Weirdest Session of the Year

   Where to begin with this one…?  

     I have no idea.

     It was one of the weirdest sessions of my career.  And you know that is saying a lot.

       I’m in a tight spot right now, because I don’t know how much I can disclose and still respect client confidentiality….

      Well, to start: he booked me for four hours.  FOUR HOURS.   

       Four hours is a long time.  A lot can happen in four hours. 

        I received an email from the management: “You have a heavy smoking session, 3-4 hours.  Wardrobe preference is summer shorts, t-shirt, flats, heavy loud makeup, and BRIGHT RED LIPSTICK!” (yes, the “bright red lipstick” was in caps.  He really wanted bright red lipstick.  I had to re-apply it multiple times during the session). 

      Well, at least I could be comfortable for the four hours.  No corset, no high heels, no scratchy lingerie.  Only t-shirt and jean shorts!

       FYI: I hate smoking sessions.  I used to be a cigarette smoker, so I can do them, but I haven’t smoked recreationally in years and it makes me feel physically unwell.  

    The client comes in.  Let’s call him…”Neil.” 

      He made quite an impression on the Russian manager.  She denounced him as “retarded” and dumped his huge bag o swag on my lap.

        He wasn’t retarded.  He was just crazy.

          The Bag o Swag came with a note.  Part of it reads:

        “The shoes haven’t been worn for more than 2 months.  There’s some soiling, obviously. This won’t hurt you at all.  I’d rather than you not wear the cushions in the shoes, but understand if you prefer to.  I will request that you walk a lot so that I can see the shoes at different angles.” 

          The shoes were 30 years old and completely worn out.  You couldn’t give them away.  They were pointy-toed, exhausted black ballet flats.  These shoes were gross, gentle reader. They were gross. I didn’t even want to touch them with gloves on!

     One other Mistress said: “This creeps me out!  You know his wife or mother died in those shoes!”

       Well, perhaps….probably….but I can’t prove it. 

      They were way too big for me.  After I sprayed them down the bleach and alcohol, I had to stuff the toes with cotton so that I could walk in them without the shoe slipping off.  

        He was fascinated with my left foot.  I had to keep walking around the room and posing with my left foot.  Interestingly, he was naked save his summer shorts and a sneaker on his left foot.

       Why?  why?

       There was a little bit of role-playing involved: I was to be a young, pretty girl walking on the boardwalk at the Jersey Shore, stopping periodically to window-shop or smoke a cigarette.  He would approach me and ask me out or try to make conversation.  I would laugh in his face and rudely rebuff his advances.  

        There was an undercurrent of hostility to all of this, as he would denounce me as shallow and say that I would only date men on the basis of their looks, and I would end up with a jerk who wouldn’t appreciate me and would die unhappily. 

        I’d blow smoke in his face and say, “Yeah, right, loser!”

         (Note: he told me what to say and how to act.  I wasn’t the one who came up with this.)

         Oh god.  It felt like I was in that room with him all day.  I guess I was.  

       The last hour consisted mostly of him complaining about his job and watching me smoke.  Those cigarettes just about killed me.  He had a strange fixation with the lipstick on the filter.  I kept having to refresh the lipstick.

        It gets better: this wackadoodle works in mental health services.  He’s a social worker who works for a mental hospital.  He has 42 cases.  He told me all about it.

        “Are you happy in your life?” he asked me.  

        “Nope.  Can’t say that I am,” I said. 

        “Do you want to tell me about it?”

          “Not particularly,” I said.

          “Do you have a boyfriend that hits you?  If you do, you ought to leave him, because it only gets worse.  That’s what I always tell my female clients,” he said.

           “No, but I used to.  I left him when he started to get violent. Had to get a restraining order.”

           “I’ve never had a girlfriend,” he said.  

          I believe it.  He was too strange.  He was very, very lonely. 

         “I’m all alone, but I get to help people at work,” he said.

          At that moment, I couldn’t help but have compassion for him.  I put my cigarette down and went over to him.  He was well-scrubbed and smelled like soap, so I knew he wasn’t gross.

           “Do not touch me.  I am the one who touches you,” I said, and I gave him a hug.

