’ve been watching the new TV series Hannibal, and I find myself utterly captivated by Mads Mikkelsen:

“Miss Margo, I see you are admiring my suit.”

     It’s embarrassing to admit to having a crush on a ludicrous character wikipedia describes as “a brilliant forensic psychiatrist, cannibalistic serial killer and culinarian.”  I’m crushing on him nonetheless.  It’s silly and harmless enough, right…?  

      The other Dane (Mikkelsen is Danish) in my life, Fortinbras, gave me a book to read: The Painted Word, by Tom Wolfe.  The last time I was at his apartment we were discussing the art critic Robert Hughes, and Fortinbras went to one of his bookcases and selected the Wolfe book for me.  I’m going to start reading it tomorrow.  

       I like Fortinbras.  I am also completely sure that he is going to try to have sex with me.  Then I am going to have a decision to make.  

      (Tangentially, this is something I couldn’t help but notice: my submissive or masochistic clients, who hire me as a domme, almost never proposition me for sex.  In my entire career, I’ve only been asked maybe two or three times from the subs, and they seemed to think it was a total longshot because when I politely declined, they apologized and backed off immediately.  I have no idea if they entertain the fantasy or desire–I hardly see how at least some of them could not–but for whatever reason, they don’t ask.

      The male Tops that hire me, on the other hand, eventually push the sexual boundaries.  The only one that has not tried to fuck me is Mr. Wolf, and I think that the only reason he hasn’t is because he probably gets more ass than a toilet seat every other night of the week.  I am probably his kinky night off.  

       Why do the male Tops always end up making a pass?  Is it because they’re paying so much?  Is it part of the power trip?  Do they think “I’m in charge here!  Why am I sexually frustrated?”  Is it just because men try to have sex with you, or what?)

         I can’t take a photograph of Fortinbras, but I will try to sneak a pic of his odd but lovely clothing.  I mean, who the hell wears an ASCOT?  Fortinbras looks a bit like a 60-year-old Richie Rich:


Dear Miss Margo: How Can I Get Started in the Biz?

       My landlord has been asking, in a nervous and polite fashion, if I intend to renew my lease.  He says that he wants me to stay and will not raise the rent if I do.  

        I told him that I had to think about it a while longer.  The paperwork that he gave me says that he needs to know within 30 days.  

        He will get his answer exactly….30 days from now.  I am going to hold it until the eagle screams.  And if I do end up moving, I will not help him in his efforts to show this place to new renters.  When I know he intends to bring them over for a viewing, I’m going to leave S&M equipment all over the coffee table and totally exaggerate the size and aggression of the vermin.  And he’s gonna cough up every penny of my damage deposit–I took watermarked timestamped photos of every inch of this place before I moved in a single box of my stuff.  

       Who’s the worried little bitch now, you torturing scumbag?  Remember what you put me through for being slightly late with the rent four or five times out of 24 months?  The way you shook me down was deplorable.  Demanding six months’ rent up front!  

       I invite my readers join me as I bask in the toasty warmth of a good happy gloat.  

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       I get email and comments from time to time from women who are curious about breaking into the Biz (they always surprises me, because I certainly don’t try to “sell” the industry). I don’t think that I’ve ever written a post on it, probably because I don’t feel that I’m qualified to talk about it.  I’m much more successful now than I was when I started this blog, but compared to the really successful full-time dommes, I’m not much more than a weekend warrior.   Fact is, I just don’t have much hustle or the hard-nosed business sense necessary to be Mistress Jetset Superdomme.  I despise the capitalist system, but in all honesty, I would be better off if I had a little more greed, or “investment in my own self-interest,” or whatever you prefer to call it.  

         That said, I can offer the aspiring professional fetish practitioner a little practical advice. 

      The most simple way to get into professional BDSM, as my former colleague Calico wrote on her blog, is to call every commercial dungeon in town and ask if they are hiring.  If you were born female, someone will take you on (hardy har har). 

       I do not recommend starting out as an independent unless you have significant prior experience in some part of the adult industry, even if you have a lot of lifestyle experience with BDSM and think that you have a decent skill set and some gear.  Without a doubt, independent is where the real money is, but I am telling you: it is a baptism by fire starting out.  

         Start in a dungeon.  Or, if you have money already, contact some established pros and respectfully inquire about HIRING THEM to give you private instruction.  

