Return of the Vermin: Dying Mouse

    I saw a mouse out of the corner of my eye the other night, so I put down new traps: poison.  Poison bait.

    This morning, I found a tiny mouse writhing on my hardwood floor.  Its body is no bigger than a quarter.  Maybe even a nickle. 

     I don’t want to smash it.  I emptied my hospital fish tank and cleaned it and put the little mouse in there.  It’s still alive, but not ambulatory.  The pathetic occasional squeak evokes compassion within me.

     Fuck me!  What did I do to it…?  This poison is bad!  I thought it would kill right away!

     I shall cut it a bargain: if it lives, I will name it and keep it for a pet.  A pampered housepet mouse.  I’ll buy it a running wheel and take it to the exotic vet for a checkup and all that shit.  It will have a good mouse life.

     P.S. How am I going to get rid of the vermin?  They go away, but then they pop up.  I keep a clean house–not hospital-sterile like my mother, but pretty clean.  I change the birds’ paper twice a day and do a deep cleaning of their cages twice a week.  

Reader Mailbag: Hard Limits and Suspension

Update:  The previous post about the Bad Client to Avoid received a lot of hits (well, by my humble blog standards).  If you’re linking to it, please continue.  This man is BAD NEWS.     

 “Do you do suspension?”
                          –random internet stranger

       Where the heck are all you new people coming from?  I’m very flattered that you like my blog enough to read it and ask questions, but I can’t figure out where all this new traffic is coming from.

      What do you mean, exactly?  Do you mean, can I rig it?  Or do I enjoy being in it?

     Both, actually, although my rigging skills are rudimentary and I do western bondage instead of shibari.  I can get you up there, though.  The skill fascinates me and I’d love to become more proficient, but there’s not much motivation to pursue it professionally because clients almost never ask for it.  They’re on the clock, you see, and intricate bondage takes time; cuffs or police restraints are much faster.  Furthermore, the rope fetishists seem to seek out prodommes who specialize in that (I’ve heard from three gentlemen in the last month who’ve seen Troy Orleans, and they rave about her). 

      Recently, I’ve learned rope skills from Erin Houdini (isn’t that a great stage name?).  Highly recommended, and her instruction is affordable. 

     I enjoy being in rope and I like suspensions.  Heinrich put me in partial and full inversions over Abduction Weekend.  He was impressed with my stamina, which is a huge compliment, coming from him (he’s very experienced).  Hard bondage like that is challenging, though.  It gets serious in a hurry.  Oh wow, does it hurt.  The key, I find, is relaxing into it.  I try to imagine myself as a bean bag collapsing into the rope.  

      “Do you have a professional website where I could contact you?”
                                                  –Random Internet Stranger

      I sincerely appreciate it, and lord knows I’d like the business, but…if I had a website, I wouldn’t tell you about it. 

     A session request would have to be very lucrative for me to accept from a (known) reader of my blog.  It’s not out of the question, but my policy is not to meet clients that are blog readers.  My blog content is diverse in scope, but much of it is extremely intimate, which makes me feel, perhaps incorrectly, that clients I’d meet through here have a higher potential to be…well, stalker-ey.  Nor do I want anyone to associate this blog with my face.  That would be a security breech.

     There’s also a pretty serious information asymmetry involved in meeting a blog reader, and that makes me uncomfortable. 

       I’m happy to meet women (for friendship)!

      “Have you been married?”

       Nope.  Not even close.  Been proposed to twice, though. 

      “What are your hard limits?”

       As a top: I really don’t care for medical play.  I can do some of it, but it’s not my thing.  

       I will say, though, that I was amazed by the power rush I experienced when I catheterized someone for the first time.  It made me feel very powerful.  I never saw it coming.  I’m feeling tingly right now just thinking of it.  

      That is probably what the Surgeon feels when he opens up bodies.  He loves to operate.  Loves it.  And he’s very good. 