          I’ve hugged a client maybe three, four times in my career.  Readers, this guy really, really needed a hug. 

         “I can’t believe this is happening!” he exclaimed.  Then his chest hitched, and he burst into tears. He kept thanking me.  I actually thought that I might cry myself.  

          I got him some water until he calmed down, and then we resumed the session.

        At the end, he asked to be left alone with the shoes for five minutes.  Boy, was I glad to get those things off my feet.  Those shoes were creepy and gross.  

        I have no idea what he did with the shoes while I was outside of the room.  I assume he huffed them or jerked off with them, but who knows.

        When I came back in, he was getting dressed in his street clothes.  He put the shoes back in the shoebox.  And then–get this–he emptied the overflowing ashtray, ashes and cigarette butts and all, INTO the shoes.  

         Let me reiterate: he put the cigarette butts, with my lipstick on them, INTO the shoes.

         “I had the time of my life!  I’ve done this over a hundred times, but you were really special!” he said.  “Nobody’s ever hugged me before!”

          I believe it.

         “You have a very generous spirit!” he said.

         Then he took out his wallet and tipped me $150.  I made almost $500 that day.   Sometimes working at the Studio is easy money, but not that day.  Between the weirdness and the cigarettes and the emotional labor involved in managing that man and his desperate lonliness, I can say that I earned every penny.  

         That was one of the weirdest sessions I’ve ever had, and you know I’ve had more than my fair share.  

        What does he do with the shoes and the cigarette butts when he gets them home?  Eat them?  Jerk off with them?  Put them in a jar?  Does he wear the shoes himself (they were big and his feet were small; he could probably fit into them)?  I’m so confused. 

       I used the money to pay for more sessions with my personal trainer and my analyst, and then I booked an appointment at a new salon to get my hair done.  I’d like to start feeling pretty again.  I’m not going to mess with my natural color–every time I do that, I regret it, and right now I can pass myself off as either a blonde or a redhead–but I want to get the ends cleaned up and I think I would like to get bangs/fringe like Taylor Swift.  The Surgeon didn’t like bangs and made me grow them out, but he’s gone now, so I can wear my hair as I like.

         I released the baby mouse in the park and bought a Venus Flytrap plant from Whole Foods Market.  

         I hooked up with the sailor (and they canceled Fleet Week this year!  BOOOOO!  A curse on you, whoever is responsible for that!  One of the fun parts of summer is walking around looking at all the handsome men in uniform!) and let’s just say that he is going back to his ship happy.  

          It was fun, but it’s still not what I need.

         One more thing: I have discovered coconut water.  That shit’s been popular for a few years now, and I never drank it, assuming that it was just some trend.

         Well, I was wrong.  It is quite possibly the most delicious thing I have ever tasted.  It is better than gelato.  Better than unagi.  Better than cream cheese frosting.  Better than steak and turkey.

       Coconut water is from heaven.  Go drink some, and tell me I’m wrong. 

        I’m going to jump in the shower and go to work, and on the way, I am going to buy some coconut water.  Expensive, but worth it!


10 thoughts on “Weirdest Session of the Year”

  1. Once you get past the weirdness (and let’s face it, we’re all a bit weird) there’s the makings of a moving short story here.

    A man who spends his working life engaged in attempting to heal the mental distress of others spends his money (100 times already!) on attempting to heal himself, and exceptionally encounters an act of human charity which is where real healing lies. And the agent of that act goes out and spends his money on psychic therapy for herself?

    You couldn’t make it up.

    With regard to the weirdness thing, there’s an old saying in North of England dialect that goes something like this:

    “They’re all daft except me and thee, and ah’m not so sure about thee.”

    1. Oh, believe me, I have thought many, many times in a session that I was going to buy therapy with the bucks. It’s practically a joke. My analyst says that my clients are not engaging in therapy when they see me, only repitition compulsion and acting out, but I am skeptical.

      Without a doubt, many of them are acting out…so am I.

      But for some of them…what they do with me constitutes the only intimacy, emotional or sexual, in their lives.

      Daft means crazy? I thought it meant stupid.

      Love the saying.

      Thanks for reading.

      And no, I couldn’t make that up. I saved his note. I have a special file where I keep the written-down fantasies of men, or the writing they give me.

