Ring, ring!

Me: Hello?

Caller: Do you have a hot tub?

Okay, call me Mistress Snap- Judgment, but I can tell this is not going to be a productive phone call. Maybe it's a salesman for a Jacuzzi company, which would be fine, because if you hang up on a telemarketer they don't call you right back. But people who start out a conversation by asking me about my plumbing—either kind—definitely will. Over and over. This is not a man who's going to shoo easily. Let's see if brevity will discourage him.

Me: No.

There's a pause while he waits for me to say something—and I wait for him to hang up.

Caller: I have a fantasy about a hot tub.

Me: Yeah, but, I'm not a hot tub. I'm a pro domme.

Caller: But I want to be drowned. Can you drown me?

Why couldn't this be something clever, like someone wanting a full-immersion baptism scene? I could get into role-playing "the unscrupulous revival minister." And baptism is basically an exorcism rite, so you could easily sexy it up a bit—do some laying on of hands, call forth the demons out of people, that sort of thing.

But no. This caller's asking for a scene where I hold his head underwater as a form of breath-play. However, there are some things I don't do in scenes, and two of them are get my hair wet and engage in breath-play.

Me: No, I don't have a hot tub, and besides, I don't want to do a drown- ing scene.

Caller: We could go to that place in the University District that rents hot tubs.

Well, back when I was an escort, I certainly did gigs at the old Tubs—along with every other sex worker in Seattle. That place was Grand Central Station for working girls and clients. I'm not the squeamish type, but even I would think twice about making someone suck in much of that water—if the bacteria didn't get you, the chemicals would. However, it's a moot point.

Me: No, that place has closed down, and besides, I don't want to do a drowning scene.

Caller: You could rent one. There are places that will deliver a portable hot tub to your house for a night.

Oh yeah, I have a big picture of me out in my yard in a leaky portable hot tub, dunking Mr. Hypoxyphilia here like I'm helping him bob for apples. My neighbors would be so charmed. This gentleman is really not listening to me, is he? There's only one way to discourage someone like this: be weirder than they are.

Me: No, I don't do drowning scenes in hot tubs. I only do them in baptismal fonts. And only with people who've accepted Jesus Christ as their personal savior.

There's dead silence. Then—hallelujah!—he hangs up. I believe in miracles.