      I can’t do racial or religious humiliation.  I’m too much of a polite guilty liberal, I guess.  I won’t pretend to be a Nazi or white supremacist.  I seldom allow any form of body worship aside from my feet because it feels too intimate and I don’t like to be touched by strangers.  There are exceptions, though.  If a client is cool and trust has been established, I can be more generous in that regard. 

      I don’t care for tease-and-denial with a man off the street.  I suck at it.  I’m not naturally flirtatious.  I’m very up-front, and if I want a man, I just tell him that.  And…it feels degrading to me to pretend to be crazy attracted to a man if I’m really not.  I can be sweet and friendly but I can’t stand coming on hard to men I’m not honestly attracted to.  That’s one reason why the prospect of stripping last summer, when I was financially desperate, stressed me out so badly.  Because that’s what strippers so: exhibitionism, tease and denial, and emotional management of drunk men.  And pretending that they enjoy getting sexually harassed.  SOUNDS LIKE FUN! WHERE CAN I SIGN UP? barf barf barf barf.  God, my stripper sisters, you earn every time…

     I am not an exhibitionist.  Any public play must be very discreet.  Shoe shopping or clothes/lingerie shopping is fun, though.  And I like going to dinner and having something divine to eat, and making the man eat toast.  Ha!  And then the waiter (it’s best if the server is a man) brings the check and presents it to the man, and I snatch it up and say, “I’ll take that!  I don’t let him have any money.”  Ha!

     I won’t force-feed anyone.  That makes me feel very emotionally unwell. 

    Incest role-play.  Won’t do that.  Age play, likewise.

    I don’t do breath play professionally, but I do like it in personal relationships.  

    I’ll keep my hard limits as a sub to myself.  That’s very private. 

Ladies: Avoid This Man

     I can’t sleep.  

      Listen to me: if you are a professional switch or submissive woman, or even a non-professional switch or submissive woman in the Tri-State area, and you are reading this, you need to email me to find out how to avoid this man.

     You’ll never guess the blast from the past making the rounds here at Margo Manor…

       The Attorney.  Remember him?

       A woman approached me at work.  Her eyes were wet.  She looked scared.

       “Do you know (Attorney’s real name)?  He knows you.”

        I pulled her into one of the back rooms so that we could talk privately. 

      She sessioned with him.  A submissive session.  Outside of the Studio.  And he told her alllllll about me. 

      Why would he tell her about me, a year and a half later…?

      Apparently, I made quite an impression on him.  

      That’s okay.  He left am impression on me.  All kinds of impressions.  

      He made an impression on this woman, too. 

      He didn’t hurt her as badly as he hurt me.  She’s not a masochist.  Couldn’t take it.  But he rode her as hard as he possibly could.  She claims that she was sobbing and screaming at the end.  

      This woman is not a wimp.  She is a MMA fighter. 

     “He’s insane!  He’s like Patrick Bateman!  Right down to his suit and briefcase!”


      “And his stare!  His awful stare!”

      Yes.  The psychopath stare.  I’ll never forget it. 

       “He was like Ted Bundy!”


       This woman started to shake.  She started to cry.

      “He is terrifying,” I said.  “I’ve never met anyone like him.”  

      “He asked about you!” she said.

       “I believe it,” I said.  Otherwise, how would she know I ever met him?

      “I thought he could kill me!” she wailed. 

      “He could, but he won’t.  He’s too controlled.  Look at his professional success.  He can pull it together; pass himself off as normal.  He runs cold.  Not hot.”

        “I can’t do sub sessions anymore.  I can’t risk something like that happening again,” she said.  

          I’m telling you: the woman was terrified recounting this to me.  Pupils dilated, skin white.  And this was a week after the session.  She was traumatized.  

        “How long did it take you to heal?” I asked.

         “I still have marks, but they’re mostly gone now.  My MMA sensei at the dojo saw them and couldn’t believe it.  I told him that I fell down the stairs,” she said.