    2. “My analyst says that my clients are not engaging in therapy when they see me, only repitition compulsion and acting out, but I am skeptical.”

      Your analyst should think again. As RD Laing has pointed out, even behaviour that is psychotic and delusional has a kind of logic to it and can be understood as an attempt to deal with acute underlying mental distress.

      Presumably that could be extended to include some of the darker, unhealed (unhinged?) imaginings of your clients.

      Freud himself was keenly aware of the price that the indidual pays for becoming civilized and socialized. In order to do so s/he must repress the ‘polymorphously perverse’ drives of the infant.

      And yes, ‘daft’ can mean ‘crazy’.

      Hence the English phrase ‘daft as a brush’. (Why a brush? Why not.) which I assume this is not found in American English.

  2. Great story! I’m with Grumpyoldswitch, this would be a great story for your book.
    I enjoy your writing so much, even though I sometimes don’t understand the undercurrents and motivations. Reading your blog has become my walk on the wild side 🙂
    I also admire the way you can be objective and compassionate at the same time. I guess I do something similar (I’m a physical therapist) but your “patients” would freak me the f out! 🙂
    The one time I tried coconut water, though, I thought it was supremely nasty. What brand/flavor do you like? I know it’s supposed to be really good for you, and I do use coconut oil a lot. Tip: in addition to cooking with it, it makes a great makeup remover/hair conditioner etc.

    1. Hi Anne! Another female reader! That’s fantastic! I like to get women readers.

      It is important to me to be sympathetic to my clients (unless they don’t want my sympathy, or are undeserving of it). They are oftentimes very vulnerable in session, and sharing a secret part of themselves that they seldom get to express.

      I vent about clients a lot on this blog (mostly because it’s the only place I can complain), but I have many positive and appreciative stories about clients posted as well.

      A physical therapist! May I ask you how you found me? Was it Drug Monkey’s blog?

      I had a physical therapist at my last university for my carpal tunnel. The guy was Sooper Hawt. He was also very skilled. It took over six months, but we got my symptoms under control, and while I’ve had (very depressing) outbreaks since, I haven’t needed the surgery.

      I looooooove coconut water. If only it was cheap and had zero calories, I’d never drink anything else. I usually drink Vita. I drink the pure, unflavored stuff–you can get it with pineapple flavor, or mango or chocolate, but I like plain the best. nom nom NOM!

      Maybe I will try coconut oil for a conditioner. My hair gets dry and I have to condition it frequently.

      Thank you for your kind words about my blog. If you have any questions about the undercurrents or motivations in my writing, you are certainly free to ask. I am always curious at how this blog seems to my 8 readers, and I like to get feedback. Not necessarily because I want attention (I’m neurotically secretive, actually), but because this is a sort of art, and I’m curious about how people see it. How we see ourselves is not necessarily how other people see us, yes…?

      Thanks for reading and please come back any time.

      M Margo

  3. I’m a bit too sleepy to be as insightful as the comments above me, but your comment about coconut water just grabbed my attention. Is that the same as the stuff that one gets out of a fresh coconut? Sorry if it’s a “well, duh” question.

    But if so, that shit is the stuff I day-dream about. I’m from the tropics and whole coconuts (the “meat” inside is equally yum) are sold for a couple bucks a piece. I usually find the prepared canned variety funny-tasting.

    If you’re handy with a cleaver, you can check out your local Asian supermarket for the fresh variety? They might be cheaper. And often pre-opened too!

    That’s my astute coconut ramble.


  4. I have tried coconut water more than twice and I did NOT like it at all. Thankfully I didnt pay for it either time. My Alpha submissive who is a bit of a foodie says its best in smoothies to pump up the fruit flavors. I was given a case of it and donated it to the local dungeon for their pot luck. Bleah!

    1. Gosh, I’ve received several comments/emails from people who HATE coconut water, which I never could have imagined, though it’s stupid to assume everyone enjoys one single drink…

      I am sure that the coconut water-loving ladies at your local dungeon enjoyed it very much! Wish you had donated it to mine! Nom nom NOM!

      Thanks for reading, Lady Rissa! xoxo

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