I just had a session with a Nazi fetishist, and now I feel gross.
Of course, he didn’t say that he was a Nazi fetishist. He said that he was a military fetishist, which immediately got my wind up, because at least half the time the guys who want a “military fetish session” eventually spring the Nazi bullshit on me halfway through, which is exactly what happened this afternoon.
They lie about what they want because they’re embarrassed and they know that it’s a politically loaded fetish to have. I understand why they’re embarrassed. Maybe they should be embarrassed about it. Readers of this blog will know that I’m just about the most non-judgmental person, when it comes to kink, that you can find. I don’t enjoy shaming people. Really, I don’t. But there are a few fetishes that I do, in fact, find personally offensive, and Nazi roleplay is one of them, and that is why I don’t do it.
These “military fetish” guys come in, and of course they all gravitate towards me because I’m tall and look like Heidi the Milkmaid, and I look at them slant-eyed from the get-go because I know where this is probably going to go.
“Military, huh? What kind of military are we talking about here?”
Because nobody ever wants to be dominated by a member of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade or some fucking member of the UN Peacekeeping Force. Like, if you want an asshole military commando, can I at least be, I dunno, US Military in Granada? I could fake that without hating myself. But noooooooo, a small percentage want me to pretend to be some sort of Fascist, and the majority of them the #1 genocidal retards of the 20th Century.
(If memory serves, the first time I ever reprimanded a client in consultation was when he pulled out a Swastika armband and asked me if I’d wear it. I just stared at him and then said:
“I’m not going to wear that shit on my arm.”)
I know you can make the argument that it’s just pretend (thank God), and I’ve pretended to be Stasi before (once) and they were not exactly champions of democracy and human rights, so what’s the big deal? But I just can’t do it, dude. It makes my skin crawl.
“Let’s be clear. This isn’t going to have anything to do with concentration campus or She-Wolf Ilse, is it?” I ask.
No, no, the “military fetishist” says, and then, halfway through the session, I get a bait-and-switch and this vile talk starts coming out of his mouth and I start feeling sick to my stomach. You know what it makes me feel like? It makes me feel like a disgrace and I hate feeling like I’m prostituting the most shameful part of my cultural heritage in this stupid dungeon for, what, $90? Yeah, keeping it classy, Mistress Margo.
And then I also think–which NEVER happens at my secret job, NEVER–what if my family saw me doing this?
(I know that it sounds like I’m talking about me me me and alllll myyyyy feeeeeeelz about why I find this offensive, but FWIW, believe me, I’m getting lots of flashbacks to black-and-white photographs of corpse piles at the same time. I started studying the history at age 12. My father made me.)
And it’s all the stupid client’s fault, because he lied to get me to do it. This blog post is horribly disorganized and probably not worthy of publication, but I’m going to post it because THAT IS THE MORAL OF THE STORY, CLIENTS: DON’T LIE ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT.