The Chopin Experience

     Good morning, universe of random internet strangers, and welcome to another depressing installment of Clients Who Deserve to Get Hit by a Bus.  

     Somewhere in New York City there is a pretentious blowhard of a maxillofacial surgeon who enjoys hurting and humiliating very young women.  

     How pretentious is he?  

     He calls himself “Chopin” and he really, really wants you to know that he plays the piano. 

      He also stares at himself constantly in the mirror, which is unbecoming behavior for a man.  It’s also confusing, because he is average-looking at best and is approaching late middle age.  He also has a weird freeze-dried look to him which suggests a lot of plastic surgery.  

     Chopin is a sadist.  A real sadist–the type who really doesn’t want you to have a good time receiving your beating.  He’ll hire a masochist if he can’t see anyone else, but he actually prefers dominant women who grudgingly switch for the money.  He wants her to endure the pain for him and feel emotionally disturbed and bad about it afterward.  

      What a guy, huh?  

       But wait, it gets better!

       He pays the absolute minimum that he has to.  The girl’s cut for a submissive session is $190, and that’s supposed to be for a session that involves little to no pain and nothing that would leave bruising or marks.  Chopin goes heavy.  I’d put the going market rate for the caning he gives at $600.  That’s what I’d charge him.  $700 wouldn’t be unreasonable.  The marks last over a week and prevent the woman from doing corporal punishment scenes until she heals.  Sitting is uncomfortable for days and sleeping on your back the first night or two is out of the question.  And you have to endure his charming company and conversation for an hour, which is probably the hardest part of it all!

         $600 is a nice chunk on change, no question, but I believe it is fair.  A hard caning like that is very, very painful.  He goes through about three canes each time, because they break.  There is screaming and crying involved (well, not for me–I’ve never cried in a session, though I will eventually yell once it reaches a certain level of intensity).  $600 is about what a high-end escort charges, and taking a beating from Chopin, M.D. is, I daresay, more intimate than sex.  The women who session with Chopin will remember the pain for the rest of their lives, just as they remember the boy with whom they first had sex (I certainly remember my worst beatings).  $600 is not a lot to pay to leave a lifelong impression on a young woman.  

     To have that relationship with her. 

     What’s more, Dr. Dickhead, extraordinaire can afford it.  He’s rich.  How do I know…?  Well, besides the fact that he works it into the conversation as frequently as possible (Chopin likes to keep it klassy, *snigger*), women have also done outcalls to his huge luxery apartment, which is on the Upper East Side and full of furniture made of endangered hardwoods.  I’ve never been there, but I know women who have, and I’ve heard all about it. He also has a black palm cockatoo, and those birds cost about $16,000.  Incredibly, he has a wife (I wonder if she knows about his little hobby.  Or his predilection for teenagers).  I know that I have poor taste in men, but I’m telling you, I would rather cut off my own arm with a chainsaw than fuck this guy, let alone marry him, money be damned.  

      Yeah, I’m giving out personal information about a client.  This is the third time I’ve done it on the blog.  It’s not ethical, but I don’t care.  I hate him and he deserves it.  

        So, let’s recap: Chopin, M.D. is a millionaire with shit for personality who likes to cane the hell out of women and who refuses to pay them more than $190 for it.

       You might be wondering, Who on earth would do that for $190? 

       Not Miss Margo, that’s for sure. I refuse.  And whenever I have the honor of speaking to Chopin in the waiting room, I’m sure to let him know why:  “Well, Chopin, I’m afraid that I can’t help you out.  That amount of money is inadequate compensation for a caning of that intensity, Chopin.  Chopin, the going market rate for a heavy caning is about $600, Chopin, and there are not many professionals in this City who would be willing to do it anyway.  Thanks anyway, Chopin.”  

       (I call him Chopin as often as I possibly can so that he knows I find him and his pretentious self-given moniker ridiculous.  And the truth is, I wouldn’t session with this guy for $1000, because I hate him.  I might do it for $2000.) 

      So I’m not going to cruise with Dr. Dickhead for $190, but I can tell you who would:

       The financially desperate and the woefully inexperienced who have no idea what they’re getting into. 

      Did I mention that Chopin likes em young…?  I mean young, like not old enough to drink yet.  He likes them as young as he can get them.  He doesn’t care if they are pretty or not, or what race they are, or if they’re covered in tattoos or not.  If he had a choice between the most beautiful woman at the Studio (and we have some knockouts, believe me) and a bald, toothless 18-year-old, he’d pick the teenager.  

       There are two reasons for this: 1) I think he’s just plain sexually attracted to teenagers.  He could even be a pedophile.  It sure as hell wouldn’t surprise me.  I’ve heard some rumors.  2) the younger and less experienced they are, the fewer boundaries they have, and the more traumatized they are going to be by their time with Chopin, M.D.  

       You can imagine what this man is like when you’re all alone in the room with him.  In the dark.  Because he keeps it as dim as possible and still be able to work.  Know why?  I can tell you, because I can read his mind on this one: he doesn’t want the girl to see herself clearly in the mirror, because then she’d see the damage he was doing, and then she’d freak out and call it off.  

