My Enema Nightmare

Last night I had the first dream related to my work that I was able to remember. I can honestly say that this job tends to be extremely surreal in nature and that being here is like being in some kind of Dali painting or Buñuel film. I mean, it’s not every Thanksgiving when you walk into the kitchen and a 73-year-old man is barely wheezing through his corset and garter belt while cooking a gourmand feast and then turns around and stumbles toward you in his skyscraper-high heels and gets on his hands and knees - all while bells hang down from his scrotal piercing as well as a dog tag that reads “property of Dungeon ‘X’”—and kisses your feet to greet you.

That’s the total norm where I work. When I am there, I can’t even look twice at these sort of things, and I act like not only is everything going on completely normal, but I embrace it as if to say that every actor in this play is just fine. In a semi-perfect world, life might be that way, but let’s be real. Being at the fetish dungeon is like watching a Fellini movie on a ketamine, mescaline, and Seroquel cocktail.

Bizarre...surreal...dreamlike...so why has this place (until last night) not invaded my dreams? I have NO idea. I speculate it might be some sort of repressed memory syndrome or something. Maybe in ten years I’ll have some major meltdown and all of these images will flood my head at once and I’ll remember everything and then my head will just literally explode, with chunks of skull and burnt brain flying everywhere.

The dream I had last night was extremely terrifying. I think it actually may have been more terrifying than what I actually experience here.

Wait...that’s a hard one. I might have to take that back.

Reality here equals golden showers, fire-truck-red asses, double-edged black cocks, poopy assholes, leather-faced whores, sissy panties, isolation, pussy pricks, mistress mistress mistress, men jacking off their tiny peni with two fingers, the smell of fresh shit everywhere, rooms COVERED in semen, OH GOD SOMEBODY STOP ME!!!!!!

OK...gaining composure. So, yes, the dream was disturbing, but I’m still on the fence whether it was as horrible as the reality. Maybe you can decide.

To put the nightmare in context, I must first explain the god-awful enemas we give out. All types of men use them, and it’s actually easy money for me. It only takes about five minutes of staring at a man’s open asshole, and I make a couple hundred.

But we do not use store-bought enemas like you might imagine - and which you would imagine would be a lot safer disease-wise. We use those old-school 70’s erotic-nurse enemas with those HUGE pink bags attached to a tube attached to this long thin thing with holes in it that is inserted into the anus. The bag is then filled ALL THE WAY full. Which is, I swear, about a half-gallon of water (oh, and these men take it ALL). The tip thingy is then lubed up and inserted into the man’s asshole, the bag raised, and ba-da-bing, all this warm water flows into these fat-bellied slugs. It is sickening to watch, but it requires almost no work.

I would NEVER get one of these Jurassic enemas even if I were paid 20 thousand dollars. And these men pay hundreds for me to do this. Some things even I can’t wrap my mind around, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from working here, there is not anything that you could fathom in your deepest darkest nightmarish mind that someone out there would not try. Knowing that, you can more easily understand my nightmare.

In the nightmare I was preparing one of those terrible enemas to use on some poor old fat important white man, and I fill the big pink bag full of warm water, but all of a sudden the faucet starts to sprout out brown water, and then the water turns to the consistency of shit. I am completely gagging because it is really gross, but I keep filling the bag because this has to be done fast. Then the scene switches immediately to where I am being held down by the headmistress (who is the manager who often bothers me) and one of my coworkers (who is now bald from recently having her head shaved there for a large sum of money - that part of the dream is true). They are holding me down and I see about three of the trannies who frequent the place all dressed-up with makeup smeared all over their faces à la Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? (It’s not too far from what they normally look like.) All of these people are laughing at me, and then one of the trannies raises up the pink enema bag. I know what is in it, and I start to use as much force as possible to get away from all of them.