         He marked me for a month.  A month.  And his technical skill was incredible.  I’ve never seen someone so proficient with the tools.

        And how do you get proficient…?

        You practice.

        This man has hurt many, many women.  

        As I am typing this, the emotion that I feel is rank terror.  The hair on my arms is standing up.  I can’t sleep.  

        Do you want to know more?  Come sit on mommy’s lap.  I have a bedtime story for you…

        The Attorney told me that one time he flew from NYC to Little Rock, Arkansas to meet a woman he met online.  A submissive.  Not a professional. 

        He beat her in her ranch house.  It was all pre-arranged.  He’d made a special box for bastinado.  Constructed it in his garage.  A little weekend carpentry, ha ha.  The people at airport security took it out of his luggage and couldn’t figure out what it was, he said, laughing.  Like it was a joke.

        He beat this woman, drove back to the airport, and flew back home.  He flew halfway across the United States to torture someone.

         “And his wedding ring!  He didn’t even take it off for the session!” said the woman at the studio.  “I was screaming!  He shattered a yardstick on me!”

        Yes indeed.  He’s married.  Someone married him.  

        Probably a woman just like me.  

         I wonder what he does to her.

         Listen to me: if you are a woman reading this and you are dating or sessioning with dominant men/male Tops in the Tri-state area, you need to email me.  I will tell you how to identify and avoid this man.  I don’t have his last name…but I know enough to tell you how to spot him.

         He is a killer.  A stone cold killer.  And once he’s done with you, you’ll never forget it.  I had three meetings with him, and I still think about him every day of my life.  I’ve had a million clients, and I remember him the best. He is a predator, and cold like an insect or the inside of a refrigerator.  

         Oh, one more thing: the first time he hired me, he hired me as a domme.  There isn’t a submissive bone in his body, but he is a masochist, and when he takes it, you can’t hit him hard enough.  

       He has hounded me across the internet ever since I cut off contact with him. CollarMe, Fetlife, every ad I posted.  It is probable that he is reading this.  If he is, I’m sure that he’s smiling and jerking off.  All of those delicious memories, amirite?  It’s fun to scare girls, amirite?

       Do you know what he wrote to me after “The pizza was fantastic!” that served, like a bucket of icewater in my face, to wake me up, and see him for what he was (though a woman who was not fucked up would have recognized him right away)?

      “If you want to serve me, this is your assignment: think of the worst possible punishment you could administer to another female.  Describe it.  Blow by blow.  Implements used.  If it pleases me, I will do it to you.” 

         Escorts probably don’t have to worry about him.  He’s not interested in sex, though he can orgasm.  He is obsessed with violence.  

        He’s out there, ladies, and he’s young, so he’s going to be doing this for a long, long time.  Email me, and I’ll tell you how to steer clear of him.  
       If you want a little walk down memory lane, click his tag label.

       I’d post more photos of the marks he left on me–the photos would turn your hair white–but he has copies of the pictures and if he’s not reading this, I don’t want him to find me via a google images search.  Just fucking trust me.  

      P.S.  And you know what else sucks?  It sucks that I can’t go to the police and mention this to them.  I wouldn’t try to get him arrested, because he didn’t do anything wrong to me, other than humiliate me a bit when he rejection and pizza quip.  Everything he did to me was consensual.  But…it would be good if he was on the police’s radar.  I wouldn’t have to convince them of anything.  The photos of my injuries would speak for themselves.   It was epic.  Truly. 

But I can’t do that, because I’m a sex worker.  

I can’t believe I emailed him photos of my mangled hide.  He loved them.  Torture porn.  I’m sure he’s got quite the collection.  He hangs out on some dark corners of the internet.  

Reader Mailbag: Favorite Tools and Amazon Shopping List

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“What are your favorite toys?”
                            –Random Internet Stranger

To use or to receive…? 