         Do not work in a dungeon where staff uses drugs out in the open.  Do not work in a dungeon where it seems like the staff is drunk or high most of the time.  I’ve worked in three different dungeons, and without a doubt, cleaner is always better.   Do not work in a dungeon where management tolerates staff who are visibly inebriated, and I’m not talking at 11 PM on their birthday after a client brought in a case of champagne for the house.   And you sure as hell do not want to work in a dungeon where staff is buying or selling illegal drugs.  You don’t want to attract the scrutiny of law enforcement. 

        Do not work in a dungeon where you are asked or expected to give men handjobs, footjobs, ANY “job.”  You do not have to do this and it is not an industry standard.  If a client tells you that “every else” does it, he’s full of shit.  The prodomme biz has a pretty strict, and generally well-adhered-to code of honor about not combining domination and conventional sex.  There are escorts and massage girls who offer fetish services; they advertise themselves accordingly and their fees reflect this (keep that in mind if anyone pressures you for sex in a dungeon: there is no self-respecting hooker in New York who is not in the throes of severe drug withdrawal who would give a guy oral sex, much less fuck him, for the amount of money you are going to get after the House takes their cut.  This is one reason why most dommes–even beautiful, highly skilled independents–generally make LESS per session than they could command in other industries.  If you decide to sell sex, you owe it to yourself to get paid for it as much as the market will bear).  

          If you switch or act in a submissive role for a client, then you should be paid more than you would for a session where you are dominant.  That is the industry standard.  Paid significantly more, not a $20 tip (Like most switches, I got burned on this a few times before I wised up)

        For your own sake: don’t do anything that frightens you or that you don’t want to do.

        For your client’s sake: don’t do anything that you have no idea how to do. It’s okay to fake confidence.  Not so good to fake your skill set.  At the very least, tell him that you’ve never done it before, but you want to try…that way, he can make an informed decision. 

      Do not wear any jewelry to the dungeon that you would hate to lose. 

       Keep all of your property in your locker and keep the locker locked at all times.  Do not take your eyes off of your property.  Every woman who keeps her locker open gets ripped off eventually.  I myself only carry $20-$30 cash on me when I go to the Studio.  If you drop money, you will never see it again. 

      Clean and disinfect everything that touches skin after every single session.  Don’t be lazy.  

        On the topic of aesthetics: yeah, the aesthetics of sadomasochism is all goth n gloom n doom.  I am really sick of black and red color motifs too.  That said…I have never seen a mistress whose “look” was heavily goth or punk make it in this industry.  Even short hair can be the kiss of death.  Your bread-and-butter clients are conservative middle-aged white guys.  They have a very predictable idea of what feminine beauty and glamour looks like.  It sucks, but that’s the way that it is.

        Never trust a client.  Get your money up front, count it, and put it away where he can’t get to it. 

      Do not let clients try to bully or manipulate you with money or gifts.  Likewise, do not believe them when they dangle the promise of money or gifts in the future in exchange for your attention right now.  They are full of shit and they know what they are doing.  Generous men don’t promise to buy you anything, they just show up with a present for you.  My policy is not to ask clients for anything anyway, unless it’s Christmas and they ask–it gives them power over you. 

      Do not poach clients from your dungeon. 

      Do not steal from clients and do not touch their stuff without their expressed permission.  

      Beware of guys who dungeon-hop looking for new hires–exclusively new hires.  Many of them are predatory sadists with bad intentions, and they want to get you when you’re new because your boundaries are less likely to be firm and your bullshit radar won’t be well-tuned.  If your dungeon has your back, they’ll prep you about these guys before they send you in, so that you know what to expect and can get out with your money and your head intact.  If your dungeon sends you in there with Chester the Molester and you find out afterwards that everyone knows and hates the douchebag but couldn’t be bothered to warn you…find another dungeon.  

       Keep track of your income.  This is a cash business and without paystubs, you have to be your own book keeper. I keep written logs and Excel spreadsheets.

      Pay taxes.  I know a lot of dommes list their occupation as freelance entertainer, tutor, or consultant, or ‘in theater’ if you’re too shy to put ‘dominatrix.’  

          That’s all I can think of right now.

Morning Rant

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TyRANTosaurus Margo!

