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?

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.

Injuries at Work

When I got this job, of course I did not know what to expect. I did say that I would be a slave for people, but as of yet, no one has come in and hurt me. I thought that I might sustain some kind of bruising from getting spanked or something. But this past week I have sustained two very outlandish injuries from working at this job. There is no insurance here, and of course no workman’s comp. I think I may have to change this because honestly, after this week I am starting to be scared. The worst aspect of all this is how the fuck do you explain to people how you got injured? Yes, I could say it was a job-related injury, and then of course whoever asks where I work, and I reply a fetish dungeon, I have no idea what they would think. And these two injuries that I sustained this week were not normal at all to the job. I think that some may have the idea (as I did when I first started working there) that there would be this constant in-and-out parade of perverts I would service nonstop and make shitloads of money. I have learned this is a fallacy. Most of my eight-hour day is spent isolating myself on one of the floors, opening a magazine in my lap so it looks like I’m reading, then passing out and drooling all over myself. NO ONE ever bothers me. They keep all the girls separated. Every two to three hours the telephone will ring or someone will knock at the door and I’ll wake up suddenly and get lipstick smeared across my face or get startled and act like I was doing something important like studying the ins and outs of bondage or practicing dressing up or how to whip people proficiently or how to aim my piss at a target or something. Who the fuck knows?

I should start lifting weights during my off time, because last week I literally threw my shoulder out spanking this “house slave.” Of course I had spanked people before, but this one was literal nonstop spanking for thirty fucking minutes. NON-FUCKING-STOP. I really don’t know how he/she took it. I thought it was great when it was going on, so I think I was ignoring the fact that I was getting massively injured at the time. I really was getting into it, and this little girl/boy took endless fucking slaps with this paddle. Her fucking ass was so red it scared me. But she kept asking for more. I was wondering how the fuck much could she take and was trying to challenge her, so at the time I guess I was ignoring the fact that I barely use my right arm because the most I lift is my gallon bottle of Sunny Delight to mix my vodka with at night. Or a pizza box from Little Caesars. It was very satisfying when it was all over. And li’l Amber’s ass was a bright shade of red. But as I was putting her sweaty corset and skirts into the laundry, I noticed that my shoulder was not working properly. I could not fucking use it.

This went on for three fucking days. I don’t mean three days where my shoulder hurt. I mean three days where I literally could not move it. Then there is the first major problem of my significant other, who knows what my job is but refuses to ever talk about it, and now suddenly I can’t use one arm, and what the hell do I say? Others don’t know what I do. I could say it was a job-sustained injury, but what could have happened when most people think I work at a paper place doing graphic design? At one point, after three days of not being able to use my arm I thought about going to the emergency room. I mean nothing was fucking working. I’m on a ton of pain meds and stuff and am not supposed to feel anything. I think someone could literally throw a knife into my back and I’d think it was a bug bite. I have a very high pain tolerance.

But this was horrible. I didn’t go in because I had no idea of what I would say. I’m not embarrassed of what I do; I think it would be hilarious to tell a doctor that I threw out my shoulder doing a half-hour of constant spanking on this 23-year-old-boy in a corset and a skirt after he spent two hours cleaning the jizz, ass juice, period blood, and old-man sweat off of everything in the three-floor fetish playground I work in. But I don’t have insurance, so I did not go. Finally today - nearly a week later - I started to be able to move it again. That was the first injury of the week. I think that they need to come up with some sort of workman’s comp at this place, because two out of three days I sustained job-related sicknesses and injuries. And it is just-so goddamned hard to explain to the public at large why I am suffering. What can I say?

The second injury came when a fellow came in for a golden shower. Like I have said, I have no problem peeing all over these douchebags, and I actually really like doing it. Plus it pays a lot to pee. Since I’ve started working there I’ve developed this complex now that every time I do urinate, I think, this is worth about $200 dollars and it’s literally going down the toilet. But there can’t always be some eager pervert waiting to drink your pee waiting under you. Some refer to themselves as human toilets. I would have one if they paid my rent. That would be great.