     I don’t call them “toys”, I’m too serious-minded.  I call them tools or implements.  

    I like to use my hands.  The touch is very intimate.  Grind, pinch, poke, probe, slap, punch.  Dig my thumbs into pressure points.  Pressure, the application of pressure…

     On that note: there is something very fun and exciting about pinning a man with my weight.  I have no idea what, aside from the symbolism, but it feels good.  I like to curl up astride his chest like a cat who’s going to steal his soul, and get some good eye contact. 

     I like the belt and the cane.   The Dread Wooden Hairbrush of Doom adds a feminine element to the beating.  I  like to do that whilst wearing a satin nightie and short robe, in front of my vanity with all the mysterious feminine potions–makeup, perfume–on the counter. I would never hit a child, but I would hit you.

      I like wooden tools. 

      I’m not big into floggers unless they are very, very heavy.  A soft but very heavy flogger made from elk suede is a bone cruncher and produces tremendous sensation without much tissue damage.  One of my clients, Fortinbras, has such a flogger.  I’ve never felt anything like it.

       I like asphixiation.  It’s one of the only fetishes I have that I feel guilty about, because I know it’s dangerous and stupid as hell.  FWIW, I never do it when I’m alone, and I refuse to do it with clients.  And yes, it kills brain cells.  But damn if it doesn’t feel good. 

       When I receive, I prefer to take the violence on my upper back.  That is my favorite place to be hit.  Most people prefer the buttocks, but not me. 

      I like to use clothespins, binder clips, and plastic claw-clips for hairdos.  This is sort of weird because I personally hate crushing sensations.  But damned if they aren’t fun to use on men. 

     Clothes: boots and leather and metal.  Or old-fashioned lingerie. I am definitely a leather domme rather than a latex domme.  

      I like rope. 

     “Why don’t you have an Amazon Wishlist?”
                                               –the Same Random Internet Stranger

       I’m too modest to ask strangers to buy me stuff.  Also, if you are an asshole, gift-giving is a form of bribery and emotional manipulation.  My restraining-order Ex, John, would bully me with money all the time. 

       I am not accusing you of being an asshole.  I’m just saying that I’m skeptical of getting something for nothing.  But then, I write this blog for free and 8 people read it, so there you go.

      My domme friend, Mistress C, says that I am a “fucking retard” for not making men buy me stuff, but for some reason this feels degrading to me. I cannot tell you why it feels degrading.  Is it because I am allergic to entitlement?  Or do I have proper perspectives reversed in my head?

     I can tell you about stuff that actually IS on my (private) Amazon shopping list:
     Rome: A Cultural, Visual, and Personal History, by Robert Hughes.


    American Police Equipment: A Guide to Early Restraints, Clubs, and Lanterns, by Matthew G. Forte

       Spyderco Delica 4 Folding Plain Edge FRN Knife

    Initial Letter M 14K Yellow Gold Disk Pendant Necklace


Posters of the WPA


On Blowing It; or: Coyote on the Subway

    I saw him immediately when I entered the subway train at Herald Square.  He was tall–taller than I usually like my men–and lean.  He was wearing a bright blue shirt and gray slacks.  Silver necktie.  He had thick, straight ash-blonde hair that was long-ish on top and cut down to a buzz on the sides.  It looked like a vintage military hairdo.  

     The hair was shot through with silver.  Just a bit.  Very light.  Almost white.

     His face was bony.  Blue eyes.  I can’t describe it.  Not conventionally handsome, but compelling.  He looked a bit like Lance Armstrong.  He looked a bit like Heinrich.  

      Like my mother.

      He was carrying an old-fashioned leather satchel.  He opened it and took out a weirdly-shaped pad of paper.  It was very long.  Had to be some sort of special tablet–it has squares on it, like graphing paper.  

       His hands were long and spindly.  Downed with yellow hair.  They looked strong.  He reminded me of a wolf. A coyote. And he had that look, that special demeanor, that all the men I’ve ever loved have had.  A crispness to him.  Meticulous.  Fastidious. 