       I book Secret Job sessions almost exclusively via email.  I know it costs me a lot of business, but I just can’t stand vetting potential clients on the telephone.  I don’t even like to talk to my friends on the phone.  Strange men and phone freaks provoke anxiety and despair.  I just can’t deal.  

      So, email it is.  I get a lot of bad, frustrating email responding to my ads.  This one is particularly egregious:

     EntitledD-Bag: You are lovely. Let’s have a date.  I would like to take you to dinner.

     ::le sigh::  Entitled D-bag is looking in the wrong damn section of craigslist.  You want to look in the PERSONALS section, D-bag!  

     Usually I would just delete this email and move on, but his cluelessness has irritated me.  It has irritated me very much, and I just can’t let it go.  

     I respond: Certainly.  My fee is $$$/hour.  Let me know when you would like to make an appointment. 

      Incredibly, Entitled D-bag writes back: No, I don’t want a that sort of appointment.  I want a real date. 

       Can you believe it?  Can you?!?!?!

       I spell it out for him: Look, guy, this is not a personals ad.  I’m here to work. 

       Entitled D-bag: It’s a pity that you hate what you do so much that you have to call it “work.”

       I know, I know….I shouldn’t have let it get to me.  This clueless jerk was not worth another second of my time.  There was no point in interacting with him further.  But I just couldn’t let it go.  He really pissed me off.  

      This is my response to him:

      Listen up, asshole.  I am not running a charity for your stupid little cock.  I am not obligated to give my time and attention away for free to every man who requests it.  No woman is.  What the hell are you thinking up there in whatever passes for your brain?  Should I just quit all of my jobs and spend my time going out with every man who wants to see me?  I could devote my life to it…at least until I get old enough that they’re no longer interested!  Yeah–that’s the ticket!  I have to be fair to  All Teh Menz, because men are entitled to my time!  I ought to live FOR THEM!

     Somehow I doubt that he’ll respond, but if he does, I’ll post the email.  
     And this goes for you, too–all you guys who answer my prodomme ads begging to be my “personal” sub who then turn hostile when I politely explain that I’m not looking for a personal right now (yes, you, Mr. “If-you-were-really-a-domme-you-wouldn’t-need-to-get-paid-for-it” NOT-sub): Are you fucking kidding me?  You are not extremely good-looking and you are not extremely interesting.  So, why on earth should I want to watch you dress up in women’s lingerie and stick a carrot up your ass on webcam FOR FREE?  Why on earth would I want to accept “oral service” (barf! barf! barf! barf!) from a complete stranger who looks like Woody Allen?  Do you really think that I am going to invite a strange man to my apartment, dress up in leather and 5-inch heels, and follow him around wacking him with my riding crop while he does a half-assed job cleaning my bathroom  in the nude?  Here, let me put some of my dirty underpants on your head and in your mouth while you rinse the rest of them in the sink under my direct supervision, perv…YEAH RIGHT!!!

      And you, Dave, the client I gave walking papers to last week after you got all butt-hurt and whined about how “deeply disappointed” you were that I had no intention of EVER “allowing you” to “give me” an orgasm: why on earth would I want you to give me an orgasm, Dave?  Can you explain this to me?  Why?  Why would I “let” you?  Because orgasms are fun, so I should just let anyone who wants to give me one, give me one? As if an orgasm was just a nice gift, like a cookie or a bouquet of flowers, that I would be crazy to turn down?  Is that your reasoning?

      But Dave…here’s the thing…you are 1) obnoxious, 2) creepy, and 3) ugly.  I do not like you.  So why would I want to “allow you” to give me an orgasm?  And when you tried to guilt-trip me when I told you NO, it made me dislike you so much that now you cannot even pay me to hang out with you.  I know it must be difficult to be so unattractive that you cannot even pay someone to spend time with you…maybe you should take this as an opportunity to meditate on how your behavior comes across to the people around you, Dave. You got fired by a sex worker, Dave.   I’ve fired three clients in my entire professional career, Dave.  You are No. 3. Think about it.  

     “But why?  WHY?  WHY?” you asked, when I fired you.

     “Because you have boundaries issues, Dave,” I said.

     “What do you mean?” you asked.  I like the way your clueless self now thinks you are owed further explanation.  

