Margo Gets the Job

      I called him after I checked into my hotel room.

      “The eagle has landed!  I repeat, the eagle has landed!” I said, sotto voce.

      He laughed.  “That’s great!  Want to meet me in my room in half an hour?”

       “Which hotel are you at?”

       “Wait, aren’t you at my hotel?”

       “Nope.  I’m at (vastly inferior hotel).”

       “What the hell are you doing there?”

        “I was trying to save money.”  

        I was true.  I’d planned the trip as cheaply as possible so that I’d have a few hundred dollars left over out of the $1200 he’d given me. 

          “I want you to check out of that place and come over here.  It’ll be more convenient for us.”

        “But I booked the entire package through Expedia.  It’s pre-paid.  If I check out of here, I’ll have to pay for it anyway.”

         “No you won’t.  I’ll tell you what to say to them.  And in the meantime, I’ll cover you on a room over here.  Get over here.”

          “It’s your dime,” I said.  That made him laugh (that’s one thing that he always liked about me: I made him laugh.  The Surgeon doesn’t laugh much.  He’s too uptight). 

          I didn’t understand how he could be spending so much money on this.  I had a lot to learn.  The Surgeon was one of the first rich people I met in my life.  

          The hotel was beautiful and I ran around taking photos of it like the rube tourist that I was.  I even took photos of the flower arrangements at the front desk.  I remember them.  They were orchids, and I didn’t know the name for them at the time.  I also did something that I have, thankfully, learned to suppress: I’d run up to the flower displays and touch them with my hand in order to see if they were real or silk.  The Surgeon thought this was very endearing. 

         His hotel suite was friggin huge.  I’d never seen anything like it (and I have a confession to make: when he went downstairs to buy mouthwash at the gift shop, I stole most of his hotel-furnished toiletries and a water glass). 

         The first thing that he did–and I’ve never forgotten this–is put a drink in my hand.  A vodka cranberry.  It was in a Starbucks coffee cup with a lid on it, so you could drink it in public without people knowing.  It’d never occurred to me to do that before.  The Surgeon is the one who taught me that trick. 

       “How do I know that you haven’t put something in this?” I asked.

        “Why would I do that?”

        “The type of person who would do that would do it because they wanted to.  And you work in a hospital.  You have access to drugs.”

        “I don’t need to drug you.  You’re already here.”

        A pause, please, to consider the implications of that statement.  He didn’t say that he wouldn’t drug me.  He said that he didn’t need to. 

         True enough.  And in case you’re wondering: I knew that I was going to have sex with him on the trip, unless he exhibited some strange mannerisms that threatened or disturbed me (keep in mind that I’d only known him for about three hours, almost the entire time in the dungeon setting).  

           I drank my drink.

           “Let’s go get dinner!  Do you like seafood?  You look very sexy, by the way.”

           I was wearing my backless black cocktail dress, of which, at that time in my life, I owned exactly one.  

          Off we went to dinner.  The Surgeon got the name of a good seafood place from the concierge and we ordered the food on the phone while the driver gave us a tour of Baltimore’s scenic neighhorhood, whose name I cannot recall, but it was very charming.  

          “What do you want?” he asked me, holding the phone.

          “What can I have?”

          “What?  You can get whatever you want!  What sort of men have you been dating?”

           “What’s a scallop?”

           “Are you serious?”

           “I come from a landlocked state!  Nobody in my family eats fish!  I don’t think we even have a seafood restaurant in town, just sushi.”

            He looked at me like I was from Mars. 

           “This is going to be fun,” he said, and ordered at least ten different entrees of all different types of fish and shellfish.  

           We picked it up inside and took it back to the hotel.  The Surgeon said that he wanted to be alone with me.  I was also to learn that he hated eating in restaurants.  In retrospect, I am almost positive that his Enemy was dining there, which would have made it impossible for the Surgeon to relax.  

           I ate lobster for the first time.  It was delicious.  While we ate, we had an excellent conversation.  He was in a very, very good mood, and when he’s in a good mood, he’s a charmer (he turns it on for journalists, and they love him.  I think he’s shagged half of the female news anchors and talk show hosts in New York).  The seafood also gave him a chance to show off, and, like most men, he loved to show off.  

        “Did you know,” I said, snarfing my lobster, “that a lobster is related to scorpions and spiders?  A lobster is basically a big sea insect.”

       “Did you know that I have eaten lobster with a hundred dates, and nobody has ever told me that?  You’re adorable!”

        This date was also the first time I saw a hint of how pushy he could be.  We needed more ice and I was going to go look for the ice machine (which he thought was hysterical.  “This is not the sort of place that has an ice machine,” he laughed).  He ordered a bucket of ice from room service.  When it wasn’t delivered two minutes later–and keep in mind that the hotel was filled to capacity, and this was dinnertime–he called downstairs and put the heat on them: “What’s the problem?  Are you waiting for the ice to freeze, or what?”