      I pictured his hands around my throat in the darkest hour of night.  

      I stared at him all the way to the 4th Street station.  I could see people watching me stare at him, and I didn’t care.  

     He met my eyes once.  I was afraid to be rude, so I dropped my gaze, but my heart was pounding so hard!

      You have to get this guy, I thought.  Pick him up. 

      I’ve picked up men on the train before.  Several times.  But the last one was years ago…Jeff, the Machinist.  

      Fucking approach him.  Just approach him and make conversation.  Ask him about his strange writing tablet. Is he an architect?  Or even just say, flat out: “I am very attracted to you.  Are you attached?  May I give you my contact information?”  

   Because I’ve done that before, with excellent results. Men act startled when I hit on them, but they never tell me no unless they are in a relationship and monogamous.  

    My friends, I couldn’t do it.  Why not?  Usually, I’m fearless with men. And I was well-dressed and looking good, too! I was wearing my pretty black lace dress and had nice makeup on, and my hair was down.  It’s true that I’m sort of a fatass now at 128 lbs, but most dudes don’t see that…only mean ones like the Surgeon. 

     He tucked his special pad of paper back into his bag and left at 4th Street.  

     He stared at me through the glass as the door closed and the train moved away. 

     I blew it.  I totally blew it.  

     I’m gonna ride the same train tomorrow, though and see if he’s there.

Skool Makes You Sooper Smartt: Please Pass the Hemlock

   I love Happy Bunny!

   I tell my students that I am happy to meet with them and help them work on their essays prior to turning them in (they take me up on this offer maybe once or twice a semester).  

    Well, this morning some twit had the nerve to email his paper to me as an attachment and write “Please edit this and correct spelling errors by Thursday.  Thanks.”

    I went to college for 11 years for this.

     My students have many issues which impede their academic success.  Privilege and entitlement are seldom among them.  I teach my people: the working class and middling bright. They are rude, but not like this.  This is the sort of thing I’d expect from a frat boy at my first school.  

     I’m not going to respond until I’ve cooled off.  He needs to be put in his place, but I can’t be too snide or abrasive.  It’s unprofessional and an abuse of authority to treat students with disrespect, however much they deserve it sometimes.  

     Must.  Calm.  Down.  SERENITY NOW!  I’ll go get Parrot and put her on my desk.  She always makes me feel better.


          These people have the cutest Indian Ringneck parrot in the world.  

       One of my readers, Mike, identified the uniforms in the previous blog post as being from the film War Horse, set in World War I.  

       My opinion is that the movie generally sucked–Spielberg is very emotionally manipulative and sentimental, though he has produced some excellent work–but there was one great scene that justified the price of admission: the horse running through the trenches. 

       I’ve never seen anything like it.

      Note, in the beginning, the juxtaposition between the horse and the tank.  The horse is the only life, surrounded by all that metal.  It’s like when John Steinbeck describes the tractor and the tractor-driver as being all armor and metal before it bulldozes down a hour in opening pages of The Grapes of Wrath. 

      We empathize with the horse because he becomes the avatar for the plight of the soldiers. 

      I also found this scene, which is beautiful to look at but seems unrealistic to me.  I understand the decision to not show the carnage and dead screaming horses flopping all of the ground…but would they really attack the German camp with swords?  In that day and age?  I thought they phased that shit out before the Revolutionary War.  

     When did rich dudes who could afford it stop learning fencing and swordsmanship?  

     I’ll look that up today. 

      And check out this time capsule!  God, the footage!  

    This lucky man has the most beautiful husky dogs in the world and his house and kid are pretty awesome, too.  I watch all of his YouTube videos with an odd mixture of joy and grating envy.  I wish I was there and playing with his dogs and he was making me pancakes!  Why can’t I be normal like that?