     “I BEG YOU TO RECONSIDER!!!” was your next email to me, in all caps.  Not very submissive, Dave.  Who are you trying to kid?  You’re outraged that I said told you NO.  That’s your problem.  You don’t respect me.  

      And that’s perfectly okay with me.  Your respect is not a prize that I covet, Dave.  

       You are lucky that I have professional ethics, Dave.  If I didn’t, I’d be forwarding all of your stupid demanding pervy emails to your colleagues at CitiBank (you are a financial services creature.  Imagine my surprise.  WHAT A SHOCKER!).  I see them all on your Linkdin profile.  I could do it with impunity, because you have no idea who I am.  I had a feeling you were a scumbag from the get-go, so I didn’t give you ANY information about me…I even lied about the books I was reading on my Kindle.  

      And those Cirque du Soliel tickets you gave me that I didn’t ask for…?  I am going to sell them on Craigslist for $1 apiece.  Do you think I don’t know that you plan to sit three rows behind me and jerk off the entire time, you creepy stalker?  I am going to sell the tickets TO DUDES.  HA!


Return of the Vermin III: Blood and Volts

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     Remember the expensive electric mousetrap I recently purchased…?

     Well, turns out that it works after all!  I moved it to a new location and it’s caught a mouse every night for the last three nights.  No blood or gore, either.  When I open the trap to throw the bodies away, the little victim just looks like it’s taking a snooze. 

    When I turn it on, it makes a very ominous humming noise for a few seconds while it powers up.  This has made me wonder whether the mice are being dispatched painlessly.  I had no way of knowing, but I think it’s safe to assume it’s less painful than being stuck to a glue board and bashed with a skillet by yours truly. 

    Anyway, I had one of my 4 AM early-bird wakeups this morning.    When I knew that I couldn’t fall back asleep, I decided to read my Kindle in bed (Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace.  Overrated, but I must admit that his sendup of the Adult Video Awards in Las Vegas is very funny).   

     Then I heard it: the humming, crackling sound of electricity.  It was unmistakable. 

      Then: the pathetic squeak of a mouse (why did God give them such strange, tiny, heart-rending voices?  To what end?  Do they have little mousy conversations with each other?  They sound so wretched and forlorn.).

      The sound of electricity took on a sizzling aspect.  It lasted quite a while.  It had to last at least ten seconds.  

     I’d like to believe that the mouse lost consciousness instantaneously.   Having read Blood and Volts: Edison, Tesla, & the Electric Chair, however, I am skeptical. 

     Blood and Volts is a very odd little book…a mix of true crime, history, and social theory.  It’s about the development and early use of the electric chair in American jurisprudence.  It is chock-full of interesting trivia and descriptions of terrible violence.  I learned a lot from reading it…like what electricity is, and what an immoral asshole Thomas Edison was, and why the electric chair was a very bad idea.  

     The first couple dozen people executed via the Chair were basically cooked alive.  It was very gruesome.  If I was in their position, I’d beg to be dispatched via hanging or a firing squad.  Even being drowned in a bucket would be preferable. 

      Nikola Tesla was truly brilliant.  I enjoyed reading and learning about him.  He might even get Imaginary Boyfriend status.  I wish I could tour his workshop. I wish I could take him out to dinner. Actually, forget dinner–I’d like to buy him a thicker skin and a little common sense.  Maybe he could have avoided getting so screwed.  And then we would all be enjoying free electricity today!

      One last thing: The other night, I stopped by 7-11 to buy Diet Pepsi.  I was standing in line by the hot-food display and found myself reading–really reading–the ad for pepperoni pizza (I’ve probably eaten this pizza 3 or 4 times).

      It’s not pepperoni pizza.  It looks like pepperoni pizza, but it’s not.

      It’s meat pizza.  MEAT pizza.

      I almost hurled right there in the cashier’s line.  I still can’t think of it without gagging.  I mean, I know pepperoni is not the most wholesome food on earth…but “meat?”  Meat from what?  

On Keeping it Quiet (Or, Loose Lips Sink Ships. And Reputations.)

      I went out last night with a few dungeon girls after we finished the shift.  I’d had a good day and bought drinks for the others who hadn’t made money.  

       Susan is a very young lifestyle sub who is still learning the business.  She is about 22 years old, I think, but even less mature than that in her head.  I’m not saying that to insult her, because I actually like her quite a bit.  She’s a sweetheart.  But she’s reckless, and this is not a job in which one can be reckless with impunity.  If you’re reckless, you get hurt.  