I digress. Like usual, I was up on the second floor drooling on myself when the phone startled me and I wiped the drool off my face as I answered it and I was told to start drinking water because I would be peeing on someone soon. Wonderful. I thought. I already thought I might have to pee, so this was good. I did have one concern. I was on my period at the time and I had not yet done anything like that and I know some people have a problem with that but I was instructed to put a tampon in and like tuck in the string and pee and I’d be fine. That seemed sensible enough. So I started drinking water. A fucking ton. I must have guzzled eight glasses in 30 minutes. Then I got downstairs to the basement where the man was. I had to give him an enema (another money-maker which is easy as hell) and was instructed I’d have to pee on him in 15 minutes. I totally was about to burst then. It sucked. But I kept drinking water. Now the fun part came. This fellow was to have just about every girl there pee on him. There were four of us to do it. All of us are extremely proficient in this.

I was up first. I had to pee so bad and I talked it up so much and to my surprise NOT A DROP would come out. I told him he had to beg. He started begging. I couldn’t. Plus there were girls after me who I was sure had to pee, so I just gave up my place in line.

The second girl comes up. She has been drinking water for an hour now as well. I’ve seen her pee on sooo many people. She gets the same thing. She can’t fucking go. She tells him it’s all his fault (of course) and tells him he’s not begging good enough. I’m thinking this is hilarious. So she steps out of line. The begging starts to get funny at this point. The man really does not know what to say. He’s like, “I want it so bad!!!! PLEASE I WANT TO BE A TOILET!!! PLEASE PEE ON ME!!!” The third girl comes up. Another proficient pisser, she manages to go like a drop in his mouth, and then it stops. She’s waiting over his face trying to pee. I suddenly get the urge that I’m going to fucking burst so I go over his genitals and am gonna just go all over them. But then I get stuck again!!! This has never happened. Then everyone is yelling at this poor man to pee.

All of a sudden it goes silent and the man yells in his most desperate voice, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE JUST PEE ON ME!??!?!?!?!” At this statement I have to duck into another room because I am laughing so hard. But I am starting to get this terrible headache and am like totally fucking waterlogged. I really don’t know who’s more frustrated, myself or this man. I am ruining my bladder for this motherfucker.

Finally we decide to get out the potty chair. We put it over his face. It’s my turn again. It has been decided that if we are sitting maybe the peeing will be easier. I still can’t fucking pee, and now I have added a cup of hot coffee to the mix. At this point I am saved by the tampon. All of a sudden, he starts squirming and says, “NO, NO, NO, PLEASE PLEASE NO!!!” It’s really hard to tell in these cases if they’re actually serious or not because they always say no, and there is a code word for when things get too out of control and he’s not using it. He starts to say, “NO, YOU’RE ON YOUR PERIOD... I CAN’T.” Thank Fucking God. I got out of that one. The three other girls are still struggling, and a small trickle of urine ends up on this man. It’s hilarious. I have never seen anything like this. It was beautiful. My period totally got me off the hook with this one.

This was a time when I REALLY wish I had the tape recorder, though. It took literally everything in this man to yell, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE JUST PEE ON ME?” It was classic. I felt a little bad for him for a second. But it was more funny than anything. Then I had to deal with this crazy headache.

Of course I could not tell my significant other when I came home that I had a headache because I was waterlogged because I drank too much water to try and piss on this guy and couldn’t. My brain was fucking drowned. It took me two days to get rid of the headache. I never knew this job could be so dangerous. I asked one of my coworkers there who is a med student, and she said that it was a long-term “brain freeze” type thing from drinking a ton of cold water and then hot coffee and that I had to stay out of lighted areas and relax as much as I could.

Jesus Christ. These people are the ones that are supposed to hurt. Not me. Luckily I got paid for that golden shower. He was the wiener that was scared of a tampon. Dude, if you have four chicas fucking pissing straight into your mouth and you’re swallowing it, why in the hell would a non-bloody tampon bother you? People are so goddamned weird. You like shit, you like piss, you like enemas, you like ass-fucking, but girls on their period...that’s just a little over the line. What a weirdo.

Tampon Dave

Here is another curious story of a weird-ass yokel who came into the sluthouse where I work. First, I must ruin some type of illusion. I really wish that it was CONSTANTLY a barrage every minute of every shift of each of these fellows, but for the most part there is a lot of time where I try to hide and sleep. Then someone finds me and tells me to do something, and I do it. Don’t get me wrong—I meet one of these extremely bizarre lovely fools almost every shift, but unfortunately there is usually only one or two. This will increase soon if I do keep this job and they put me on the website, and then weirdos from all over can call and pay unheard-of amounts of money to get barely an hour of my precious time. And they will, and I will get many more bizarro wastoid fat plugs cumming all over their bloated stomachs for me. But here is this week’s highlight.