Reader Mailbag: Subs with Low Pain Tolerance

    School’s back in session, and Instructor Adler is back on my beloved overhead projector.  I think I ought to give it a name.  

     At least I don’t have to make new transparencies, or even notes, though I have tweaked the syllabus in order to improve the quality of my instruction.

     Since I am feeling professorial and am, in fact, wearing a tweed blazer with suede elbow patches even as I write this, I will impart pearls of wisdom (and you know I’m being sarcastic, right?).

      “I am a male submissive with very low pain tolerance and I am concerned that for this reason I will never be able to serve a domme.  Would my intense dislike of pain disqualify me from serving you?” 

      Yes.  A personal sub who would not suffer for me would be useless to me.  

      But, different strokes for different folks.  There are tops out there who are not sadistic and who would be happy to control you or use you for a purpose other than suffering.  I’m not sure what corner of the internet you would find them, though, because I’ve never looked for them.  The reason I identify primarily as a sadomasochist, rather than a switch or domme or D/s person, is because my private sexuality is experienced through pain, suffering, and violence, be it physical or psychological.  That is why I sometimes refer to it as the practice of oppression.  I don’t fuck around.  

      I also  call it sadomasochism because I believe the term is historically and psychologically accurate, and because it has fallen out of favor in the BDSM “community.”  A lot of people in the community think it is threatening, or alienating, or derogatory.  Well, news flash: look where you are.   I’m not going to use euphemisms in an effort to sanitize what I do.  I own it.  It gives me joy and gratification and it is a craft and an obsession, but I know what it is, and it’s not pretty. 

      But getting back to you, anonymous submissive male on the internet: you could serve a woman in other ways.  I’m not sure what you’re good for, or good at, because you didn’t give me that information.  

      Get onto Fetlife and start digging.  And I should take my own advice on that one and reactivate my account, but I find the very notion exhausting.  

     Finally: do you have any real experience?  Because I find that often when a sub says he has low pain tolerance, what he really means is that he has low fear tolerance, and even the idea of pain–in its abstract form–is what terrifies him.  I also associate this with lacking confidence in himself and his ability to endure pain and get through it or overcome it.  Perhaps you are afraid of pain because you think you will fail.  

      If that’s the case, not just that you hate physical sensation, then you need to work on it, because I can promise you this much: nobody wants a wussy sub.  The most sissified cross dresser serving High Tea in a bonnet is going balls-out, so I don’t mean wussy that way.  I mean wussy as in weak in fortitude and courage.  Wussy subs and Tops with confidence issues are useless.  You can’t do anything with them until they get a grip.  

       You can find a domme who won’t want to hurt you, but you’re going to be enduring something for her, whether its doing all her errands while she ignores you and you’re bored, or giving her all of your money, or blowing another one of her slaves, or whatever the hell it is that these mysterious non-violent women do with their subs.  She’s going to want to push you, and you have to be ready for that.  That’s power exchange.  You have to give her something.  

      Finally: I will not invalidate your understanding of yourself and your pain tolerance, but if you’re new at this, be open to giving some of the physical activities a shot.  Pain has many varieties and subtle variations, almost like different keys on a piano.  Also, some of the “torture” you see in BDSM videos really doesn’t hurt much at all, it just looks scary as hell.  So don’t be a ‘Fraidy Cat.  

      And a change in mindset might help you, too.  Pain is not necessarily bad.  Like suffering, it can be transformative.  Enduring it for another person is a profoundly intimate experience. Emotionally, there’s nothing like it that I have ever experienced.  Nothing else even comes close.   Maybe love does, but I don’t know a lot about that.  

       And with that, I’m going to go take a beating and endure a bunch of bureaucratic horseshit at the personnel office.  They fucked up my direct deposit and I’ve got to get it straightened out.

      Good luck.  Play hard.  Stay safe. 

      P.S.  You can serve a domina whenever you like if you are willing or able to see a pro.  Try it and if you have a bad first experience, shop around.

