Reader Mailbag: January Edition

   “Have you ever been submissive to a domme?”
                                               –Random Internet Stranger

     Hmmm…hard to tell if this is an honest question, or just wank-bait from a random internet wanker. 

     My Ex, the Surgeon, hired a prodomme twice because he wanted to see me dominated and beaten by a woman.  It was not something I would have done of my own volition, but since there was no sex involved, I acquiesced.  I did it for his entertainment.  The experiences were not unpleasant, but if he wasn’t in the room, I would not have been there.  

      I’m a little squeamish about the idea of submitting to women, actually.  Not sure why.  I’ve dominated (hetero) couples at work and actually had fun with it.  

      I do not have sex with women.  Ever.

      “How do you know you don’t have an STD?”
                                  –Whorephobic Random Internet Misogynist 

       The only reason I’m printing and answering this is so that my 8 readers can see, up close and personal, the perennial accusation thrown at women who have sex: you are a poxy whore! 

       But to answer your question: Because I get tested for everything every 4 months when I’m sexually active, you asshole.  I got tested so often that the people at Planned Parenthood started discouraging me from coming in (I still went). When’s the last time you had your bloodwork done? 

       I also use latex barriers for everything.  They work.  I have never been pregnant and I have never contracted an STI, and I think it is probably safe to assume that I have had a sex life that is much more fun and interesting than your own.  

        I hate slut-shaming and I hate whore-phobic “you’re a poxy whore!” bullshit.  You won’t get sick from having sex as long as you take a few simple precautions.  I almost never come into contact with bodily fluids at work, anyway.  Do you sling this shit at nurses and hospital workers? 

        “What is your favorite flower?”
                                     –Random Internet Stranger 

        Wow, a normal question.  You must be a woman. 

         I love flowers!  My home always has flowers. 

         My favorite are Stargazer Lilies…but after I found the Mathematician’s wedding portraits online and saw that they were used in all the floral arrangements, it sort of ruined it for me.  

        Roses, buttercups, lilacs.  Violets. Magnolias.  The little flowers on Christmas Cactus (I love cacti!).  Orchids. 

        I just plain love flowers.  If I was rich, I would have them all over the place. 

        “What are your favorite books?”
                                        –The Same Random Internet Stranger

        My favorite book is Jude the Obscure, by Thomas Hardy. 

         Dominion: The Power of Man, the Suffering of Animals, and the Call to Mercy, by Matthew Scully.  I find his politics objectionable, but this book changed my life.  The only Animal-Rights book I know of written by a right-winger…and it’s poetry.

       Richard III, Othello, and Hamlet

       Francis Bacon, Thomas Hobbes, and the odd man out, Rousseau (fucking Continental philosophers, you know how they are!). Machiavelli, the first modern Political Scientist.  Stephen Crane. Walt Whitman. Battle Cry of Freedom, by James McPherson.

       Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, by Dee Brown. Arguably the saddest book I have ever read. 

      Umberto Eco’s On Ugliness.  

      Robert Caro?  Master of the Senate? 

       Isaak Babel, Red Calvary. 

       Primo Levi


        Too many other books to name–these are just the first which spring to mind. 

I Want You To Come

     “I want you to come.”

      Of all the requests that I get at my Secret Job, this is the one that bothers me the most. 

     Not the requests for footjobs or traditional sexual services (that is slightly annoying, but I actually can’t blame a guy for trying, as long as he asks in a straightforward and polite manner and doesn’t pout or turn hostile when I gracefully decline).  Not the requests for my real name, or where I was born, or what I studied in school.  Not the requests for full nudity.  Not even the requests for my phone number, or that we go out on a “real date.”  I can cope with all of these and even continue to hold the man in high esteem, depending on how he acts when I tell him “no.”  

      The request (and sometimes it’s not even a request, but an expectation–something taken for granted, even, like an entitlement) that I have an orgasm in session, or even masturbate, is the one that I find truly offensive.  

      It really bothers me, too.  It sticks in my craw.  It angers me.  I find myself thinking about the request, and the man who made it, long after the session has ended, and I start to fume.  