The headmistress then holds up the dreaded tip that I’ve seen inserted into SOOOOOO many dirty assholes, and I immediately know where she wants to put it, so I close my mouth as tightly as I can and am violently shaking my head back and forth as if to say NOOOOOOOO. The bald girl holds my nose, and I can’t breathe. Then the lock is released on the tube and the poo water starts going everywhere. Little chunks of shit are going all over my face. I have to close my eyes, and I must open my mouth a touch to get some air. The headmistress uses that quick chance to pry my mouth open and stick the tube in, and my mouth instantly fills with chunks of shit and water.

At first it is mostly liquid with a few chunks, but it tastes horrible and all that is going through my mind is the many times I had inserted that very piece into so many assholes and now it is in my mouth, and as this is happening the liquid that is coming out of it starts to get thicker and turns to full-on shit. I am spitting out the water all over, but now my mouth is getting dry and full of shit. I look up at the trannies holding the pink bag, and they are giggling to each other like schoolgirls. One is folding the bag down as to get all the shit out that she can. The headmistress starts talking to me like I have heard her talk to so many men before. “Meg, you are FUCKING disgusting and we need to clean you out. We need to make you into a good little whore for your mistress. Don’t you want to be a good whore? Good whores don’t have dirty mouths, and you definitely have to clean out that dirty mouth for YOUR MISTRESS.”

That monologue is repeated over and over. I am gagging and shaking and trying to get out of this terrible situation. The images of all of the trannies, the mistresses, the open assholes, the shit, and the men crouched on all fours are all swirling above me. I start to completely convulse in my dream, and then I wake up. I wake up completely convulsing and shaking my head NO, and my mouth is completely dry from drinking the night before and being dehydrated, and it all seems so real it takes about a full thirty seconds before I realize that everything was just a dream.

JUST A DREAM. It was so horrible. It takes me about an hour to fully recover. I am hyperventilating and the whole package. I start to think that this is the FIRST dream I’ve had about the job since I have been working there, or at least the first one I remember. I am somewhat bizarrely relieved, because I was a bit disturbed before that this place was somehow blocked from my dreams and subconscious, which might have meant that my brain was somehow not processing it correctly. There are so many psychologically terrible things that go on there, I can’t begin to go into them. I’ll save that for a later column.

So the fetish dungeon has pierced every part of my brain. I know that this is not the last of the nightmares or the dreams. I just felt it significant to write about because IT IS SO GODDAMNED DISGUSTING. You know the irony of this, though? I bet that this dream would appeal as a fantasy to many people that come into where I work. Maybe I should suggest it as a scenario. Or maybe make it into some artsy/horrible scat film and make some money off of it. Writing it down and reliving it makes me want to vomit three thousand times. After the dream, I guzzled about a gallon of water. Now I feel the need to do the same. Like I said, though, I have witnessed stuff that could be considered more disturbing than even my sick subconscious can only dream of. That’s pretty cool in a way.

I actually don’t know if “cool” is the right word.

Maybe “rad.”

The Breakup

I have been with the same person for about two years now. I have spoken about him on this website, mostly in a terrible context. He REFUSES to read my writing, but I think it is more likely that he actually does not know how to read. Friends asked several times while we were together why we stayed together, and I really couldn’t come up with an answer and didn’t see that I had to justify it. It was constantly explained to me that he was an unintelligent buffoon and I was on some completely different level of intellectualism than him. (HA, that’s funny saying to this audience.) Part of that could be believed, but everyone, including me, knows that I’m a total tard and am not ashamed of it. I embrace it. But Precious, which is how I will refer to him, was some “slick photographer dude” from New York City. A few weeks after he met me, he took me to Cancun, and being the type of gal that considers Red Lobster the highest echelon of dining, and after just getting out of a five-year relationship with a man who had become a morbidly obese hourly crack smoker since we had started dating (I know, morbidly obese and crack smoker doesn’t go together, but apparently my presence has weird effects on men), and after dropping that one-hopping from bar to bar opening my legs for just about any drooling plug who could shove me in a car, poor more booze down my throat, and get me naked before I passed out, and do the deed whether or not I was conscious, Precious was a way to get out of this and to start a new life.