     P.P.S.  You know, some of my readers are submissive guys.  Let’s outsource this.  Do any of you have anything to share with this dude?  Know where he can find a no-pain Domme?  Give him some hope that he won’t be stuck in the Lonelyhearts Sub Club.  Hell, give ME some hope that I won’t be stuck in the Lonelyhearts Sub Club! 

        Advo made it out.  Maybe he can smuggle a word to us from the outside world. 

Men Glorious Men

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     Did you know that you can find pictures of everything on tumblr…?  Everything!  Everything!  I could waste the rest of my life there looking at photos of attractive older men (FYI: I went out with my girlfriends the other night.  When the talk invariably turned to men, we conducted a little informal poll.  Guess who’d been with the oldest man?  If I don’t date someone younger next time, they’re going to stage an intervention for me).

This blog needs an Imaginary Boyfriend update.  Exactly what my 8 readers, all of whom are dudes, really want, I’m sure.  

A man reading, with a pocket puppy.  Ooo-la-la!  If I was dictator of the universe, all men would carry pocket puppies!  The world would be perfect! 

What is that thing the kitten is sitting on?  And the pipe makes it for me. lol.

Hello, beautiful creature!  For once, a man with a camera who doesn’t piss me off. 

     This one has nice soft eyes that I find very attractive…

soft eyes

   Freckles!  He is sort of young, but whatever. I would eat him like the cookie monster.  nom nom NOM!

nom nom NOM

     This one is an fencer who competed in the Olympics.  Just kill me now and get it over with. 

COWBOYS!  I’d never marry one because that would necessitate living in the country, but damned if a lot of them aren’t beautiful, and they are tough

lord have mercy

Isn’t this illustration beautiful?  You can click to enlarge.

beautiful illustration

looks a bit like my Dad

     I’m not huge into uniforms, but look at these!  They look kinda fussy to be practical.  I like the colors and leather bits, though.  Can anyone identify them for me?  Are they authentic, like from a time period?  Turn of the century, or maybe WWI?  Obviously the photo itself is contemporary.  I’m just wondering about the clothes. 

It looks English to me for some reason.  Maybe this is what they wore when they were busy oppressing Kenyans.  

Don’t waste that crop on a horse!  Beat Miss Margo with it instead!  PLEEZE!

     Here, I’ll post this one for the dudes.  If you got down to the bottom of this idiotic post, you deserve something, and I found this kinda Femdomme-ey.  These ladies are beautiful, and check out those boots!

     If you don’t find them sufficiently intimidating, just think: every last one of them is coming for your JOB.  And we could end illegal immigration tomorrow if we posted those babes at the border.  Hell, maybe we could hire them!

     God, I wish I could get my mitts on one of those uniforms.  I could wear it at the Studio and make a mint.  

P.S.  Military parades freak me the fuck out.  Like, yikes.  But I bet this part–with the female soldiers–was the crowd’s favorite part of the whole parade, lol.  

Syncronizing Metronomes

    Can anyone literate in physics explain this to me?  The metronomes are sitting on a moveable table–you can see it start to swing.  I guess the table allows for the transference of kinetic energy.  But how do they all synch up?

     On the YouTube video, one commenter, SenatorT1, explains it thusly:

Like neighboring guitar strings, the vibrations´╗┐ of one oscillator radiates mechanical energy because of the loose coupling of the base board. Leading oscillators tend to be held back by lagging neighbors, and energy equalizes amongst them until all are in perfect synchrony where the exchange stops and no further transfer one way or the other occurs because they are all in sync.

Basic physics at work.

       I don’t understand why the leading oscillators are held back by lagging neighbors!  Why?  Is it the drive towards inertia?

       I found this video linked on Maggie McNeil’s blog.  

           Science is awesome!