OCTOBER XXX, 2007, SESSION 1 OF THE DAY.

TAMPON DAVE.

This cute little monster was already in with one of the other girls. I was to come into the session merely to take Polaroids. I walk into my manager’s office, and she over-excitedly asks me, “Are you on your period?” I say no. And all her perkiness leaves her. I am already getting excited about who the fuck I was going to get to see this time. Turns out, if I did, I could have sold this gem of a fat lovely man my used tampon for a cool $200. Imagine how much money all these girls are wasting just menstruating and fucking throwing their tampons in the garbage (or in the toilet like I do, only in other people’s houses) when there are men like Tampon Dave who will pay good, hard-earned cash for them. The man is a tampon collector. I already love him. I think it was the first time I really wanted to be on my period in my life. As a side note, some of you may or may not know that I lived with a man who stole my tampons, but it was more in a stalker-psycho sort of way. And it was very much the fact that they were MINE. Tampon Dave collects many ladies’ tampons, and don’t ask me why the hell he does it. But I think it’s great.

The Manager (I call her manager, OK? She is the Head Mistress, but I just hate all this Mistress talk) then starts to give me a summary of the gentleman I am about to see. It is short. She tells me to lie to him and act as if I am way younger. She just tells me that he is very obsessed with describing the inner workings of the cock as well as the vagina. I honestly thought this was some bizarre exaggeration and sort of put it in the back of my head, right up until I knocked on the door and barely introduced myself while his cheeks get really rosy and he excitedly grabs the diagram of the penis pump he is currently wearing and starts to explain EVERYTHING to me.

I, of course, am interested, but I act as if I have never seen a penis before. I just try to go with this one and get as much info as possible. I ask him, “Does that thing make it longer or what?” He gets excited and says it makes it hard and then starts to divulge all sorts of info about the cock. He points everything out on his little diagram, like where the urethra is and where the head of the penis is. He explains why sucking on it is called “giving head”—because you’re sucking on the head of the penis. I always thought it was because you were using your head. But I have no fucking idea. I just act like he knows everything. And I do not hesitate to continue to ask, as I would love to listen to this man talk about the functions of the cock all day long. As he talks, though, I start to get the impression that not all of his information is completely correct. In fact I am sure of it. This makes the situation more hilarious, and I continue to ask him questions and listen to his outlandish answers.

I notice that he has several bags and one is filled with pharmaceutical bottles. I’m thinking, I wonder what kind of wonderful anti-psychotics or narcotics are in there, but then he reveals what the little bottles contain. He pulls one out and proudly tells me, “This is two milkings’ worth.” Milking is a really weird, gross way of saying jacking someone off. It is the term that our place uses. I really like it because it likens the man to a cow and his penis to an udder. I ask if that’s a lot. He says it is. Each of these containers is filled with a different amount of jizz. I really, really want to swipe one and put it into a turkey baster and play a real mean trick on one of my passed-out girlfriends and have them give birth to a litter of baby Tampon Daves. It gets better from here.

He pulls another instrument out of the bag. This is one of those things that when I used to go to the doctor and get physicals, they’d stick in my ear to look for infections. It has like a magnifying glass on one end and a really little hole on the other. He instructs me to stick this into his penis hole and ask me what I see. I am sooo excited. What the fuck is this man thinking?!?!? I guess I could see why this could turn someone on. Only because it’s fucking awesome. He keeps asking me if I see any foam. I really can’t see shit except a big blur of pink. Dammit, Tampon Dave, I’m a fucking fetish whore, not a doctor. A coworker looks in and shoots me this look like, “What the fuck are you supposed to be seeing?” and I sort of shrug my shoulders. Then she says, “Oh yeah, there it is, can you see it?” and suddenly I am able to see whatever the fuck he’s talking about or making up. I would say I saw the Virgin Mary herself inside his dickhole if he was paying the right price. This guy must be nuts, allowing these strange girls to wield important medical equipment in his most sensitive of his parts. What the fuck is he thinking? Anyway, it makes me happy.