        She was flirting with the waiter and eventually told him that she works in the Studio.  She tells everyone where she works.  I have tried to explain to her that it’s not a good idea, but she doesn’t understand.

         “Why should I lie about it?  I’m not ashamed.  I’m not doing anything wrong.  Besides, people are fascinated by it.  They always have questions!”

        “Susan, it’s not a matter of being ashamed.  It’s about protecting yourself.  You have no idea where you’ll be in ten years. Do you want this to follow you around indefinitely?  And just because people are fascinated does not mean that they approve. A lot of them are fascinated for the same reason people used to be fascinated by circus freaks.  You are an exotic curiosity to them, but they do not necessarily respect you.  And a certain type of man will use the fact that you do any kind of sex work as an excuse to treat you poorly.”

        “What do you mean?”

         “It means they think you’re a whore and are therefore fair game.  By working in this industry, you have already given consent to be harassed, stalked, or molested.  That’s how they think.  You’re already a whore, so it’s perfectly reasonable to be expected to flash your tits or propositioned at the bar or whatever.   They do not respect you.  A lot of people hate sex workers, Susan, and go out of their way to humiliate them.  Complete strangers will take it upon themselves to call your grandmother and the Dean of your school and ask them if they know what you do for a living.  They love that bloodsport.  Spend a little time on TER and read how they really think about us sometime.  Don’t forget your barf bag.  

         Plus, we’re fetish, which to a lot of people is disturbing and offensive.  They think it’s sick.  They think it’s perverted and immoral, like molesting little kids.   Society stigmatizes strippers, but they don’t automatically think that strippers are necessarily mentally ill and completely unfit for parenthood.  A lot of people think this way about sadomasochists.  Do you have any idea what the sex lives of most Americans are really like?  You know that a lot of people think that vibrators are kinky, right?   They think we’re sick.  They may even be right.  Who knows?”

        “There’s nothing wrong with sex work.  It’s just the stigma of it that’s damaging,” she said.

       Well, yes and no.  I myself hate that “sex positive” Pollyanna bullshit.  I’ve had a lot of positive, worthwhile experiences in this industry that I wouldn’t trade for the world.  I mean, I’m still doing it, and I think that speaks for itself.  But I have seen–and done–far too much to  not think that this job is both alienating and potentially damaging.  Look at the women in the Studio.  Yeah, the Studio is the craziest dungeon in town, but even still.  About half of the women are well-functioning well-rounded people.  The other half are fucking fruitloops.  Nuttier than the proverbial fruitcake. I have never worked at a job were such a high percentage of my colleagues were obviously dysfunctional.  

       Part of it’s the drugs.  I think that the sex industry is one of the only industries in which you can function (in a fashion) drunk or high.  You can’t do it well, but you can get by.  I know that there are a million people drunk at work from all walks of life right now, as I type this…but for the most part, they’re doing it on the sly, and if they’re caught or the alcohol deteriorates their skills, they’re canned.  

       (Incidentally, one of the reasons I don’t work nights–besides the fact that I just plain hate to work at night, as I am a morning person–is that it’s not a sober environment.  After midnight, half the staff and most of the clientele are smashed.  It’s not safe for me to be around.  But shit, if you could see what I’ve seen at 3 AM in the Superstudio, you’d want a drink, too.) 

         When the Biz is good, it’s good.  It’s opened a lot of doors for me, but it’s closed a few, too–and if I’m ever exposed, it will close a lot more.  

         I told Susan about my friend Vicky.  Vicky’s an older lady who’s been in the Biz for about a year and a half.  She’s been a success–she has more clients than she can handle and she’s swimming in dough.  She’s actually the one who inspired me to take the plunge and do more independent work, which, while nerve-wracking, has been a blessing financially.  

       Anyway, Vicky is a nice, loving person.  There’s not a mean bone in her body (not what you’d expect in a dominatrix, huh?).  

       She told her ex-husband and her grown son what she does for a living.  

        Now they refuse to talk with her until she quits pro-dommeing  (confusing, I know.  Would they care if she just did it at home, with her boyfriends, and didn’t get paid for it?  Because that’s what she was doing before).  