Reader Mailbag

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“Who are Jim and Peter?  Did the Surgeon know about them?”
                                                      –random internet stranger

   Jim and Peter were two guys I met off of craigslist.  I hit the jackpot with those two.  Really fun, respectful, attractive men.  Prior to Abduction Weekend, it was the only time I’d been with two men.  If any women are reading this, I highly recommend tying the experience at least once before you die.  It doesn’t get much more fun.  

The Surgeon did not know.  We were not monogamous, but when I dated around I was always very discreet about it, and I always gave the Surgeon priority.  If he wanted to know who I was seeing, I’d tell him. He was tolerant as long as I didn’t get emotionally attached to anyone else.  

“Have you ever shot porn?  Would you like to?”
                                             –random internet stranger

Are you offering me a job?  

Interestingly, I took offense at this question, which makes me a huge hypocrite.  I guess I ought to think about that.

No, I’ve never shot porn and I do not intend to do so.  That said, I spent a few years being a drunken slut in New York City.  I had a few hookups that I would not have had sober.  Since every woman I’ve ever talked to about this has been filmed or photographed without her consent, there is no doubt in my mind that naked photos of me exist on some douchebag’s hard drive.  I let an ex boyfriend take topless photos of me once.  Before I broke up with him, I stole them back, along with the film negatives, because while he was a decent person, I know how men are.  

I cannot for the life of me understand the allure of 95% of most porn to women.  If you’re willing to get paid for sex, you could just escort and keep your privacy.  Porn seems like a hell of a lot of work and frankly the industry is disgusting.

I do like James Mogul’s work.  There’s nothing like it.  He’s an amazing Top. I would offer to serve him in a heartbeat, but there’s no way I could do it without destroying my life.  I must be content myself with living vicariously through the other lucky girls. 

Oh…my vadge has been published in a prominent medical journal.  It was a pretty epic hoax.  My therapist found it to be appalling, but I still think it’s funny as hell.  I’ll let you speculate on how it got there.   

“What does your apartment look like?  What neighborhood are you in?”
                                  –Creepy Internet Stranger

What a nice place for a cage! But how frustrating to not be able to reach the books.
I am not the model, lol

   I’m close to Tompkins Square Park.  I LOVE my neighborhood. 
“Were you abused as a child?”
                           –Creepy Internet Stranger

      Normally I wouldn’t answer this question because it’s nobody’s business whether I was or not.  But since I invited the questions, I’ll tell you.  The answer is yes, and there is no doubt in my mind that it made me kinky.  I cannot speak for other pervs.  YMMV.  

      My parents were both controlling and critical, with very distorted boundaries.  My mother is a productive citizen.  My father is pretty fucked up and I’m sure that he’d be serving life in a Supermax somewhere if he was slightly less intelligent.  He still might get there someday.  

       I was not molested, however, which is probably what you infer by “abuse.”  

“Have you ever hurt someone when you screwed up at work?”

      Actually, I’ve hurt my students feelings a few times by being a sarcastic, insensitive asshole.  I’ve said something cutting to them on a handful of occasions, and I’ll never forgive myself for it.  Other grad students/colleagues are fair game in an intellectual argument–I live for that blood sport–but it is never acceptable for a teacher to mock or humiliate a student.  

       If you mean at my secret job: no.  I minimize the potential for injury but not doing dangerous things or things that I don’t know how to do.  The only thing that gets hurt when I fuck up is my dignity.  For instance, hitting my head on a bondage table as I’m crawling around it in the dark trying to tie up a guy.  WHACK, slamming my noggin on the wood.  Yeah, domme FAIL.  The worst part is when the guy winces and asks me if I’m okay.  

     Another one is tying his hands together before I get his shirt off.  Then I gotta go back and untie him to get his t-shirt off and he’s looking like Cornholio, lol.

       I also found an awesome photo.  Wow, I wish that was me.  My dating life really sucked this summer, and this little walk down memory lane just served to remind me of all the action I haven’t been getting.  Nobody to blame but myself, though.