I must digress from this for a second. I want to say that in this, and many columns I write, I am not writing out of self-pity. I am all the better for everything and tend to have a sense of humor about all of this seemingly terrible stuff. Please, I want no “take care of yourself” messages after this. I do not want pity. That’s all. Now back to the story.

Precious was great at first. He had money. He was a big-time photographer and making money flying back and forth from New York photographing big-time models. A little more than a year after dating me he is now homeless, jobless, and literally cannot ride the bus because he does not have a dollar...literally. I can’t really blame this on myself. He consciously made every choice that he made.

There is a secret that he does not want me to reveal. In fact, he has never revealed it to me, but I know. He is a flaming faggot. It is evident in several facets of his life. He is one of those guys who HATES gay men SOOO much that he can’t be within 50 feet of one. Any man who acts like that craves cock—it’s a fact of life. I remember I brought home these trannie magazines from work one day, and he flipped his fucking gourd. He said it was sick and demanded that I remove them from the house at once. I immediately started to wallpaper my house with them—because this was MY house—just to turn him on. He acted very angry, but believe me, when we were surrounded by photos of trannies, the sex was never better. I know he always craved that I had something extra between my legs.

I think I was a bit old for him, though, because Precious tended to lean toward boys in their teens instead of women in their twenties. When we were making the move out of the horrible apartment that he had made for us, he found a nubile, hairless, androgynous little boy to help him move. Now Precious (30) would NEVER share his weed with ANYONE. But little houseboy (15) got as much weed as he wanted. And often I’d come home to find his “office” door locked, and then Precious and Little Twinkie would walk out together later. What could have been going on in there???? I warn you, ladies and worms - if your partner has an OFFICE...and if the OFFICE door locks...there’s a 98% chance they perform the most sordid sex acts in there. Just go in there one day when they’re not home and check. They will hide them well, but I guarantee you’ll find butt plugs, double-sided dildos, strap-ons, sissy panties, diapers, used tampons, or whatever your partner is keeping as their special secret.

What ultimately ended the relationship was his inability to keep up his side of the rent, a vicious case of domestic abuse (on both sides), and the fact that after our brawl, we got evicted from our slum of an apartment. We had a fight and I kicked out the middle window of the apartment, and we had a police raid. This was funny, because it was literally the first time the police were EVER nice to me, and even though I completely told the truth that it was ME that kicked out the window, they would not believe me and thought I was covering for Precious and they wanted to cart him away. As angry as I was, I refused to lie about anything. So they just agreed to make him leave, and I didn’t press charges. It was ironic because this was one of the few times he had not hit me or almost hit me during an argument. I think I threw something at him and kicked out a window, but he got in trouble. Trust me, there was good reason for this. There was a slew of verbal belittling and threats against my life and all kinds of stuff. We’re both at fault for all the domestic violence.

I guess I must add here that he is an absolutely useless piece of shit. He has the brain of a retarded ape, and his boner generates every “idea” he’s ever had. Being from NYC, he does this INSANELY obnoxious thing where he gets this “New York Attitude” and starts talking himself up and all the models he’s shot and how he is the best…and really it is a cover-up for what a small little fucking wiener he is inside. He would not even be able to perform in the Special Olympics. He’s WAY too far-gone. Too fucking brain-dead. Too sick and worthless and depressing for that pity parade. The man is a walking big bag of douche. I remember a South Park episode when I think of him. It is the one where they declare John “Crossing Over” Edward the Biggest Douche in the Universe. I promise you, John Edward is indeed a douche, but he has nothing on Precious. I should fill him up with water and stick his head up my vagina and make him spit up there. That is what he may be good for. No, he would fail at that, too. He fails at everything. All of it.