        I’ve cut off relatives before.  I think that it can definitely be good policy–some toxic relatives deserve to be cut off, and I’ve never believed in the sanctity of family.  That said, it’s a pretty drastic move, and a pretty damning indictment of one’s behavior in the relationship when your own relatives refuse to talk to you
      I don’t know if any of this sank into Susan’s head.  I doubt it.  She doesn’t get it.  But if she doesn’t learn to keep it quiet, she will.  

     Finally, here’s a funny thing that happened to me this week: the Surgeon texted me out of nowhere to let me know that he was going to be on TV the next day.  Narcissism in action, ha ha.  He’s on TV a lot.  It makes him really happy.  Anyway, I didn’t reply to him, but I did tune in.  

       It was weird.  Really fuckin weird.  

      I know it’s bad, but I miss him sometimes.  

      Also, I renewed my contract at the school I teach at.  I will be a lowly adjunct slave instructor there for at least one more semester.  The job pays, like, $0.17/hour and provokes despair, but it looks good on my resume.

         Once the semester is finally done, though, I’ll have a little bit of a break.  I’ve entered into a good-natured competition with two of my domme friends: we’re going to see who can do the most sessions in the month of June.  Then we’re going to vacation together.  Just us, no doodz allowed!

        This summer, I want to make a ton of money and when my lease is up I’m going to move to a different apartment…someplace with windows in the living room, lol.  Apartment-hunting in NYC is hell on earth, especially if you get paid in cash and don’t have a ton of money in the bank…but if I can pony up four or five months’ rent up front, I don’t think any landlord will give me a problem.  I won’t have to call the Surgeon from a goddamned strip club to beg for a loan, either (God, what a nightmare last summer was!).  Not with dudes like Fortinbras in town.   

      So wish me luck–I should have a lot more Tales from the Biz in the upcoming weeks.  My goal is an independent session a day, six days a week, until I lose my mind or I walk into the wrong hotel room and the Craigslist Killer cuts my head off.  

      Then I can take the rest of the summer off from Secret Job.  New apartment and, hopefully, a boyfriend…?

Dining in Copenhagen

    Two quick updates before I post this:  Remember “Audrey,” the woman from The Worst Session Ever…?  Well, good news: she’s history!    The Studio canned her ass!

     Let me tell you The Awful Truth: unless a member of the management develops a vendetta against you, it if almost impossible to get fired from the Studio.  It’s like getting fired from a strip club (or so I hear).  You have to blow it in truly spectacular fashion to get thrown out of that place–I’ve seen it happen maybe 3 times, and it’s always a spectacle.

      Audrey did not disappoint. 

      What did she do…?  I’ll tell you what she did.  I wasn’t there for it, unfortunately, but I’ve heard the story from a few different people….

      Get ready for it!  lol

     Audrey was doing coke with a client, lost her mind over something, and smashed his Rolex watch with a hammer.   

      Understandably, the guy was pissed.  How much do those watches cost?  Forty grand or something, right?  At least?  She’s lucky he didn’t murder her.  If I had $40k in front of me and someone grabbed it and threw it into an incinerator right in front of me, I’d probably attack them.  Especially if I was high on coke. 

     So, the client flipped his shit, but he didn’t try to hurt her.  He argued loudly and at length with the manager, but what could he do?  Audrey doesn’t have money; she can’t pay him for the watch.  This man was in a tough position; it’s not difficult to imagine what he was going through in his mind.  Audrey deserved to be arrested and prosecuted…but in order to do that, he’d have to tell the cops that he was in a notorious S&M dungeon at 2 AM snorting cocaine with a dominatrix half his age.  Yeah, I bet his girlfriend/wife/children/boss/parents would love that one. That would be a fun story to tell at Thanksgiving for many years to come!

       There was nothing he could do.  He ranted and raved, but in the end, he walked.  

       I feel badly for him.  He really got screwed.  It’s not fair.

       Management threw out Audrey the same night.  She’s independent now, but I don’t expect her to last.  She’s a terrible domme.  Youth and looks can get you a long way in the sex industry, but they are not enough to maintain success.  She is too stupid to experience the emotional wear and tear that more sensitive, thoughtful individuals endure, which is to her benefit…but that stupidity is dangerous and extremely unattractive to most men.  

      Nobody sees her a second time.

