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Source: Thecampanil.com.

USA – Thank you for calling the Margaret Saint-Germain Dominatrix hotline — we’re sorry we missed your call. Please listen carefully as our menu options have changed. All clients must be 21 years of age or older and proper identification is required to continue. Ms. Germain Incorporated requires that a credit card number be on file to make an appointment. There is a $250 cancellation fee for appointments that are canceled with less than 24-hour notice. Please note, all emotional labor will be processed and charged for an additional fee to the account on file.

You may call Ms. Germain her highness, Ma’am, Miss or mommy, for an additional fee. Margaret Saint-Germain is no one’s mother and will not be held responsible for any maternal duties or obligations.  Please press one to speak with our mommy issues specialist. For all other childhood trauma, please press two; for all other deep-seated fears, please press three to speak with our insecurity advisor. For all other requests, please press four to speak with our new client specialist to get you set up with an appointment.

Margaret Saint-Germain is happy to induce pain for pleasure under the following guidelines: Absolutely no exchange of bodily fluids this includes (but is not limited to):  semen, saliva, urine, blood, feces and vomit. Please note we have a wide variety of chains, whips, flogs, nipple clamps, testicle crushers and many other toys available for an additional fee. Please press five to see our full menu of options. Please note all toys are properly sanitized prior to your arrival and a mask is required for the duration of any service.

Are you a racist? A misogynist? A pedophile? Are you angry at the world and/or angry at your own lack of sexual liberation and looking to take it out on a liberated queer? 

Please hang up now and take a good look in the mirror before seeking a therapist. 

In an ideal world where I could afford to hire a phone operator, this would be the greeting on my business phone’s voicemail. Yes, I am a dominatrix. I am a sex worker. I liberate my clients by telling them it’s okay. It’s okay to feel things. It’s okay to want.  It’s okay to have weird fetishes and fantasies. Because sex is great! And, it doesn’t have to be a big secret.

We all have our secrets. Some are related to desires we want to suppress, others are things we have done that we are ashamed of. In some cases, these feelings of guilt and shame are related to early childhood trauma. Listen … all of our parents messed us up at one point or another. In fact, they say many people end up in relationships with people that remind them of their parents. I’m not sure how true that is for me.  

When I was younger, I was molested. So naturally, during my adolescence and into adulthood, I went for partners that reminded me of my abuser. In his eyes, I was special. He believed in me. He thought I was beautiful while the rest of the world teased me and in return, I thought he was the most intelligent and interesting man in the world. When I got to high school, he found a new job that meant he would be moving out of state. I felt like he betrayed me and as hard as I tried, no one else could give me back that deep sense of belonging and that look that was in his eyes (which on later reflection I realize was probably the look of a psychopath.)

I began to stop engaging with people altogether. No one seemed as interesting as him. I became distant to my friends and loved ones and distracted at school; I denied the part of myself that was yearning for the comfortable pattern of abuse. I denied myself this feeling and got together with people for all the wrong reasons — superficial, financial, material — because I knew what would actually burn my soul up and I found it disturbing.  The more I hid from it, the more disconnected I became. 

I became a sex worker in part to take my power back by having sexual encounters on my own terms. In many ways, my abuser defined what I was attracted to before I had the opportunity to do so. I approached sex work like an inmate on death row approaching their last meal. Give me everything on one plate; I want to taste it all.

I met my best friend Jeffrey while I was attending The New School in New York City’s Greenwich Village and he was working at a cafe near my apartment in Brooklyn. Jeffrey was a true original — bearded, he often sported dresses or mesh tops and leggings. He had just returned from Seattle and was ready to dive fully into a new project. Bonding over our love of industrial, goth and techno music, we created Nu Goth; our response to the goth movement of the 1980s, a weekly goth/industrial themed music and arts showcase held every Friday at a different bar or art gallery in Brooklyn.

Our first event was held at an establishment called “The Good Room/Bad Room.” From the outside, it looked like an ordinary club with a large room for DJs and other performances. This was “The Good Room.” When you moved down the hallway, a special doorway and the right password would grant you access to “The Bad Room,” a tiny room lit with fluorescent pink lighting and shrouded in fog. On this particular night, Jeffrey had assured me he would take care of the guest list — all I had to do was show up.

Around 11 p.m. I arrived, and following the fog, I found my way to “The Bad Room.” A steamy closet packed to the brim with entranced dancers moving and grinding. I didn’t know who any of these people were or how Jeffrey knew them. For example, the hairy shirtless man on a leash was a stranger to me, as was his guide, a six-foot-tall woman in a bodystocking and a gas mask. Nervous, I confined myself to the perimeter of the room, observing the chaos around me.

Throughout the night, many people came up to Jeffrey and I, thanking us for how much fun they were having and I began to feel more comfortable; eventually, I started to feel at home, and I reveled in the pure expressionism and made a promise to myself that at the next event I would be more than a voyeur. From that moment on, and with the help of fairy goth-fathers like Jeffrey, my immersion into the world of kink and BDSM began. I started working at a dungeon situated below a coffee shop in the Meatpacking District before transitioning into working as an independent dominatrix. 

To quote Rihanna, “Chains and whips excite me,” and it’s true — they do excite me. However, being a dominatrix is so much deeper than the toys and the leather. It’s work — emotional labor is labor and why shouldn’t I profit from my gifts? Being a dominatrix is not about how mean you are, that’s another misconception, it actually requires a great deal of tact and vulnerability. A dom must be able to handle the release of trauma, the unabashed expression of desire, the uncovering of guilt, shame and fear.

To my clients, I must appear dependable, balanced; I am the one they call when their marriage is falling apart and when they need a good shoulder to cry on — or encouragement and practice to get them ready for the next relationship. In a way, by helping my clients, I am able to process my own traumas.

I never expected that being a sex worker would lead me on the path to healing; it just kind of happened. After a particularly rough experience in 2016, I found myself struggling to re-adjust and quit the sex industry for some time. This was very isolating and I wished I had someone to talk to who had experienced something similar. Because of this, I began to research different healing modalities. I traveled the United States, I adopted a plant-based diet, I exercised religiously, I meditated, chanted, prayed, did tantric kundalini yoga to send serpent energy up my spine — and still, that hunger was there, that yearning for some repeat of my childhood abuse.

After living like a monk for three years, one day I realized I was tired of running from myself. I decided to stop flogging myself in the town square and start living. I stopped feeling ashamed with what I do for a living and started embracing it by seeing the potential for good in it. Of course, there are many challenges with being a sex worker, like any other job, except at this job, casual Friday includes assless chaps. 

My hope for this column is to share my experiences which are often as humorous as they are disturbing. At the same time, I would like to invite others to share their experiences too or any questions they might have. Together, we can bridge the gap of information surrounding sex work and create a sense of community for workers and non-workers alike. 

To participate in this conversation, or to share an anonymous story about sex work send me an email: msweeney@thecampanil.com