What Would You Do for $1200?

     As I write this, I feel like absolute shit…but I am $1200 richer than I was on Friday.  It’s all going to the landlord, but I made the rent, and I did it in a day.  This was a huge relief, because with the semester over and my teaching jobs suspended, I am supporting myself exclusively via professional sadomasochism, and in this industry, you never know what business will be like. 

       I still feel like shit.  

       I probably shouldn’t admit this, though I will to my AA sponsor later today: if there was hard alcohol in the kitchen at the Studio last night, I would have relapsed.  I actually went to look for it.  I felt like my mind was coming apart.  I was shaking all over.  

       I was in session, or preparing to go into session, for seven hours yesterday.  I was required to smoke cigarettes in two of them, which made me feel very ill.  I had my first client twenty minutes after I got out of bed.

        Let’s take this one at a time.

         I slept in the Studio overnight.  We have linens and cots in the back.  I’d had a session with a (coked out) client at 4 AM, and there was no reason to go home to sleep when I’d just have to wake up in six hours and come back to work.

          I hate sleeping in that place, however practical it is.  I don
t believe in ghosts, but that place is haunted.  

        Haunted by the Ghosts of Sessions Past.  

        I have awful nightmares when I’m there.  I sweat through the bedsheets.

        The manager woke me up to let me know that I had a session in twenty minutes…at 10:30 AM. 

        And the motherfucker showed up early.  He showed up in ten minutes. And he was in a hurry.  He had to catch a plane.

        I did not have time to put on whoreface.  I barely had time to brush my teeth before I put the six-inch pumps on my feet.  I put on lipstick and mascara.  The manager told me that I needed to brush my hair.  I put it into a bun. I did not have time to hairspray the strays.

        I took a glass of icewater from the fridge.  There was a half-empty bottle of cheap white wine on the same shelf.  

         I stared at it.

         Then I went into session.  To his credit, the client was nice.  

          I had to smoke cigarettes.  I had to catheterize him.  

          I do not like smoking.  Catheterization is a huge power trip, but I do not really like doing it, either, because it is so intimate and because I am not a health care professional and I feel that doing it is dangerous, however careful I am.  The Studio is not a sterile environment.  I feel that I am being irresponsible.  And I am smoking while I am catheterizing a man.  Jesus fucking Christ.  I just got out of bed after a night of terrible dreams.  I am trying to concentrate.  I am wearing a latex nurses’ uniform.  I am smoking.  I am in hell.

          The session was two hours long.  He was happy.  He tipped me $60.

            The next guy was waiting for me as I finished with the first one.

           It was the same room, too.  I was rushing to clean it.  I hate rushing the cleaning.  I was sweating.  I still had not eaten.

            That one’s a blur.  It was very physically demanding, though.  Singletail and all this equipment.  It was a fucking 3-ring circus.  I am a clumsy girl.  I can use a singletail proficiently but I do not like to do it in high heels when I am hypoglycemic. 

             I did something I almost never do: I ended the session ten minutes early. It wasn’t hard.  He was excited and I encouraged him.

             No tip.  Whatever, just go away.

             Get out of the latex outfit.  Ugh.  People who love latex LOVE it, but I’ve never cared for it.  Give me metal or leather any day.  

              I wanted to take a shower and wash my hair.  

             Nope.  No rest for the weary. 

             No rest for the wicked.

               He came back for me.  

               The Weirdest Session of 2013 came back for me.

               All that I can say is that he was not evil, like Chopin or the Attorney.  

             He was, however, crazy.  And he wanted to talk.  And talk.  Not talk with me (he kept trying to get personal information out of me, but I kept deflecting and lying, which was  stressful) necessarily.  But to talk at me.  

           Being in such close proximity to his craziness for three hours was very emotionally taxing. 

           I live-tweeted some of it.  Thank God for Sex Worker Twitter.

           Some of the things he said to me (I almost ended the session a few times.  I couldn’t deal):

          “You are an empty shell of a person.  I am a reflection of you.”

          “You will die alone and empty, like me.”

           “No one will ever love you.”

            “You smoke that cigarette like a penis.”

           He told me about his one and only girlfriend from 5th grade.  I had to wear the black ballet flats that came off of his dead mother’s feet.  He would talk about her and compulsively touch the shoes each time.  He talked to me about the nervous tick he developed when his mother “was widowed.”  He told me about collecting snow globes.  He told me about wanting to die.

          He wanted to extend the session for two more hours.

          “What’s your real name?  What’s your real name?  I masturbate constantly.  I am going to go home and masturbate in those shoes.”

           I couldn’t do it.  I felt like my mind was breaking apart.

           I handed that baton to another Lucky Lady.  

           I retreated to the office and started to tremble.  I was shaking all over.

           Then I went to the kitchen to look for booze.

           We were dry.

           I went to the locker room: “Does anyone have liquor?”

           “I have beer in my locker.  It’s warm, though.”

           “No thanks.”  I can’t drink beer.  I hate the taste.  Thank GOD.

            I got out of there and cashed out.  $1200 in a day, and I earned every fucking penny.  Every penny.

           I was so exhausted that I just collapsed into bed.  I didn’t wash my face, nothing.  I slept in my contact lenses.  

           But I made my rent.  In a day.

12 thoughts on “What Would You Do for $1200?”

  1. Whatever this is, it is not my idea of easy money. For someone as intelligent and well-qualified as you, there just has to be a better way. But I’m sure you’ve been told that many times over.

    Now, about your client.

    “You are an empty shell of a person. I am a reflection of you.”

    “You will die alone and empty, like me.”

    “No one will ever love you.”