      The request almost always comes from male doms, natch.   All 8 of the male subs who are reading this can give yourselves an affectionate pat on the head (or a kick in the ass, if that’s more satisfying for you, ha ha).  Male subs sometimes have boundaries issues, but this is not one of them.  Even if they fantasize about it and wish that I would, they know better than to ask.

      (Which isn’t to say that I don’t get turned on sometimes when I’m the domme in a session.  That does happen from time to time.  A really good sub–usually a masochist–that I have chemistry with is like a good dance ballroom dance partner: he can bring out the best in me and make me look a hell of a lot better than I normally would.)

      It’s the male doms who want me to get off.  

      I understand the fantasy from their point of view–really, I do.  To have that power (as they perceive it, anyway) over my body.  The desire to see me vulnerable.  The control.  The validation of their ego and masculinity.  Even–if they’re the more sensitive, generous-natured types–the earnest desire to give me pleasure and joy. 

     I still hate it. 

     I am here for them.  They are paying for a service.  Now, it’s a very intimate service…and I give as much, emotionally, to my clients as I think I can safely allow.  Because this isn’t an act to me.  This really is an expression of my sexuality and personality.  I did not end up in this job by accident.  

      But there are boundaries.  There are limitations.  These male doms who want to see me come…I want to ask them (and one day, before I retire, I WILL ask one of them):  Did it ever occur to you that I am a complex emotional creature who might be unwilling or unable to achieve personal sexual gratification with a total stranger I met 30 minutes ago…?  

      Of course it didn’t occur to you!  You’re a dude! 

      You are not my boyfriend, dude.  I just met you.  You hired me for an hour.  I take this job seriously and I want to give you the experience you want to have…but that’s what it is: a service.  You do not get an all-access VIP backstage pass to my private sexuality.  You do not get to give me an orgasm.  Frankly, I am very fucking offended that you presume to do so.  I can understand the desire to do so, but to actually presume to implement it…? 

      Some men see sex workers, and their entire concept of boundaries and good manners and perspective goes right out the window.  Sometimes, I think it’s because they don’t respect us whatsoever and therefore don’t feel obligated to treat us like “normal” women.  More often, I think it’s because these particular men have too much entitlement and an empathy deficit, and they don’t even bother to give a thought to how the woman perceives the situation.  I think they think they think something like: I’m turned on and this is a sexy situation for me, so she must be turned on, too!

     If you’ve stayed with me this far, gentle reader, you may be wondering: So, how does she handle it…?  What does she tell these guys…?

     Well, I don’t tell them, but I will tell you: I fake it.

      Fake it, fake it, fake it till you make it, fake it to the bank and back.

      I almost never fake it in my private life.  I come very easily with my boyfriends.  On rare occassions, when I was sick or chafed, or when I’d had too much to drink and knew that it just wasn’t going to happen, I’d fake it to make the man more excited and get it over with.  Rare, like I said. 

      With these male dom clients, though…?  Fake, fake, fake. 

       (There are a few exceptions–clients who have cultivated a relationship, and my trust, over the course of many months.  Fortinbras is one such man, so is Mr. Wolf.  They get more of me.)

       It’s sort of funny, their conceit, and the way they eat it up–they really believe it.  But at the same time, it’s insulting to even have to fake it.  Yes, it’s a job, and yes, I’m being well-compensated, and I believe that the wage for labor is equitable, and that is why I’m doing it.  

      Yet there is something degrading about the entire charade.  It makes me feel very hostile.

      And look…I’ve written this huge blog post, and I have no idea how to end it.  Oh well.  I’m not submitting it for a grade. 

Please Don’t Tell My Father

     When I was 13 years old, I was arrested for shoplifting.

      I realize this may sound implausible to you, gentle reader, but it was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.  

      When I about 11 years old, I was at a local convenience store with my father.  

       Outside, a little kid–a year or two younger than me–tried to run across the street.  No crosswalk, no lamp.  He was jaywalking.  Or jayrunning.  We saw it through the window. 

        The boy was hit by a car.  It only side-swiped him, thank God, but he was knocked spang off his feet and fell to the blacktop as if he’d been hit by a lightening bolt.  