I want to talk about the breakup, though, and the highlight of the best breakup I think I have ever had with anyone I have dated, ever. At the end of it all, we had been evicted from our last apartment and decided that the living-together thing was just not working. I moved in with my amazing Canadian landlords into the first and only place that I’ve ever lived in by myself. At one point, I made him an offer to live there, but he said no and that he had a place to go. Truth was, he didn’t. He said he had places to stay and that he would start making tons of money getting back into photographing models in Chicago. I think maybe he forgot that Chicago has virtually no fashion industry, and it is extremely hard to photograph models here unless it is for porn or you are willing to photograph couches for catalogues. He had his heart set on Ford and Wilhelmina girls, the types he had been shooting in New York. In Chicago, he just got shot down. He ended up for a while getting a really comical job taking stock photos at the Navy pier of all of the fat-asses and retards that got off of some boat. It was funny how degraded he was at that job. Here he was, Mr. Slick NYC “Chloe Sevigny sucks MY cock at NYC Model Parties” doing Kmart photography for minimum wage. Whenever he angered me, I remembered that he was doing that job, and I just chuckled to myself, took a Xanax, and my anger usually went away.

So Precious was a no-money hunny-bunny, and me and my unemployment and welfare were FAR surpassing ANYTHING he was getting. I moved into my one-bedroom apartment with my Canadian landlords in the heart of the ghetto, and even though Precious had SO many places to stay, he seemed to be spending an immense amount of time at my abode. I mean, I know I am a blast to be around, but I started to suspect that poor Precious had no other place to go. I didn’t want to ask him or upset him until he started to annoy the neighbors. I was, of course, savvy to his buffoonery, having dealt with it for about a year, but the Canadians were not used to his “New York ’tude.” When he got drunk while staying here and I was not here to occupy his time, he would trap my neighbors by talking to them incessantly and eventually annoying them to the brink of insanity with his mindless dribble, and they (being relatively nice folks who knew how to deal with tards) would try to nicely get him to leave, but it usually came down to having one of the dogs attack him in order to do the trick.

I didn’t mind him being there every once in a while, or a couple of days a week, but it started to happen that he had NO other place to go. It slowly, without me really knowing, became his home. He had moved his stuff in so slickly and took about three months doing it that I barely knew that he completely lived here…until the final fight happened.

I had always been involved in sex work in one way or another, but it was never my main job like it is now. He was staunchly opposed to me working in this “fetish dungeon” and told me I was not “allowed” to do it. I wondered up and down and asked him if this opposition was a matter of the fact that he felt the need to protect me and was worried about me, or if it was a matter of control or jealousy, and that he wanted me for himself. He, of course, said it was because he was worried about my well-being, but I knew that I was dealing with a real jealous motherfucker when if I, for example, made a comment about how Heath Ledger was hot as a homo cowboy, or that I had recently interviewed Crispin Glover and was going to masturbate with the water bottle I took from him, he would get very angry. Jealousy, folks. Control issues.

I got the dungeon job that I have had for a couple of months now and at first he called it quits for good. But then I think he realized that if he did, he would be S.O.L. on his whole life, so we made an agreement that I would do this fetish job, but NEVER EVER tell him about it or what went on while I was there. It was a rather bizarre way of dealing with things on his part by completely denying everything that was going on, but I thought this denial “phase” might pass. He would then eventually loosen up and we would be able to come to some other sort of agreement. I could also tell that my job secretly turned him on because he started to do things like refer to me as ma’am, which I would ALWAYS discourage, because it made me feel old and gross. Plus in our sex life I wanted to be dominated. I did not want the roles to switch and for him to want me to have to tie him up at home. That was for him to do to me.

When I started the job, I was very desperate for money and I did not need someone living in my house, consuming everything that I had in that house including me and my brain, and then degrading me about my job. At this point, he would talk about all this work he had, but he would never have a dime and I had to feed him food, cigarettes, booze, housing, sex, and then deal with his depression about not being able to be employed. I may sound callous, but he continued to blame me for the fact that he was living in Chicago and unemployed, but whenever I brought the idea of him moving back to New York to go back to his old life, he was strictly opposed. So I was basically his scapegoat for why his life sucked here, and as a result I had to support him in every way.