       We talked for a long, long time, and got pleasantly drunk (I am very glad that I didn’t get too drunk, because I remember everything).  I found myself telling him all sorts of things about myself.  No identifying information (remember, I was “under cover”), but very personal things, like how I almost died when I was a baby and an ambulance had to take me over the mountains to a special pediatric unit at a famous university.  When I took off my dress, he went over my body and asked me how I got each scar. 

       The sex was great.  I think I’ll keep the details of that to myself.

      He didn’t rush me out the door afterwards, either.  He wasn’t treating me like it was a session and I was a sex worker.  He was treating me like a date.  What’s more, he was treating me like a date he wanted to make a good impression on.  I was having a blast. Everything was new and exciting.  I couldn’t believe that I was getting paid to be there with him.  I felt like I’d won a free vacation.

        At the end, when I got dressed and went to leave at the door, I said, “Look, if I never see you again, I want you to know that I had a wonderful time tonight.  Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

        “Oh, you’ll see me again.”

        But honestly?  I didn’t believe him.  I thought this was a busy guy who wanted to have some fun while he was out of town, and this was going to just be a one-off.  I didn’t expect anything to come of it.

         The next day, on the train ride home, I called him and left a voice message saying that I was almost home safe and sound (he asked me to call him and tell him that) and I thanked him again for a lovely time.

        He called me back: “I like you.  You’re completely unaffected and you’re appreciative.  Best of all, nothing about you annoys me.  

        Margo, you’re hired.”  

        Then he called back again, and my new boss gave me my first two rules.  He was excited.  I could tell that his mind was racing.

        “Quit smoking.  And stop swearing in my presence.  I hate to hear women swear.  It’s not feminine.”  

         I did, and I did (and for the record, unless he’s teaching or in some formal environment, the guy swears like a mobster in a Martin Scorsese flick).  

         And that is how it all began, for better or for worse. 

         Happy Anniversary, Aaron. 

12 thoughts on “Margo Gets the Job”

  1. “Best of all, nothing about you annoys me. Margo, you’re hired”

    I read this *after* I wrote my comment to part one of this tale. Looks like I made a hole in one.

    “And stop swearing in my presence. I hate to hear women swear. It’s not feminine.”

    And you’re a feminist? And you let him get away with that?

    Control of language has always been a feature of relations between colonial powers and the colonised.

  2. Hi, Tony!

    I’m not a fan of the patriarchy, but I live under it, and I won’t deny that it effects my sexuality. I derive sexual gratification from serving superior males. My homie Andrea Dworkin would not approve, but this is how I was imprinted, just like a little baby bird.

    Our fantasies are not PC. In fact, they are usually the opposite. Freud said that fears are wishes.

    Also, I don’t consider “no swearing” to be an unreasonable request. I don’t swear in front of my mother, I don’t swear in front of my students (though have slipped up once or twice), I don’t swear in front of public officials such as police officers.

    If I fired every client who was a sexist oinker or who held objectionable political opinions, I’d be out of a job. And at this point in our relationship, the Surgeon was very much a client, however much we were attracted to one another. I protected myself emotionally. It took nine months before it became personal and I fell for him.

    As always, thanks for reading

    1. Ach, was für ein Dummkopf bin ich!

      I thought this was a ‘boy meets girl’ scenario. In fact it’s a ‘boy hires girl and then they fall in love’ scenario – sort of ‘Pretty Woman’ with kink.

      So, to backtrack a little. If he hires you and you’re willing to be hired, you’re no more or less a commodity than anyone else in the labour market. Some jobs, like being an academic, have better terms and conditions because of the way the market is organised, but in Marx’s terms we’re all alienated from our labour.

      And I suppose, when he hires you with certain expectations of service, it’s no worse than me hiring a plumber or an electrician. I guess there’s an implicit contract. I don’t know what the terms of yours were, because I haven’t yet read the whole of the Surgeon archive.

      But if your acceptance of his orders, like not swearing, satisfies *your*need to serve, then it’s presumptuous of me to get up on some moral high horse.

      I still instinctively bristle when I read about the guy though. This may be because I’m seeing him through your lens.

      It’s not that I’m envious of his power and money. I don’t think I’d buy escort services even if I could and I had the wherewithal. In fact I know I wouldn’t. Because if there’s one thing worse than being lonely, it’s being lonely in a scene or in bed with someone.

      It’s simply that in the narrative as you tell it, I detect a strong whiff of narcissism. I think that this may be an occupational hazard of having so much money and power.

      If you’re surrounded by people bowing and scraping because they want a little salami slice of your largesse or because they’re afraid of your power and what you might do to them, I’m sure that it’s difficult not to think that you’re God.

      But the combination of a dom-ness with narcissism is truly horrible. I count myself hugely fortunate that my domme friend is so mindful. While being dominant, she has always treated me with enormous mindfulness, consideration, and respect. Those considerations are most definitely not incompatible with a submissive being completely devoted to his/her dom(me).