        A few of the adults around me screamed.  Another said, Oh my God. 

         My father ran outside and into the road. Traffic just kept going by.  

      Then he picked the boy up and carried him back inside the store.  He laid him on the floor in front of the cash register, by all the candy and chewing gum.  

       The shop owner was calling an ambulance. 

        The boy was sobbing hysterically.  His arm was fucked up.  There was no blood, but it was bent funny and he couldn’t move it right.  

       The rest of him seemed to be okay, thank God. 

        My father was crouched on the floor next to him, looking into his eyes.  He told the boy that he was going to be all right.  He told the boy to try to stop moving.  He told the boy that an ambulance was coming to help.  He asked the boy for his parents’ phone number. 

        Do you know what the boy said?  The first words out of his mouth, after all the crying and screaming in pain and fear…?

       I’ve never forgotten it.  I was standing right there.  I was so scared that my face was numb.  He was a blond boy in jeans. Skinny.  Hair was wispy and unkept.

       “Please don’t tell my Dad!  Don’t tell my Dad!  He’ll be mad at me!  I don’t want him to hit me!  I’m sorry!  He’s going to be so mad!”

        There you have it.  Little boy gets hit by a car, suffers pain of broken arm, and his first thought is: My father is going to be angry with me.

        I’ve never seen my father cry–I’ve never seen any of the men in my family cry, come to think of it, and my mother only three or four times–but he looked close to tears then.

         He put his hand on the crown of the boy’s head and looked into his eyes and said: “Your father will not be mad at you.  It’s not your fault.”

         “But I broke the ruuuuuuuuules!” cried the boy.  

          I assume he meant the rules for crossing the street, but I have no idea. 

          Two years later, I was arrested for shoplifting.  

          I stole a sandwich, a can of Dr. Pepper, a Snickers candy bar, and a lip gloss (hey, in for a penny, in for a pound).  

          The first words out of my mouth were: “Please don’t tell my father.”

        The cop who detained me looked confused.  She asked me why I stole a sandwich.  A sandwich?

         I thought fast: “My friends dared me to do it.”

         She wrote that down in her report and lectured me to not be a sheep.  The moron. 

         I stole the food because I was staying with my father and he’d forgotten to feed me for a day and a half and I was losing my mind. 

         But when I was caught, all I could think was: Please don’t tell my father.



True Facts About the Owl

     ….because this place needs cheering up!   

     I was dragged out of bed for a session–guy booked it 45 minutes in advance–and he’s here 20 MINUTES EARLY!  What is with all these early birds recently?  Dude has to wait 15 minutes, period, unless he wants an ugly domme with armpit stubble.

     Waiting for school to start.  Waiting for school to start.  Please get me back into the normal world.

Drive Her Out

    It’s four in the morning and I’ve been trying to sleep for hours.  No dice.  That means that I am going to look and feel like shit tomorrow for my clients.  I am at an age where a little visine and moisturizer doesn’t disguise it all.  I mean, you know you look bad when the clerk at the local bodega says: “You look tired.”  

      Attention, men: You look tired is a euphemism for You look old.  Don’t say that to women!  We don’t want to hear that shit!

       I’m also freezing my ass off.  The radiator heat isn’t coming on, and my only space heater is directed towards the birds.  

       I also need a man to take my air conditioning unit out of my window and put it on the curb downstairs, but, as usual, there is no man around.  I keep telling myself that I need to start dating again, but I get so tired of dealing with men at work that I just cannot bring myself to turn on my OK Stupid profile and start lying to potential boyfriends right out of the gate.  

       I can’t wait for the semester to start.  It helps me keep one foot in the normal world.

       But….since I’m not in the normal world this month, let me give you a little dungeon gossip.

        The crop of new girls–some of whom have been absorbed from the recent closure of two commercial houses–really sucks.  Not all of them…but there are about five who are either irritating, completely oblivious to social boundaries, or possessed of some major character disorder. 

         Or stupid.

          Let me tell you about the dumbest one.

        This chick is so stupid that I think she is about ten IQ points away from an institution.  