                       *                         *                  *                     * 

 This client was so interesting and generous that I simply have to write about him…

      He was part of my birthday-week succession of great new clients, and he was the best of the lot.  I believe that he intends to see me again, and I hope that he does, but I’d count myself lucky to have only met him one time.  

     He contacted me through my ad.  Immediate positive impression: the letter was cordial, clear, professional, and brief.  We went back and forth two or three times.  I answered a few questions for him.  He agreed to my limits and my fee and passed my screening check.  We made an appointment.  Nothing to it.  God, I wish they were all so easy.  He even requested that I not wear makeup (or, in gracious fashion, “I ask that you wear as little as you personally feel comfortable with.”), which is almost unheard of (I know, I know, it’s part of the job, I’m not complaining, I accept that, and I wear some makeup everyday, anyway, but...every day that I work in this industry, it’s like getting ready for a really impressive Saturday-night date.  The grooming!  Arrrgh!  Do you know how many hairdryers I’ve burned out in the last year?  How many cans of “root-boosting mousse” I’ve gone through?  The eyebrow waxing?  And it feels like I’m doing my nails all the time!).  

       But I digress…

       So, I showed up at his building, fresh-faced, briefcase o’ swag in hand.

       The doorman rang me up.

       Now, his email said that we were going to meet in his “loft.”  I naively assumed that it would be a loft-style apartment, like a big open studio with high ceilings.   I didn’t actually think it would be a loft  until the elevator stopped at…

        ….a door.  One, single door.

        Weird! I thought.  Does he have the whole floor…?

         The door opened, and I was greeted by a small, slim, fastidious gent with blond hair and cobalt blue eyes.  He invited me inside.  

        My host did indeed have the whole floor.  It was huge.  Huge.  It was also beautiful–it was decorated in a way that I might decorate my apartment, had I the means to do so.  There was lots of molding around the ceiling and dark recessed wooden bookcases and big windows which let in sunlight and provided views of the park across the street.  Wooden floors.  

       And art.  Art on shelves.  Art on walls.  Not the worthless reproductions of priceless works of art that decorate Margo Manor. 

       He hanged up my coat.  I watched him as he put it in the closet.  His clothing was simultaneously beautiful and strange–almost costume-ish.  He was wearing slippers that looked like shoes, except that they were velvet and had a monogram on them.  He was wearing a nice shirt and a cravat (I swear to God that I am not making this up).  He had to be about 60 years old–probably older–but he moved very well.  Good figure.  His hair was still mostly blond–sun blond, golden.  

      His most attractive feature was his eyes, though.  They were small and heavy-lidded, but very bright and very, very blue.  Like Peter O’Toole’s in Lawrence of Arabia. 

      (BTW: this man had to be a knockout–a stone fox–twenty years ago.  By my standards, at least.)

        He asked me if I would like anything to drink.  I said that I’d love a glass of water.  

        He rinsed a glass and poured some for me.  He said that he’d just come back to town.  

         I asked him where he was from.

         “Where do you think?” he asked.

         “I considered Holland, but your accent isn’t Dutch.  Are you a Dane?”

         He came from the kitchen, carrying my glass of water.  “Well, that is a first!  Miss Adler!  Yes, I flew from Copenhagen.”

         Miss Margo Christens thee: Fortinbras (and yeah, I know Fortinbras is not a Dane.  He assumed the throne after the death of Hamlet, though, so the name is good enough for Government work).  

         Fortinbras said, “I noticed you were looking at my painting!”  Then he proceeded to tell me what he enjoyed about it.  I can’t give details because it would be distinguishing information, but I can say that we chatted back and forth about the artists who inspired the work for several minutes.  

         Fortinbras decided to give me an art tour of his apartment.

        Dude had great art.  Most of it was too abstract for my taste, but I know enough about art to recognize the work of prominent artists.  Fortinbras had quite a collection. 

       It must have taken about an hour.  I hadn’t even thought to start charging him for my time yet.  I was just happy to be there.  Happy to be enjoying the experience.  It’s a special occasion for me to be around things like this. I appreciate hanging out with people like Fortinbras from time to time.  It’s like visiting Mars.  It’s fun.  Makes the job more worthwhile, if you know what I mean.  What am I doing this for (aside from $$$)…?  Experience and adventure, amirite?  

