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Archive for September 17th, 2010

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.  –  Traditional saying

I’m going to warn you right up front that this column may be revolting for most of you; please do not attempt to read it while eating or drinking anything.  Some of you may not want to read it at all.  I’m going to try to put everything as delicately as possible, but I can only do so much; consider yourself warned!

As I’ve pointed out in the last two columns, BDSM is a wide umbrella that covers many behaviors, but one common theme in many of those behaviors is degradation.  Many men crave intercourse with a menstruating woman, and though there are several possible reasons for this fetish one might very well be the desire to feel soiled.  Some men are very aroused by evidence that other men have had a woman before they have, and will pay to be allowed to perform oral sex on a woman directly after such activity.  I have even been offered money to allow a client to do this after my husband had unprotected sex with me, and though I refused it I’m sure many whores do not.  I even once heard of a man offering to pay for used condoms, but the girl very ethically refused the request on the grounds that clients’ DNA was not really hers to give away.  It’s certainly possible that these fetishes develop from suppressed homosexual impulses, but whatever their origin the form they take is certainly one of seeking degradation.

A sizeable minority of people, most of them male, are highly aroused by what may be the most severe form of degradation possible, namely the reception or even consumption of other people’s bodily waste.  The most common of these is the “golden shower”, which involves the dominant urinating on the submissive; I think most whores have probably been paid to do this at some point in their careers, and IMHO it is by far the easiest of these requests to fulfill.  The hardest part is getting over the lesson we all learn in early childhood, that there is only one appropriate place to urinate (and it is NOT on other people); even if one drinks a great deal and abstains from visiting the ladies’ room for a couple of hours it still takes considerable effort to force oneself to “let go” in such a situation.  I found it best just to look up at the ceiling and try not to think about what is going on beneath one, and to ignore any unpleasantly suggestive sounds.  Fortunately, most of these men understand that they aren’t going to get a hug or {shudder} kiss afterward, but a few just can’t figure that out or even expect intercourse!  But “golden showers” are easy compared to a certain other request, politely referred to as “scat”, on which working girls are sharply divided; some just can’t bring themselves to do it (one dominatrix told me she had to get drunk in order to grant the first such request of her career), whereas others shrug and say “I was just going to get rid of it anyhow so I might as well sell it.”

As I’ve said several times before, I never mix domination with full service, and unless a client warns me beforehand that he is looking for domination I always unequivocally refuse such requests.  There was only one exception in my entire career, and it was one of only a small handful of calls (along with the time I was arrested, the time I was raped by the Frenchman and the appointment with the Honduran wrestler) that I can truly say I wish I had not accepted.  Since this story illustrates exactly why I never mixed services and also introduces the final subject I wish to cover, I’ll repeat it in its entirety.

One night in my first year of escorting (2000) I received a call in Gretna, just across the Mississippi River from downtown New Orleans.   I could tell by the client’s voice that he was black (I’ll discuss the implications of this tomorrow), but since he sounded very normal and polite on the phone I didn’t expect any problems.  Then, just as I arrived in the parking lot of the hotel, Doug called me with a couple call, which I set up for afterward; the people sounded especially nice and I was really looking forward to it, so I was feeling good when I knocked on the door.  The mood didn’t last long; the client was both huge and obese and conformed to the most common escort stereotype about black men by handing me $240.

“I told you it was $300,” I said sharply.

“Oh, I know baby, but this hotel room was $60,” he lamely explained.

“So? The hotel is your responsibility, not mine. I need the rest.”

“Oh, come on. I ain’t got any more, that’s all I got.”

I immediately saw a way to have my cake and eat it, too.  “I’ll give you a half-hour for this.”

He seemed relieved.  “Oh, yeah, that’s fine, I won’t take long.”  So I went to put my purse on the bedside table; in doing so I moved his hat which was lying there hiding a loaded .45.  Seeing my reaction, he immediately said, “Oh, baby, don’t worry ‘bout that.  That’s just for my protection.”

“From who, me?” I asked, somewhat angrily.

“No, baby, no, don’t worry ‘bout that,” he said.  Though I didn’t let him see it, I was of course worried; I’m quite comfortable around guns but I wondered why he might feel it necessary to keep one within arm’s reach in a locked room.  Not that he couldn’t have killed me with his bare hands, each of which were large enough to go around my little neck quite easily.  So, I got undressed and started working on him, keeping a close eye on his movements.  Soon he was on top of me, and as I concentrated on bearing up under his weight he said, “I want you to do something for me after we’re finished.  If you promise to do it I’ll get turned on and come faster.”

Well, that sounded just dandy, so I said, “What do you want me to do?”

“Promise you’ll pee on me when we finish,” he said.  Great.  Wonderful.  There I was, trapped under this cheapskate who could probably kill me just by letting himself drop, and he asks for something I absolutely refuse to do.  I was stuck; he was already inside me, I didn’t dare get him angry, and I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.  So I did the only sensible thing I could do under the circumstances and gave my promise, figuring he would be turned on and finish that much more quickly, and then might not want the golden shower afterward.  Men are funny that way; sometimes they do a complete reversal the second they climax and what turned them on a minute before, now disgusts them.

It was a good plan, but he ruined it by unexpectedly pulling out, flipping over on his back, and saying, “OK, do it now.”

“NOW?” I asked, incredulously. “I thought you wanted it after!”

“No, I want it now.  Pee on me.”

“HERE?  In the bed?”

“Yeah, so what?  You don’t have to clean it.” 

I think I actually shuddered in disgust.  “I’m sorry, I just can’t pee in a bed.  I have a mental block, it won’t come out here.”

“Where, then?”

“In the bathtub, I can do it to you there!”  But he was far too large to fit in the bathtub.  I let him lie on the bathroom floor and squatted over him, but before I did I told him he couldn’t have me again afterward.

“Why?” he asked.

“WHY?!!?  Because it’s disgusting and unsanitary, that’s why!  I don’t want piss all over me!”  I was now the mistress, and I required obedience.  He shut up.  I pushed and pushed; I always relieved myself before going on a call so I wasn’t sure I had anything to give him, but I was damned sure going to try.  By some miracle I found some and forced it out, and he furiously played with himself while I did. 

But he wasn’t done turning my stomach yet; “Now shit on me,” was the next demand.

“I can’t!” I immediately snapped.  “I only have to do that in the morning.  I can’t do it now!”  That seemed to satisfy him, but he whined and pleaded until I helped him to finish masturbating himself by playing with his balls.  As soon as he was done I quickly got up, eschewing my customary client cleanup procedure; I was dressed in under a minute and was out the door with the minimum number of words required for the maintenance of professional decorum.  I then went straight over to the couple call; inside I was a bundle of nerves, but externally I was as composed and professional as usual.  They were as good customers as the first client had been bad, and by the end of the hour I was my usual happy self again and none the worse for wear.

In addition to serving as an example of human waste fetishes, this episode demonstrates my biggest problem with the typical male “submissive”:  Unlike a female sub, such a man doesn’t really want a strong, dominant partner but rather a woman who will appeal to his fetish by playing a certain role that dovetails with his preconceived fantasy-goddess figure.  In other words, he wants a wind-up disciplinarian whom he can take out of the closet whenever he wants to be whipped or verbally abused or have his genitals trodden upon or whatever.  Hence the popularity of the dominatrix; the male sub can call her whenever he feels like it, pay his fare and get what he wants, then forget about her until he gets the urge again.  No demands, just a servant who is willing to pretend to be the mistress.  And I just can’t stomach that kind of hypocrisy.

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