         I don’t know how he gets up in the morning, puts on pants, and comes to work.  I don’t know how she buys groceries or pays her cell phone bill.  I don’t know how she completes the most basic daily functions of adult life.  I would not trust this woman to make toast.

           You know how you go into a room sometimes to get something, and when you get there, you realize that you totally forgot what you came there to get?

           She does that all the time.  All. The. Time.  She bursts into the room or my office, usually when I’m trying to concentrate on something, and looks around with this idiotic smile on her face.  Then she walks out.

         A few weeks ago, she mentioned that she was studying for a final.  I had to bite the insides of my mouth to keep from snarking: What final?  You’re in school?  For what?  An Official Certificate in Basket Weaving? 

         Now, you can’t blame someone for being stupid.  Or at least, I don’t.  People have different intellectual gifts.  Hell, I teach.  I know this.

         There is another problem.  Two of them, actually.

        First, she’s a bitch.  I hate to use gendered insults, but I can’t think of anything else to call her.  She’s a bitch.  She has a very rude, abrasive demeanor.  It’s so bad that I can’t be in the same room with her.  She ruins my mood.  You’ll be having a conversation with someone else, and she’ll break in repeatedly with comments that are not topically relevant.

         Two, she’s a thief.  Steals other people’s food out of the fridge, even if it has their name on it.  She stole my chicken, and when I confronted her about it (SHE WAS EATING IT IN FRONT OF ME!), she just laughed.  She steals equipment–I saw it in her locker, but I can’t prove it, because it was just generic black cuffs.  She cases other girls’ lockers.  She was at the manager’s desk one day, and the till came up short.  

         I do not trust this dumb bitch not to give a guy a blowjob in one of the rooms for an extra $50.  I do not trust her to put a guy in the latex vac bed and not accidentally kill him while she goes through his pockets.  I wouldn’t trust this bitch to operate a can opener, much less some of our equipment!

         I brought her up in the locker room the other day, and ignited an hour-long rant-fest.  Everyone in there had a negative story about her.  The tales of her idiocy were legion.  We’ve had some unpopular girls there before, but nothing, nothing like this!

         We sat down and had a little pow-wow about what we were going to do.  I swear to God, if I’d suggested that we all put bars of soap into socks and beat the shit out of her like that scene in Full Metal Jacket when she took a nap, every girl in the room would have gone along with it.

        We all reached an agreement.  A consensus.

       Drive her out. 

       Make her life a living hell until she leaves.

       And starve her–do everything possible to make sure she doesn’t make money (she’s got a plain face, but her body is pretty good, for the next two years anyway, till she hits 25).

        Send her to the worst clients, the ones none of us can stand.  Send her to Chopin.  That other gross dude who always tries to molest you.

        Don’t answer her questions.  Bite her head off when she tries to speak to you.

        I have never in my life–at least to my recollection–bullied another woman.  Never.  I’ve gotten intellectually aggressive with people in seminar, but that’s different–that blood sport is part of education.  I’ve done a few internet flame wars on politics listserves.  But bullying…?  No.  Because I am a Nice Polite Person.

        I am going to bully this one, however.  I can’t hit her in the stomach with a bar of Ivory in a gym sock…but I can do other things.

        My imagination is already at work.

        First up: bitch is getting a whole package of chocolate Ex-Lax.  I’m not even going to have to sneak it into her food.  I’m just going to melt it, put it into my fat-free chocolate milk, and leave it in the fridge with my name on it.  She stole my last two bottles.

         And then I am going to monopolize the bathroom, like some little 12-year-old girl on the phone.

        She will have to use the client bathroom (sorry, guys), which is gross.  I mean, it’s clean enough, but it has grody male client germs in it.  You don’t want to know who and what that bathroom has seen.  Trust me.

        Should we start a betting pool?  How long will it take a house full of dommes to get rid of her…?  A week?  A month?

        Drive her out.

Timewaster of the Year: HK Jackass

      Clients, take heed: this is a story of how not to conduct oneself!

      Break out your popcorn, 8 readers!  Time for a rant!  And I know you doodz love rants!  It gives all you subs instant boners, I know it does! 