    This guy is in such acute mental distress, such profound ontological insecurity (to use RD Laing’s phrase) that I’m amazed and appalled that he’s a professional mental health worker.

    On the remote chance that you need reassurance, nothing of what he says is true. It may be true of him and of the dreadful inner world that he inhabits, in fact I’m pretty sure it is, but it is not true in any kind of generally accepted meaningful sense.

    Well done for not having a drink after having this inflicted on you.

    1. I HAVEN’T been told that many times over, actually. I’m very closeted. Nobody in my outside life knows that I do professional BDSM. When I am at the Studio, they think I’m at another job or my fictional boyfriend’s.

      Yes, he’s a mental health counselor. I could not make this shit up.

      When he talked about his job (and he complained about it at length), he actually seemed sane. When it came to women, his mother, and me: absolute fruitbat. I’m going to post pictures of the shoes later. They are his dead mother’s shoes. For real.

      There has to be a better way…but I don’t know what.

      I am sad.

  2. Pro BDSM is hanging up a sign that allows in the craziest of the crazy. People who can not go anywhere else can come to a pro dungeon and buy time with a beautiful woman; a woman who they believe has seen it all and done it all. If I was completely socially inept, I know that I could still go to a pro dungeon — it’s where secrets, insanity, bizarre-ness are “normal”. Pro dommes will do and permit things that other sex workers will not, at least that is what clients believe. And I think that they are mostly right.

    Perhaps it would be helpful in some situations to be as crazy as the crazy clients, or have an ability to just totally disassociate oneself mentally from the environment. I think the dommes who last the longest cultivate a clientele that plays in a way that the domme likes and enjoys, and no longer sees the crazy guys. Or do drugs; I think some dommes get through their shifts on drugs — I can’t believe one can last too long doing that though.

    I think the profession needs smart women, but I think it can be tough on smart women, because (like you) they are too smart for some of the shit. I think you are smart, intelligent, and a good person deserving of a great life. I hope it comes to you in 2014!

    1. Hi Downlow;

      “People who can not go anywhere else can come to a pro dungeon and buy time with a beautiful woman; a woman who they believe has seen it all and done it all. If I was completely socially inept, I know that I could still go to a pro dungeon — it’s where secrets, insanity, bizarre-ness are “normal”. Pro dommes will do and permit things that other sex workers will not, at least that is what clients believe. And I think that they are mostly right.”

      I thought long and hard about this point before I addressed it.

      There was a time when I would have argued with you: I thought fetish work was the most conservative field in sex work besides perhaps sensual massage. No nudity, no traditional sexual activity, it’s private unlike dancing on stage at a strip club.

      But now…now I’m inclined to agree with you. I’ve had dialogues and formed friendships with full-service escorts (“higher end,” if that matters) and a woman in massage, and both of them were surprised at the weirdness I experience with some of my clients. I mean, they get weird shit, too, but…wearing dead Mother’s shoes…? Beatings by Chopin?

      Another thing about the dungeon: I think you may be right that the worst clients go there. I do independent work as well, and it stresses me out because I’m alone with a strange guy, even if I screen him first…but honestly? I’ve been ripped off, and I’ve met some assholes, but the worst sessions of my career were all in commercial dungeons…presumably because no screening and no wait time. Wackadoodle gets horny and just shows up at the door.

      Regulars who don’t stress me out and want to do things I like are the best.

      I see a LOT of drug/alcohol use at the Studio. Not during the day…but at night after maybe 11 PM, almost everyone is high, including the clientele. It’s another reason I hate working nights. As an alcoholic, and a serial relapser, it’s not a safe environment for me.

      thank you for the good wishes. Happy New Year to you, too!

  3. i’m not amazed (but i am appalled) that he’s a professional mental health worker. it’s the nature of the beast. this is how a lot of bat shit crazy and dysfunctional people deal with their problems.

  4. Wow….I wish I had something profound, deep, meaningful and life changing to say to you to make it all right, but I dont. All I can say is it sounds like he is projecting all his “stuff” on to you. :::hugs::::

  5. Hi Margo

    I hope you are feeling better since you wrote this yesterday. I’m sure you are smart enough to not confuse who you are with what you have to do to survive. If you need to make the rent, you need to make the rent. There is just no way around that. I’m sure others have done worse under less trying circumstances. You didn’t relapse and that is big.

    Take care of yourself


    1. Hi Mike! I am feeling much better. Thank you for asking.

      I had a great day at the Studio. One client was a bit odd, but a respectful nice guy. The other two were totally harmless. Made good money and actually had some fun.

      ” I’m sure you are smart enough to not confuse who you are with what you have to do to survive.”

      Thanks for this.

      Happy New Year! And thanks for reading. I always like your comments.

  6. I honestly love your personality..and I can relate to some extent of your client being so bizarre. I never did BDSM though. I think I can learn a lot from your blog, I’m so glad I stumbled upon it since I live in NYC and can’t lie- I have been involved in some escorting for a few weeks. It sometimes feels like it’s the wrong thing to do, but the money comes so easy.. esp for us girls. Sometimes I feel so lonely/sad over it, so I use the internet to find blogs like yours. Keep it up xx

    1. Hi Ariana;

      Thank you for the compliments and thank you for reading my blog.

      I have no opinion about whether or not escorting is “wrong” because I don’t know your situation. “Wrong” is also a judgmental word that I try not to apply to the choices of other sex workers.

      If you pursue this, I recommend that you reach out to other women in the industry–even myself–and develop hard boundaries ASAP, because these men are going to push you

      And charge as much as you possibly can. Raise your rates.

      Use latex barriers (condoms). No excuses, no exceptions.

      Contact me if you need support or advice: pieceofmargo@gmail.com

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