He made me happy, and the domestic violence stopped. We still fought from time to time, but his crazy denial of what I was doing, and my trying NEVER to talk about work to him seemed to be working. I would use his computer to write these graphic articles about my work and save them on his desktop. He knew that they were all on CJ, but he would NEVER look. It was all a bit curious to me. I mean if the roles were switched, I'd LOVE to hear EVERYTHING he was doing. But I was his little delicate flower, and to him I was not pissing on people, I was not changing diapers, I was not wrestling with naked men, I was not even getting spanked or spanking anyone else. I really have NO idea what he thought I was getting paid for, but he NEVER asked.

One day, extremely frustrated by my current job, I decided I wanted to do a small experiment and I wrote an ad up about how I was experienced in fetish work and in the ad I gave a few examples of some fetishes that would be interesting and the I definitely put in there that I wanted people to SEND me their sexual fantasies and I would try to work with them. I then took this ad and posted it on and posted it on a popular website about how I was experienced in fetish work and I put a few fairly common fetish scenarios as examples, but what I wanted was people to respond with their bizarro shit so my pervy invasive nosy ass could read it and get ideas from it. And then if someone was to offer me some money to do an easy scenario or a fun one, I was thinking I might try branching out on my own, but that was very secondary, and only in a possibility stage.

Now when I wrote this ad, I made no effort to hide it from Precious. I had used his computer to write it and even saved a copy of it on his desktop. The following day I go to my job where I cannot receive or make any personal phone calls. While I am at work putting some 70 year old congressmen in a diaper, Precious is at my home trying to check his email and this ad pops up on his computer because I didn't log out. Like I said, I didn't think to ever hide it from him. But he sees this and goes absolutely apeshit. He immediately drinks all the liquor in the house which, if I estimate, would be about a fifth or more of vodka, and probably snuck in some of my pills as well. He gets COMPLETELY wasted out of his skull, and then storms downstairs to where my friend and LANDLORD lives, and holds him hostage there with his sob story of the fact that he has "suddenly discovered" that the love of his life (me) is a dirty hooker and is prostituting herself out to fuck guys over the internet.

Little did I know that when I was putting a horse bit into my coworker's mouth, that Precious was drunkenly trying to get me kicked out of my wonderful little apartment because of his jealousy over an ad which was very innocent in nature and without talking to me, he had no idea what was really going on. I leave work and call Precious as I usually do and I cannot understand him. He is crying and slurring and I have no idea what is going on. He starts to barf out words like whore, and internet and landlord and prostitution and ads and the website I posted the ad on and then he starts slurring about how he's packing his bags and leaving and we'll never see each other again and blah blah blah and suddenly everything starts coming together. My first and main reaction was that of extreme anger that he chose to jump to all of these conclusions and then go down and vindictively tell my LANDLORD about some "secret" he discovered that I never even tried to keep from him in the first place.

I then drive home and meet this disheveled broken retard to talk. Arguments and explanations ensue which I could talk about forever. There is one amazing highlight to the argument that is very much worth mentioning here. At one point, after crying and yelling, Precious gets very somber. He starts to tell me, slowly, about something that he heard when he was seven years old, and that these words that he had heard have stuck with him his entire life, and that he can't get the words out of his head right now. He is completely serious. I am thinking that he is going to tell me some moving words that his father had told him, or when he found God, or just something mildly profound. It was profound. He then quoted an NWA song. In a very serious way. He started to talk about how Eazy E said "a ho is a ho" and "you can't turn a ho into a housewife" and then he actually went into about two verses of an nwa song about ho's. And he does this all completely seriously. To him, NWA was the voice of reason in his young life, and he is now living the songs. I realize I am in the midst of a very serious situation with someone who I care a lot about, but I could not help but burst out laughing. I couldn't stop either. I had to ask if he was serious. Not only did he say he was serious, but he almost started crying and saying that I didn't give a shit. I reminded him that he had just seriously quoted an NWA and applied it to our lives. He still did not find it amusing.

