Gimme Isolation

Isolation...it’s something that does not bother me. Ever. I actually cherish and LOVE the time I have alone away from the constant babble of idiots. Isolation is a time-tested interrogation and punishment tactic, and each of us can remember as kids being sent to the corner and being isolated at one time or another. Well, where I work, they use this as a punishment. God, I love it, though. I mean, after an hour of pretending you love worshiping some douchebag’s nonexistent wiener and he might as well be an eunuch while he is dressed in a ratty wig and he tries to stick his tongue through his two remaining teeth and scrape the dry grit across your tit to try to give you pleasure, isolation is quite welcome.

You see, I work in a fetish dungeon, which most people automatically assume means that I am a dominatrix, but honestly, I can’t ever take that shit seriously. It just seems way too ridiculous to me. I know that there are some serious people that live their lives by being a dominant, but I really don’t give a fuck and I think it’s a sign of weakness and stupidity. Trust me, I will be the first to admit my weaknesses and the fact that I can be a brain-dead idiot. But that was done by choice. I knew what I was doing. Since I was about seven years old and saw Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, I wasn’t quite sure what had happened to him. By watching my parent’s reactions, I guessed it was supposed to be sad, but since then I longed for that state that he was in—total loss of thought and brain activity. Even at the age of seven, believe it or not, I wanted to numb my mind. By ten, I was well aware of what a lobotomy was, and I started to ask my parents for one.

Since I was not allowed to get one, I basically gave myself one by shoving every kind of poison into my body that was humanly possible. I realized I could not deal with this world without doing it. I want no sympathy now. But childhood was hell. Kids are fucking mean. Especially girls... I notice that CJ has a largely male audience, but for the females that can shout out here, girls are fucking MEANER than boys. They are all little bitches that need to be scalped. Little girls are terrors. I was terrorized.

So here I am, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, working in a place run by females, with all females as coworkers, and it is happening again. Of course, as in every enterprise, there is a male at the head of it. “Lordmaster Sir,” they call him. And not in the first person, either. They will refer to him as Sir, as in, “Go see Sir before you leave.” He has a real name. I knew it when I was interviewed. Now he is only referred to as Sir. I would like to spare you a week of talking about my work, but I have written a vast list of some things that happen there that are a little bizarre to me. I shortened this list greatly for public view. These random things are all very funny, though, and now it is hard to actually picture where I work, but maybe this will give you a chance to see how literally fucking weird it is and help you get a better idea of what the fuck is going on, or at least in which context all of these crazy stories are happening. It makes each of these stories all the more bizarre. Here are the Top Ten weird bizarro things about the fetish dungeon I work at.

1. There is a complete shrine to Frank Sinatra in the lobby.

2. There is a man named Dodo who lives in this house. He is a nice guy, but no one explains why he is here. One day I found a secret photo book where there were about forty photos of him dressed up in different drag outfits, and then twenty or so others of him dressed as a baby. I am somewhat obsessed with him. He’s always there. He likes it when I watch pornos in his room on my off time. He’s a total perv, but I have heard rumors that he used to host a children’s show back in the day where he was a clown. For you that don’t know, I have a very serious clown fetish, and I long to ask this man about it, but I am afraid he might take me and keep me, and I need to call my mom a couple of times a week, so it just might not work out.

3. The fucking isolation. Since the very day I started, I have been told to sit in rooms and then left in there for hours at a time, and no one comes to get me out. I have thought it was some kind of psychological test, but then I found out that isolation is one of the things they use as punishment. So I don’t know if I’m being punished or they just forget where the fuck they put me. I have now worked there for close to two months, so certain new girls have sort of attached themselves to me because we are discouraged from talking to one another. We are not allowed to sit in the same room at the same time. I am now training these girls, and badly I’m sure, but they keep me with them. I still don’t know why.

4. Once an employee enters the place for their shift, they are not allowed to leave at all or even walk outside for a second. You come in, and you cannot leave until you are buzzed out. There have been people in the past who have traveled from other states to work there for like three days straight, and they don’t breathe fresh air until they leave. There are also no personal phone calls or communication of any kind with the outside world when you are there.