As I said in the beginning, I am only here to take Polaroids, but this guy is totally getting off on a new friend to listen to him go on and on about the cock. They even have to tell me to leave the room because I am giving him too much for his money. I take some photos. He gets five. I take three. The first three are boring photos of the girl folding his fat stomach up to reveal his semi hard-on. Wonderful. I went to four years of college for this!!!! But honestly, I don’t think there would be a single subject I’d rather be photographing. And I’m learning so much false weird information about a man’s penis. It’s almost like taking a biology class in an insane asylum. Since I’m socializing waaay too much and there is a “special act” that needs to be done before the two other photos are taken, I, sadly, must leave for a few minutes to dwell on the amazing wonderful scene I have just witnessed. Before I leave, Dave instructs me to find an envelope in his bag. He explains it that this is JUST FOR ME, and that it is extremely important that I receive it. I am hoping it is cash, but I cannot find it. He seems upset, but I explain that I will be back very soon to take the remaining two photos.

I am wondering what this “special act” is for about two minutes when the girl runs out and asks me frantically for some type of Saran Wrap to use as a dental dam. “OH GOD NO GROOOSSSSS!!!!” is all I can think. But I get it for her. I mean, if he is this weird quack who knows all about the cock and apparently the vadge as well, maybe he can munch a mound pretty well. But God, I don’t know if I want to find out...ever.

I am hearing my coworker in there with Tampon Dave, and she is moaning and her moaning becomes a scream, and she seems to be going just nuts, and then it slows down. While this is going on, another girl, Miss Monique, walks up the stairs and tells me she’s going to go for a tampon sale. She knocks on the door and is in there for about five minutes. She comes out carrying one of the precious prescription bottles full of Tampon Dave’s seed. She looks upset. “He wouldn’t fucking buy my tampon,” she explains. “The cocksucker tried to offer me this fucking thing of his semen instead. I told him if he won’t take my tampon, I don’t want his fucking semen.” Then she slams the little bottle down on the counter and stomps down the stairs. I start laughing so hard. I am thinking, when in the hell in the world would you ever hear that statement again—“If he won’t take my tampon, I don’t want his fucking semen”? Of course she wanted money, not semen. But God, what a great thing to happen.

At this point, I think it might be OK for me to reenter the room to take the remaining two photos. I look at the other photos, and they look so amazing. He has one of those extremely old Polaroid cameras, and the photos look like they’re from the seventies. This time, he starts to tell me how after a man cums, there is still a bunch of semen left in some reservoir or something, and he keeps pushing more and more drops of semen out of his penis. Then he does something really gross. He takes out his big stained briefs and shoves them really close to my face, and he says, “You see this?”

I assuming he means the huge yellow stain on the front. I say yes. He says, “That’s when you can tell that your boyfriend has been cheating on you, if he has a yellow stain on his underwear like this. This is from the semen that probably dripped out of his penis after he was fucking another girl.” My coworker finally challenges him, inquiring, “What if he was just jacking off and that happened?” She seemed to upset Tampon Dave with this rebuttal. He says, defeated, “Yeah, I guess you could find out if he’s jacking it without you as well.” I can’t believe she challenged him!!! She’s got fucking balls.

I take the two more photos. They’re gross. One of her sitting on his face. Another one of him looking fat and even more gross because he’s standing next to this girl like a quarter his age. But of course this is what he likes. I tell Tampon Dave that he must be real good at oral sex since I heard my coworker moaning and screaming from the other room. He says, very arrogantly, “I know the vagina very well.” She, of course, agrees. I wonder if he does. I still don’t want to find out. I finally, sadly, say my goodbyes to Tampon Dave. I have so much more to talk to him about. But, fortunately, that is not the end of him for me. Even for that day.

About an hour later, as I am still reflecting on the day’s events, I receive the envelope that Tampon Dave was looking for in his bag. I am honestly, like I said, hoping it was a large sum of money, but it was something almost as great. It is a really faded photo of his very fat baby potbelly and him holding his hard cock. I was very happy to receive it. I hung it on my wall. He is a regular, so I will be seeing him again. But I can see him whenever I want now that I have this photo. I think I’m going to collect all of my tampons for the next couple of months and string them up like garland and give them to him right before Christmas to string around the Christmas tree. He should love that.

Sissy Sally

It’s been a month now...a very fast month, since I have been sticking things in fat men, peeing on them, and calling them all sorts of wonderful names. I’ve met trannies, sissies, slaves, doms, masters, and fetishists of every kind imaginable. I have always lived a fast life, but I feel like in the last month I have been thrust into this world of complete perversity, and as I explained earlier, it is much more difficult to return to regular life when I am not working. Sometimes I’ll see a man (and it’s always men, because those are the only clientele) on the street that I don’t know and I picture him in panties, getting beaten and pissed on. This doesn’t happen constantly, but it happens randomly, and it is uncontrollable. I’m sure I’ll have all sorts of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) haunting me after doing this, but, hey, I’m having fun and making money. I love CJ because it is the only forum where I can write the most foul stories without getting censored or being told to “tone it down.”