He did end up leaving that night. I locked myself in my bedroom and wouldn't let him go until he sobered up and he got a friend to pick him up and he is currently living with him. Precious is out of my house and I have to admit despite the fact that I had to feed him, keep him good and drunk and marijuane'd and nicotined and he was draining my finances greatly and consistently acting like a complete buffoon wherever we went and ruining the elegant reputation I have made for myself up until now, I still miss him a little. A LITTLE. Precious is a buffoon. I was so scared to face my landlord or any of my neighbors/friends for a great many days and just wanted to keep myself locked in little room of ill repute I had made for myself.
But I had a run in with the landlord and he basically said that Precious was insane and he tried to tell him anything that he could possibly think of that would make Precious leave him the fuck alone in the least amount of time.

My reputation as a fetish ho but not a real ho (is there a difference?) is back. I guess the difference is the fact that I could be thrown in jail for one, and jail is almost never a fun time. Although I am discovering that there are many men out there who will pay big money to be treated as if they were prisoners in a third-world jail, but I guess there is some appeal to this given the fact that they get to leave the situation after a few hours. As far as Precious, I don't know if it's the end. I mean he quoted Eazy E in an argument, that's pretty fucking awesome. But he can be such an ape at times.

A rather interesting update to the story is that since Precious has been away from me for a week he got accepted to not one but two high class waiter jobs, and even though he is a photographer in the mean time , he needs money. It just took a mere week away from my house to give him drive. I don't know what happens to these psychos, am I the only sane one in this world?

World Record Trampling Jim

I have never been in love with so many men in my life. I am honestly and truly in love with each man that I write about here. Every day, I come into contact with the most deluded, deranged, wonderful men and transsexuals in the greater Chicago area. It’s fucking great. Today’s gem is all about a man whose title alone describes a genius. He is referred to as World Record Trampling Jim. Now, what does this all mean? It is confusing, I know. I will break it down for you. Jim is trying to break the world record for trampling.

Hmm...that didn’t explain much.

OK, so trampling is when a bunch of girls step on you. I have done some research on this, but it’s hard to track trampling in particular, because there have been accounts of men who have actually had full semi trucks run over them and have emerged intact. I honestly don’t know the world record for weight on different parts of the body, but obviously Jim wants it throughout his body. It is actually easier to have more weight in all places - because then your body feels even - instead of having some 600-pound heifer standing on your stomach. You would want seven 600-pound heifers standing equidistant from each other so it was more even. It’s like that whole bed-of-nails theory. I have a friend who participates in one of those gay modern freak shows that actually have no freaks or tards in them (well, I’d argue that some of the people that worked for them were total tards, but not in the medical sense), and you know they have dudes who hang bricks from their nipples and shit. Well, one very popular TRICK is the bed of nails, which any jagoff can do. As long as the nails are placed a half-inch from each other, your body weight is distributed equally, and although it is not as comfortable as say, a Sleep Number Bed, a bed of nails is not quite the AWE-inducing apparatus it tries to be.

Now, I am quite pissed about this session with this fat-ass Jim and his WORLD RECORD TRAMPLING BULLSHIT. Mostly because I made NO money stepping on him. Plus, I had to do a weigh-in and actually learned my weight. Ladies and gentlemen, OK, in the past year I have gained about 15-20 pounds, which I guess is not much, and I am far from superficial, but shit, I’m used to people thinking, and usually being right, about me being on hard drugs, but since I quit the hard drugs, I gained some weight. You know, there’s always shit with the benefits.

So I walk into this room with three of my colleagues in their highest of high heels and this fat-assed buffoon, and there is, of course, a weigh-in. I SWEAR TO GOD...I NEVER want to be one of those women who say they weigh less than they do. Even though I KNOW that most ladies do it, I think it’s annoying and far too predictable. So I go in there, thinking and saying I weigh 130, and it turns out the scale says I weigh 140.

