The End (Part II)

     When the Russian manager told me to get out, she wasn’t firing me.  She was concerned.  I was terrified of her my first year at the Studio, but over time we developed rapport, a bit of a relationship. She likes me and, more importantly, she respects me, which is a hell of a lot more than she can say about most of the people, both women and clientele, who come to the dungeon during her shifts. 

      “You need to look after your health.  Get out and go have normal life.  I been in zis business 22 years.  You think I don’t know?  Go and don’t come back.  Don’t come back, Margo.”

       She was looking me right in the eyes, across her desk.  She has a daughter my age, and a grandchild.

       “It’s killing me,” I whispered.


       I sighed, slumped back in my chair, and said: “One more week.  I need to say goodbye and I need to make as much money as I can.”

        Then I got a piece of notebook paper and wrote down the names of all the clients I did not want to session with ever again.  These included blacklisted/fired clients, like Dave and Chopin and that freak with his dead Mother’s shoes, and also the guys I consider to be my “clients of last resort”–the guys who are not quite bad enough to terminate, but whom I don’t like and usually only see in times of financial distress. 

         I slid the list across her desk.

         “Don’t book me with any of these ones.  I don’t have the strength to deal with them right now.  I don’t care what they try to bribe.  Tell the rest of my regulars that I’m leaving and they need to get their asses in here.”

           She nodded and said okay.  Readers probably won’t understand, but this was very graceful and sympathetic behavior on her part.  One of the shittiest things about working in a commercial dungeon is the pressure management puts on you to see any client who comes in the door who is not transparently dangerous, armed, or asking for sex or illegal activities.  Ultimately, the women all have the right of refusal, but if you do it too often, management will be pissed at you and start messing with your money.  It’s not decent, but the dungeon isn’t a socialist co-op.  All management is exploitive. 

          “Can you still do submissive sessions?”

          Good question.  Sub sessions pay a lot better and it’s truer to my personal power identification, but they’re also more dangerous and taxing, both physically and emotionally, and I was running on empty.  You know when the red fuel light lights up on your dashboard when your tank is almost empty?  I felt like that.  

           “Sure, as long as I can interview them myself.  And I’m going to charge the fuck out of them.  And if any of them tries to molest me, I’ll just snap and kill them and then you’ll have to call Vlad in Brighton Beach to come dispose of the body.  I have no more fucks to give.  But try to get Mel in here for one last hurrah.  He’s a sick bastard and he’ll hit me like a truck, but I trust him and he’ll be good for at least $600.” 

            “Okay,” she said.  Her voice was sad, but she said, “I am happy for you, Margo.”

           Then we went back to the lounge to watch the World Cup.

          To Be Continued


3 thoughts on “The End (Part II)”

  1. Dear Margo,

    I enjoy your writing and believe you have talent, charm and insight.

    Fight the good fight.

    Best of luck,

  2. Dear Margo,

    Wow. As a long time reader I don’t know what to say other than that I’m pulling for you.

    And while I don’t know what your next plans are, I hope they include making your writing more a part of your professional life. You have a real voice and can really connect, and there’s an audience for what you have to say. Maybe even more so now that you are moving into a different phase of your life.


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