       One time he sessioned with this new girl…let’s call her “Molly.”  She was maybe 19 and looked younger.  She was nice, but, I hate to say it, pretty dumb.  She was also broke and desperate.  I wasn’t there when it happened, or else I would have warned her.  I found out the next day and asked her how it went.

      “It was okay.  I was really scared and it hurt a lot and I didn’t think that I could do it, but then I calmed down and it felt sort of like I was watching it from the outside.  It was weird,” she said.

       Oh my God, I thought.  

      “Molly, that’s what people feel like when they’re being traumatized.  It’s how the psyche copes with extreme terror,” I said.

     “Oh.  Afterward, he told me it was sub-space,” she said.

      Oh my God, I thought. 

      “He didn’t molest you, did he?” I asked.  

      “What?  Well, he told me that I had to take off my underwear so that he could see better.  He said it was part of the submissive session that he paid extra for.”

        Oh my God, I thought.   “Molly!  Never take off your underwear!  No nudity!  Ever!  Maybe topless if they cough up an extra hundred and you’re comfortable with it!”

        I wanted to kill management for sending her in there with him.

       The last girl he saw wasn’t a maso and didn’t really want to do it, but she was in a bind: her car had been towed and she needed it to get to work.  She’d just paid rent and monthly bills and was flat fucking broke.  

       “It’ll get my car out of impound,” she said.

       I was reminded of that scene in Romeo and Juliet, when Romeo tries to buy illegal poison from the impoverished apothecary.  The apothecary doesn’t want to do it, but he reluctantly agrees because he needs the cash: 


My poverty, but not my will, consents.


I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.

          Chopin, you sick fuck, you wretched, awful excuse for a human being.  You couldn’t reach into your pocket, pull out that roll of cash that’s as big around as a soda can, and peel off a few more bills to compensate my desperate co-worker for what you put her through?  I heard her crying down the hall.  

       “If it gets too bad, tell him to slow down.  You can do that, you know.  Or tell him to stop.  Or just walk out.  Yeah, just walk out.  Say that you can’t take it anymore and leave.  No matter how he tries to pressure you.  You’ve got the money up-front, he’s not going to get a refund.  Don’t feel like you have to take it just because he paid.  He’ll use your sense of honor to exploit you,” I said. 

      I don’t know how to end this blog post.  I’m sure it’s depressing to read, but there is no other place I can share it.  I feel better exposing Chopin, even if it’s just to my 8 readers.  

      I’m not sure how much longer I can keep doing this.  Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s fun, but I have been exposed to some very dark things, and some very dark people.  I would have been happy to live the rest of my life without ever knowing that Chopin even existed.   I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that he breathes the same air as me and lives…well, just up the green line.  About ten subway stops.  

       I’m sure he’s fixing a cleft palate right now, or something.  A surgeon dentist.  The perfect job for a sadist.  Perfect.

        Sorry for the post, but I feel better now.  Human again.  I felt really bad this morning, thinking about him.

        Maybe I will amuse myself thinking of ways to torment him.  I vote for angry lobsters down his pants.  

       “Writing does not cause misery.  It is born of misery.”   Montaigne.  And boy have I been prolific recently. 

4 thoughts on “The Chopin Experience”

  1. I read this carefully, and yes, it’s depressing. It’s depressing because I felt such rage reading it that if I was in the same room with this guy I’d want to give him a taste of his own medicine – and that’s not normally my style..

    Anyway, if your aim was to fill your readers with rage, well done and well-written.

    Also this:

    “He’s rich. How do I know…? Well, besides the fact that he works it into the conversation as frequently as possible (Chopin likes to keep it classy)”

    No, no, no! That is not classy. That is your typical nouveau riche arriviste. Being nouveau pauvre is *much* more classy. I have a friend whose name and ancestry go back to the Norman conquest. He lives simply despite having no need to work, is a lifelong democratic socialist, and is the epitome of charm and ‘noblesse oblige’.

    Now that’s what I call classy.

  2. Hi Tony;

    Thanks for the support. I’d love to switch with Chopin for ten minutes myself. He really is a monster.

    I was sarcastic about the “keep in classy.” Talking about money is very rude. Chopin is offensive on just about every level.

    Thanks for reading. This one was hard to write.

  3. Dear Miss Margo,

    Sounds like a hard thing to see and know about.
    “Writing does not cause misery. It is born of misery.”

    Things like this always put a smile on my face.

    Singing Orphans! One playing an accordion!

    I don’t know why I like stuff like this but I do.


    1. I like Montaigne a lot. He was truly brilliant. I highlight the hell out of his stuff; he’s very quotable.

      As for Shirley Temple: well, we take comfort where we can find it. I like how the video has 353 “likes” and 6 “dislikes.” What sort of contrarian would dislike that video? Someone just trying to be provocative?

      I’ve met my share of freaks and weirdos at my secret job (I suppose I’m one of them), but Chopin is one of the worst, hands down. He is despicable. I think I’m going to tell him that if I ever see him again. I’ll say it to his face. Just like Seth (but Seth was merely arrogant and annoying. Not a monster).

      I wonder if Chopin knows my Ex. I believe they have operating privileges out of the same hospital.

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