As you may or may not know, I am keeping a diary of every session that happens with me in this place. I try to keep them as detailed as possible, but sometimes they’re just vague outlines. After a month of part-time work, I have a notebook full. “Stinky Stan” still remains my favorite gentleman who has visited. The next one comes in a very close second.

“Sissy Sally” and I did not engage very much one-on-one, but the session as a whole was definitely, without a doubt, the most sickening atrocity that I have witnessed there thus far. She came in my first week of working and has stuck with me ever since, and I doubt I will ever forget her.

I will copy my diary entry here, but I will add certain things for explanation’s sake. I will try to keep it as true to the diary form as I can.

OCTOBER XXX 2007 SESSION 2 OF THE DAY.

SISSY SALLY.

Sally was Monique’s slut. Monique is a lady who works there, and I guess as you work there longer, you accumulate “sluts” who want you to teach them to be a woman. Please don’t be confused. Sally is biologically, and I am pretty sure in most of his daily life, a male. He is only a sissy slut when he comes to visit us. She is definitely my kind of girl. She could really take the terribly foul stuff. Oh, and was she whiny. She was a whiny little bitch from hell. I was instantly in love.

Before I went up to see Sally, the Headmistress gave me a short briefing. (I really hate all this Mistress/Master language, but they force me to use it, so I go with it.) She told me that I was going to be giving a G.S. (golden shower) to Sally. For you innocents whom I really envy, a golden shower is when you piss on someone. For me, it means good money for taking a fucking piss. Honestly, as a secret side note, I am on some very heavy medication and often wonder when I piss in someone’s mouth if they get some kind of high from it. I think I might research this. If anyone knows anything about this, please tell me. I know it happens with some hallucinogens, but I don’t know if it happens with tranquilizers and narcotics. I digress. I was also told that Sally is a “little slut bitch who is like the kind of girl in junior high school who always wanted to get into the cool kids’ parties, but who never got invited.” I could identify. If only this meant being pissed on, shit on, and puked on in jr. high, I believe it would have made for a much more interesting experience.

I enter the salon where all of this is happening. There is a bathroom in the salon where Sally is lying in the bathtub, but I have not seen her yet. I just smell the very strong odor of urine and hear people yelling, “Look at you, Sally. You disgusting slut!!!! You make me want to puke!!!” I am enjoying this thoroughly and cannot wait to see Sally. I am continuing to drink water as fast as I can because I really don’t have to pee, and this place keeps annoying me because they tell me I have to do a golden shower like ten minutes before I’m supposed to, and a girl needs some time to gear up to pee on someone. I’m not pee-shy, but I have to get something to come out first.

There is a male slave I almost never see who has some weird role where he is also a client but works for the dungeon since he is the only male on staff. He is usually described as a “Master,” or at least on the website he is, and he mostly works with couples, I guess. His getup is far different than the scary corporal master I saw on the website. He looks and talks EXACTLY like Mr. Slave from South Park. He is balding, with a handlebar mustache, sporting leather straps across his chest, blush on his pretty little cheeks, and he talks exactly like a flaming homo. He asks me if I am Latina. I gather he is trying to make small talk. I always wished I was Latina, so I say yes and he smiles. I gather that this man is here to play the perfect slave that Sally is to look up to, but he is also there to shit on her.

Monique walks out of the bathroom after yelling at Sally and starts shoving this yogurt mix into her own mouth while explaining that she is going to puke on Sally. This is getting more and more wonderful. I just thought that I was going to give a G.S., and here I am in the midst of someone who is about to get pissed on, shit on, and vomited on by three girls.

Most of the trolls that walk in and out these doors are by far the fattest pockmarked hairy-assed monkeys that I’ve ever seen. Despite the whiny voice, I was definitely expecting an old hairy man with a potbelly and welts on his face. It is time for me to go into the bathroom after so much anticipation to see Sally.

To my surprise, Sally is this skinny younger man with a nice body wearing a bra and panties. He is completely wet, covered in piss, and he fucking smells worse than a urinal-puck sandwich. He’s doing a cute little dance in the tub. I introduce myself and explain that I will pee on him. It is so lucky that this is a session that I am allowed to laugh in, because for the life of me I would not be able to hold my laughter in.