       Manager was late getting to the Studio, so I was standing outside with my fat-free hot chocolate, freezing my balls off like one of Napoleon’s soldiers.  

       (I did see a Golden Retriever puppy wearing cute red rubber booties.  That was nice.  Oh boy, what a lovable dog, I got to pet him.) 

       Manager arrived and we took the elevator up and started to turn on all the lights and computers.

       Not five minutes later, there’s someone ringing the buzzer.

       We thought it was another mistress.  Had to be.  We weren’t even open for business yet.  So, we buzzed the person up.

         It was a man.  Without a reservation.  WTF. 

         I can’t even call him a client.  Miss Margo Christians thee “Time-Wasting Jackass from Hong Kong,” or “HK Jackass” for short.

          Normally, we’d ask him to come back later, but HK Jackass wanted an extended two- or three-hour session.  That’s a lot of money.  We can’t say no to that business.  

          The manager did not even have time to hang up her parka.  I wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup.  My hair wasn’t done.  I was carrying a plastic shopping bag with my breakfast of pineapple and an energy drink.  My intention had been to shower and shave immediately upon arrival.  No time for that!  I gave myself a birdbath with a wet soapy washcloth and started to spackle on the whoreface (dungeon slang for “apply full makeup”).  

         He spoke with the manager again.  He said that he wanted to see me…which was just as well, since I was the only one working. 

         “What are we going to do for the session?  What’s he into?” I asked.

         “I’m not sure yet.  I think latex fetish.”

         I groaned.  It was all I could do not to start knocking my forehead against the wall like my pet parrot knocks her beak on my bookcases.  

         Latex is a huge pain in the ass.  It’s not my thing, so I only have one very simple outfit of a skirt, halter top, and opera-length gloves…but even still, we’re talking at least 25 minutes to get dressed and shine it up.  

        “Let me go talk to him again, and then you can meet him in consultation and go over the particulars,” she said.

         She went in the room, and he held her hostage for at least half an hour, asking about other girls and when they would be in and the details of their fetish wardrobes.  It was unbelievable.  The manager still hadn’t taken her parka off.  I couldn’t relax, jump into the shower to shave my legs, or even start curling my hair or getting dressed in my rubber outfit, because he hadn’t formally booked the session and coughed up the cash.  

          Eventually, the manager came out and told me to get dressed.  He’d decided to stay and session with me.  Two hours.  And I had a pre-existing booking with a good regular in one hour, forty-five minutes, so the pressure was on me to get in there ASAP.

       I dressed as quickly as possible and went to talk to him.  

        When I entered the room, he was standing by the door with his coat on, luggage in hand. 

          “You know, I’m in a hurry right now.  Busy.  I’ll come back later,” he said. 


        If I’d held a gun in my hand, I would have shot him dead.  On the spot.

         You are in a hurry, but you had an hour to waste with the manager, and two or three hours to spend in a session (or so you said)?

         (And–pop quiz!–do you think he ever came back? If you guessed NO, you’d be right!) 

          We escorted him to the elevator.  I peeled off my latex and took a shower.  Then I had to reapply my makeup.  My pineapple was warm.  So was my energy drink.  I was exhausted and fed up, and it was only 1 PM.   

        Clients: please do not be like HK Jackass.  Please, please please pretty please.



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alexej:  Gustave Doré, The Wolves and the Flock of Sheep [Les Loups et les Brebis], 1867. From Doré’s Illustrations for the Fables of La Fontaine.

Gustave Dore, The Wolves and the Flock of Sheep (Les Loups et les Brebis) 1867.  From Dore’s Illustrations for the Fables of La Fontaine. 

     Wolves possess tremendous spiritual power.  They fascinate me.  I identify primarily with birds and herbivorous animals–deer. giraffes–but when I was a child, I would fantasize about being a wolf.  

     I would pore over photographs of wolves in National Geographic and envision the feel and smell of their fur, coarse and hard like armor, with a dense undercoat.  The softness of the ears and the terrible long mouth, full of fangs.  

     I would have nightmares of being raped by a wolf or a werewolf.  These were not sexy dreams.  They were awful. 

     I still have these nightmares today.

     Terror and fascination.  Terror and fascination.