      Anyway, enough of this rambling. Thanks for reading and responding to my comments.

    2. Hi Tony;

      Hmmm….at this point at our relationship, things were pretty unstructured. Every time he saw me, he paid me, but there was no set fee. I was brand new at pro-BDSM and had no idea what I was doing, and he was also my only independent client.

      For his part, all that he wanted was access to me when he wanted it, though he could be understanding if I had to be in class or needed to study or was writing under a deadline. Otherwise, I was expected to accommodate his schedule.

      He gradually became more controlling as his feelings for me intensified and things became, ahhh, weirder in the bedroom. When he became jealous and territorial, he made me quit at the dungeon, but he was still paying me.

      That ended when we fell “in love,” or whatever the fuck it was. “In obsession.” Though he still helped me out financially from time to time–bought me textbooks and whatnot. Which was fine, as long as I was making enough money from my other jobs…but then, when I lost one of my jobs, I had to go back to working at a dungeon, and I had to do it behind his back, which was nerve-wracking. Eventually he caught me and literally went there and dragged me out in the middle of the night. Dragged me out by the arm. I didn’t even have time to change into street clothes. I’m lucky I got my purse. Oh wow, was I in trouble! So embarrassing! Oh God, he was PISSED, I’m getting a panic attack just remembering it. That’s when he put the tattoo on my ass. This was right about the time I started blogging.

      That’s the backstory.

      It must be nice to have a domme who actually gives a damn about your life and cares about your well-being. The Surgeon cared about me a little bit, but he was pretty self-centered.

    3. “That’s when he put the tattoo on my ass.”

      Holy Moses! What is this guy, a closet Nazi? What’s his name, Dr Mengele?

      Seriously, dragging you out of the place where you were gainfully employed is not just some extreme BDSM scene. It’s tyrannical. It’s abuse.

    4. Well, Tony, you’re not the first of my readers to call him Dr. Mengele, but he’s not a gentile. Oh, if the people at his religious organization only knew!

      Yup, tattoo. Hard to believe, as he hates them and so do I, but he insisted. Bought the gun online and did it himself the week after he dragged me out of the dungeon. He promised he’d excise it himself if we broke up, but the idea of going to see him at his practice is not something I’m comfortable with. I do sort of like the symbolism, though. I’ve been getting it faded with laser treatments. It is very small. I’ve written about it here:

      Re: dragging me out–oh God, it was quite a scene. It was the same dungeon where we met, three years later. He’d been running around town looking for me all night, and then somehow the idea came to him, and he called the receptionist to ask if Margo was there. I hadn’t been SMART ENOUGH to change my stage name, so he found me.

      I had no idea–just that he’d been blowing up my phone all night looking for me. Well, receptionist said that I had a session. I walked into the consultation room, and there he was!!! He was like, “BUSTED!” I almost had a heart attack!

      “Get your wallet! This ends RIGHT NOW!”

      I wasn’t going to fight with him. I was humiliated. I was wearing a corset and leather pants and I felt like I’d been caught by my dad or the Dean or someone.

      I asked him, “What about my stuff?” I had a locker full of fetish clothes, like $600 worth!


      Then he started ranting/lecturing me about how he thought that he’d made an honest woman out of me, and he couldn’t believe that I was doing this to him, and he was going to make me get tested for STDs before he fucked me again (as if I would do anything that would make me get a STD, or anything that would endanger HIS health! I’m very responsible!), and the women could hear down the hall! It was so embarrassing!

      Then he grabbed me by the arm and walked me out the room to the elevator. The receptionist and a few of the other girls confronted him and they had the guard dog (we had a retired police dog, a Rottweiler, for security) and he said, cold as you please, that he was from the DA’s office and if they interfered, he was sending the police!


      Then he said that I wasn’t allowed back on the premises and if he found me there again, he was sending the police!

      I said “It’s okay he’s not going to hurt me, everything is all right.”

      Then the elevator came (we were by the elevator) and he pulled me in and we went down to his car, and THAT is the awful humiliating story of how I left that dungeon!

      I lost soooo many good fetish clothes…when I started doing this again, I had to start over with my wardrobe, and I was SO scared that the Surgeon would find me again. Luckily, he doesn’t know about this dungeon.

      Oh God, I was in the doghouse for so long after that. Even the tattoo didn’t mollify him entirely.

      He did it because he was jealous, but he rationalized it by telling me, “I would have done the same thing to any woman I cared about, including my daughters.”

      This made me feel confused.

  3. I could see how this “date” would be fun for you, but this man is the biggest douchenozzle I can imagine.

    He was toying with you. I bet it was good for his ego. “Nothing about you annoys me”? Even when he gives you a compliment it’s all about him.

    You should have had him arrested for whatever he did.

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