He lays down to get the “golden nectar” that I am going to give him, and I step over the tub. He gets off on how much I tell him what a disgusting piece of turd he is, and I guess it’s the whole atmosphere, because I usually pride myself on my ability to piss all over anyone at the drop of the hat, but I can’t piss. Sally is waiting so patiently in the tub, and I am trying to piss as much as I possibly can, but all I can do is fart. The weird thing is that I NEVER fart. I know people say that, but I really have nothing to hide here. I really never fart. I pretend this is completely planned and try to push more urine out but can only fart again. I yell at Sally to smell my farts and I ask her what they smell like, and he says that they smell like “chocolate-chip cookies.” HAH. Oh, there is something very wrong here. Monique instructs Sally to perhaps sing a song to me. Sally starts to sing, in her terribly whiny voice, “Singin’ in the Rain.”

That is it. I cannot stop laughing, and I don’t think my body could function after the third fart and Sally’s whiny rendition of “Singin’ in the Rain.” I realize that I cannot yet pee, and I explain to Sally that she is simply too disgusting for me to even urinate on and that perhaps I will be back later. I know the logic to that particular statement probably makes no sense, but I think it got Miss Sally off a little bit, and it bought me more time. I want to piss on Sally so bad. I, once again, think I am in love.

I go into the salon again, and of course, it instantly comes on...I have to pee BAD. Like I can’t possibly hold it and am doing damage to my bladder. Only now I have to wait for Miss Monique to puke on her and Master/Slave man to shit on her, and then for her to lick the shit off of him.

As clean as you try to keep a place like this, it is virtually impossible. I always think that if I got one of those lights they use on Dateline that they take into hotel rooms to look for semen and gross stuff, like those glow lights, the whole place would shine like the sun. I doubt there would actually be a spot that didn’t contain a ton of shit, piss, cum, spit, vomit, ass juice, period blood, regular blood, and every type of disease ever. We clean EVERYTHING with bleach and alcohol, but when people like Sally come in we, of course, seem to have a small fly problem. This small fly problem turns into a swarm in the salon and especially the bathroom where Sally is.

The smell is getting worse and worse, and I really don’t know how long I can take it. I have to hurry up and piss before I accidentally puke on Sally for free. I run in there, yell at Sally to open her mouth wide, and I piss like a fucking fountain. Sally laps it up happily. I am pissing so much that she starts gagging and I yell at her not to spit it out. The thought passes through my head again about how many meds I am on and the possibility of overdose through drinking so much of my pee. I guess I will just have to wait at this point to see if she goes to sleep or dies or something. I run out of the room and wash off my legs.

When I enter the salon again, Monique is retching to vomit and it is really making me sick. I hear it. It gets all over Sally, who is now standing up shaking her skinny ass back and forth seductively. Now comes the climax. The slave shits on Sally and then Sally must rub it on his dick and lick it off. I, unfortunately, do not witness this, but I hear it. And smell it. Although the buzz from the flies is so goddamned loud it is hard to hear anything, I hear Sally whining and sucking and eating the shit.

Intermittently throughout this entire session, I am going into the bathroom to laugh at and harass Sally. I go in there a bit after that, and here she stands in all her glory. She is wearing a mismatched bra and panty set, wet head-to-toe from four girls’ piss. Covered in smears of vomit. Mostly pink and brown vomit. And then there are shit smears...everywhere. Sally has shit all around her mouth, sort of like a clown. It is a vision of glory. Of course there is no camera. The girls start taunting her with the possibility of sending her out onto the busy street just like that. I am wondering if this could possibly happen, but I realize this is all a fantasy. I WANT it to be real. The party is then over, and Sally is forced to shower in the shit-and-piss-covered mess she made.

I REALLY wanted to see how she cleaned up. I mean, she must have blown (no pun intended) over a grand for that fun little time. At one point she said that she had no more money and that her wallet was in the car. Miss Monique asked Sally if she could check Sally’s pants for more money and pulled out this HUGE wad of cash, and Sally was more than eager to give up every penny of it. She was having so much fun. I’m almost positive Sally is an important politician of some sort. It almost makes too much sense. I really cannot take the smell anymore, and I have decided that this is the only type of real party. I love Sissy Sally and cannot wait until she comes in again. I have done a lot of humiliation play, but Miss Sally took it to a whole new level. The whining, the mismatched bikini, the singing, the flies—I could go on forever. It was a vision of beauty.