But in this session, I am expected to say I weigh MORE than I actually weigh. I mean, I was TOLD that this man wanted to honestly break the world record for trampling, and I took it with a grain of salt and a fucking laugh, like I do everything here. But as I have learned from working here, even the most ridiculous-sounding stuff is actually totally serious to certain insane gentlemen, so I UNDERESTIMATED my weight. I had the weigh-in process all backwards. I am pissed cuz I’m thinking I am fat, and WORLD RECORD TRAMPLING JIM is disappointed because I guessed low instead of high.

At this point, I want to grab this man by the head and scream in his face, “HEY ASSHOLE, HAVE YOU EVER ACTUALLY LOOKED AT THE GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS?!??!?!? FIRST OF ALL, THEY CERTAINLY DON’T TRACK TRAMPLING, SINCE IT’S PERVERSE. SECOND, THERE ARE MEN WHO CAN TAKE THOUSANDS OF POUNDS ON THEIR CHESTS, AND I HARDLY THINK THESE THREE GIRLS EVEN WEIGH CLOSE TO 500 AT THE MOST...GET A FUCKING CLUE!!!!”

Now, I never would have had this urge had he not dismissed me and told me that I did not weigh enough for his session, but he pissed me off. Another nut in the insane asylum. Another person to be obsessed with. And who dismissed me.

I am starting to get this weird jealousy thing, where I care nothing about any of these men/trannie/men/tranniewomen, but I am insulted as fuck when they do NOT want me. I feel like beating them, seriously. That, I guess, is how they make dominatrices out of these girls. They get them sooo pissed off at men and the outside world that they just want to beat the living shit out of everyone.

I’ll never be one of THOSE, though...although I’m obsessing over latex cat suits and rubber and lace and everything, I will never be referred as a DOMINATRIX, or a DOMINA, or whatever. I prefer HIGH-CLASS HOOKER or DOWNTRODDEN WHORE. “Downtrodden Whore” is probably the most accurate, but I don’t actually have sexual intercourse or a pimp, but I’m pretty much a ho, and I’m downtrodden as hell. But shit, I can’t deny the fact that I look good, at least at my job. Outside of my job, I resemble the offspring of Shakes the Clown and Zsa Zsa Gabor.

Oh, and as an appendix to the story where I threw out my shoulder beating the shit out of one of the slave’s asses: He came back the following week, and I was able to have an AMAZING “session” with him, cuz I literally could not stop hitting his fucking ass. I was yelling, “You stupid little reprobate, you made me dislocate my fucking shoulder, and now you’re going to pay.” Totally gross...cuz I hate domination. But I was still pissed about him making me hurt my arm, which was mostly my fault from getting so into beating his fat red ass and making it redder.

To wrap this whole nonsense up, I was rejected by a man—one who is so deluded that he actually thinks the highly esteemed GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS publishes an article on how many women a man can have step on him. Part of the whole reason I was so fucking angry he rejected me was because I wanted to ask him if he actually believed this World Trampling Record even existed. I’m sure I would have gotten in worlds of trouble for introducing even an inkling of the real world into Fetish Fantasyland, but then again the man is totally entitled to his fantasy, AS LONG AS I GET PAID. And I didn’t, so fuck him. I hope we get some girl in there who weighs nine hundred pounds and they knock down a wall to get her to him and feed her a whole pig, and she stands on his ribs and smashes him to death. So much for the World Record, dickface. Honestly, where the fuck do they find these people?

OK, first of all...if you want to break a world record, you call Guinness, and I doubt Guinness knows shit about fetish. Actually, I KNOW that Guinness does not know shit about fetish. Or maybe they do, but they certainly don’t address it. Which is fine. Fetish is gay. Guinness is funny. But this man wants to mix the two. Which would rule. It’s his fantasy. That’s great. But as I said, I am angry still for him not paying. But wouldn’t it be great?

If anyone can research the world record for trampling, it would be so amusing to challenge this douche to try and top it. I will continue to make up arbitrary numbers, but if I could get an actual number, it would be great. Unless it was low. Then maybe he could do it...who knows?