5. All of the ladies are extremely obedient and adhere to each of these roles without asking questions. I have stopped asking questions. I have turned into a robot. I guess I liken it a lot to a waitress job or a sales job, only I’m trying to sell fetishes. It’s not because I want to deny what I do because I am ashamed of it; not at all. But I’m definitely NOT good at sales, and that is the part I’m failing at. I can pee on someone or give them an enema or dress up a boy to look like Ice-T’s hottest ho, Coco, but I can’t sell anything worth two shits.

6. On various days, I have been told to literally RUN from floor to floor changing outfits as fast as I can and then change into something completely different only to return to my regular clothes without even having seen anyone or having a session. I believe this is another punishment.

7. I once had to fake crying for a guest, and I told someone I felt really bad about deceiving them, only because it was this trannie that I actually liked. Honestly, most of these men I wouldn’t even give a deer pellet about, but I was told never to ever, ever let a guest know that I feel sympathy for them. Like I said, it’s usually not a problem, because most of them could go out and get shot outside the building and I don’t think I’d stop painting my nails, but when they’re there, they’re the most important aspect of my life in every way. Except for like two trannies... I sort of view them as girlfriends, and I felt bad for one day, and I was told by one of the “veteran” girls NEVER to express sympathy for a guest. For example: “Oh, you’re going through financial troubles and it’s painfully obvious because you only have two teeth and one shoe and you are spending three hundred dollars an hour to borrow a bra and have me smash cupcakes in your face (which is fucking fun, no doubt), but I can understand.” NO, apparently, I can’t understand. And I’m certainly NOT allowed to.

8. All men are REQUIRED to strip naked when they get here and wait in a room on their hands and knees. They pay three hundred or more an hour to do this shit. I know of MANY Third World countries who require you to do the same thing, and it’s free. All you have to do is commit some crime.

9. We are never allowed to use the coffee shop across the street. We are only allowed to frequent Starbucks. I found this out after coming in with a cup of iced coffee that did not have the Starbucks logo on it, and one of the head mistresses quickly asked me, “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT FROM?” She was in a panic. I said I got it from the place across the street. She looked at me as if I had ripped her living child out of her stomach and eaten it. She said, teeth clenched, “We do NOT GO to the place across the street. THEY TALK. If you need coffee, go to Starbucks.” I want to know what they talk about. Which then scares me. Do I talk? Maybe. But I don’t have a coffee business, so I don’t have to worry about getting boycotted by a bunch of fetish lesbos.

10. Finally: First floor is office attire. It looks like an office. I was told to wear office attire if someone such as, and they used this particular example, “the mailman” comes in. He wants to see it as a business. He can’t see someone in a latex cat suit running around like a crazy woman. Well, one day I had the wonderful opportunity of witnessing our mailman coming in to deliver the mail. I swear to God that man had a look on his face as if he had just seen Satan himself. Or herself. The man ringed the buzzer, got buzzed in, and RAN five feet to give the lady at the front desk the mail. She politely asked him if he wanted a coffee or a soda pop, and he yelled “NO!,” then RAN to the door. I had to go to the corner to laugh. I wonder what lovely things they have done to this poor mailman.

11. Here’s a bonus. I was very happy when I found this one out. I am sure they belong to “Tampon Dave,” but in the upstairs freezer, there are several pharmaceutical bottles filled with semen. So yeah, if any of you lovely ladies want to have a half-fat perverse old child, we got TONS of seed here JUST FER YOU.

I hope you degenerate fucking idiots like this post. I have ceased to read the comments. Actually I do sometimes as a guilty pleasure, like I read Cathy (the wonderful female comic-strip character who eats chocolate). I HATE hearing what most of you have to say. But I read it. And I will continue reading it. So keep posting suggestions, problems, and comments, but mostly problems. I’d say a good 85% of you deserve an arsenic enema, which I would deliver with great pleasure, but there are still some good ones out there. And don’t assume merely because I put a bad comment about you that I dislike you. It’s STUPID comments I dislike.