      “What a treat you are, Miss Adler!” he pronounced.  What a smooth talker.  Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Fortinbras!  “I was not expecting this when I wrote to you!  Look, I’m hungry–I will not eat the airplane food.  How much would you charge to stay an extra hour and dine with me?  Are you hungry?”

       “Uhhh….”  I drifted off.  Clients have paid me to eat with them on several occasions…always in advance.  Sometimes it’s fun, and sometimes it’s a chore.  Dining with Fortinbras, though, was definitely no chore.  I was having a fine time and didn’t have anything else planned for the rest of the night.  

          “A hundred  fifty dollars…?” I suggested.  That is only a fraction of my fee for professional masochism…but really, how much could I charge someone just to hang out with me while we ate dinner?  What was I supposed to say?  “Fortinbras!  $350/hour to talk to me while I sit in your gorgeous loft, eat your superior food, and listen to your excellent conversation!”  I mean, FFS.  

        “That is far too little.  I’ll pay your hourly fee, is that all right?”

       “Uhhh…sure.”  Only if you twist my arm, right?

       “Excellent!  To the kitchen!”

        Fortinbras cooked us dinner.  He had a beautiful stove and beautiful heavy copper-bottomed cookware.  All the cooking utensils had considerable heft. He had many rare spices that I never see at my local grocery store.  

       He prepared salmon and exotic mushrooms.  It was a lot of fun watching him chop the food and fillet the fish–he was good with the knife.  Very fast.  

       “I like to cook!” he said.  Haahahahahahah!

       I helped him set the table.  There were long white candles which were arranged at different lengths.  I guess that is so that the light can illuminate the table to its best aesthetic advantage. 

       We ate dinner.  It was delicious.  He was a fascinating conversationalist.  He asked me questions about my intellectual interests.  He seemed very interested in me, which was flattering.  Of course, I don’t trust clients (especially after the Mathematician), but it was still nice.  If he was faking it, he’s a good faker…but I don’t see why he’d be faking.  Who would pay to eat dinner with someone they didn’t want to eat dinner with?  He could have hired me to meet his needs and seen me to the door within the first hour.  I think that it is fair to say that he kept me around because he enjoyed having me there.  

       We talked about Europe.  He told me about himself and his family.  

       Fortinbras is extremely intelligent.  He reminded me of Hannibal Lecter, except that he wasn’t, you know, a serial killer.  He is very cultured and well-educated.  He knew about politics, law, economics, and history.  IQ had to be in the stratosphere.  In fact, I think he’s one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, and I’ve been around many exceptionally bright individuals.  He was more intelligent than most of the professors I’ve had.  I was very impressed with him.  

        I went to clear the dishes, but he told me not to worry about it. 

        It was time for the session.

        I laid out the content of my bag and asked him how he would like to begin.  

        I can’t get into the particulars–that would be an invasion of his privacy.  I can tell you that he turned on, and it was like watching a deer or rabbit sprout fangs and go on a rampage.  He attacked me like a shark.  It was startling.  I never would have guessed that he had it in him!  I thought it was going to be an easy, snoozer-type spanky-spanky session!  NOPE!

        Jesus, I thought.  This guy must have been hell on wheels when he was my age.  

        He actually bit me a few times.  The marks were gone the next day, but he bit me pretty hard.  Nobody’s bitten me since the Surgeon. 

       He had a huge flogger–very supple, Elk skin, with dozens and dozens of tails.  It weighed a ton.  Despite its softness, it was an absolute bone-cruncher.  I’ve never experienced anything like it.  It landed on me like a ton of bricks.    

        I was frightened for a few seconds.  I admit it.  It was like being caught in an unexpected tornado.  I wasn’t anywhere near scared enough to call it off…but I was afraid.  The man was ferocious.  Absolutely ferocious.  

          Then it was all over.

         He brought me a glass of water, and we talked for twenty minutes.  Then I got dressed and he escorted me to the elevator.  I grabbed a cab home.

          Before I got into the elevator, he passed me a card.  I opened it inside the cab.

         It was a thank-you card with $1000 inside.  A THANK-YOU CARD!

         Thank YOU, Fortinbras!  The pleasure was all mine.  My family would buy you a thank-you card if they could, because I used that money to buy a flight home and get roses for my mother for Mother’s Day.  

      Sometimes this job is awesome.