Knocked Up

The awful Texas abortion law inspired this piece of writing.

I’ve had an abortion, much to my surprise. I say “much to my surprise” because by the time I needed the procedure, in my late 30s, I seriously doubted that I’d ever have an unplanned pregnancy. I started having PIV sex when I was 19 years old and, barring a year here and there when I was heartbroken or in between relationships or heavily drinking, have been sexually active ever since. And I’d never been pregnant. I’d never even had a pregnancy scare. Never bought a pregnancy test, nothing.

That’s right. I had sex, made love, and fucked around for almost two decades without getting knocked up or even contracting an STI. A lot of my female friends couldn’t believe it. One of them even suggested I must be infertile.

I attribute my success to a serious, even religious dedication to using condoms, along with ten years on The Pill, two years on Depo (“The Shot”) and about eight or ten uses of Plan B, the “morning after pill,” which I always used when the condom broke or when I had sex in an alcohol-induced blackout and could not recall whether condoms were used or not.

(Soapbox break: condoms work, kids. I’ve bought my own and carried them with me whenever I haven’t been in a monogamous, or at least fluid-bonded, relationship almost my entire adult life, and they never let me down. Ladies, make your date wrap it up every time you have intercourse.)

But it finally happened: I got pregnant. My luck ran out, and when it did, it ran out in spectacular fashion. It’s never the right time for an unplanned pregnancy, of course, but in this case, I got pregnant under the worst possible circumstances I can think of outside of rape in a war refugee camp.

The Collector and I had decided that we were going to have a baby in a few years when I turned 40. I know that’s old to have a baby, but it’s no longer rare in this day and age, and we were going to use a surrogate anyway, even though the doctors said that there was no reason I shouldn’t be able to conceive (I have a phobia of childbirth and the Collector didn’t want me to ruin my figure). As I’ve mentioned in other posts on this blog, I’d had my eggs frozen and the Collector had been to the clinic a few times to make his genetic contribution. The ingredients necessary to make a little Margo embryo (or Margo embryos, rather–the doctors said they’d need to make several in the hope that at least one of them would stick, as it were) were floating in a vat of liquid nitrogen. We were looking at surrogates.

Things were going pretty great (if you can call our batshit relationship “pretty great”) before everything suddenly, spectacularly imploded. I honestly don’t know if my relationship with the Collector would have survived the implosion–I think it might have, I really do–but it did not survive my pregnancy.

The family unit was devastated one weekend when we were all together at the family house in his home country. The boys flew back to their mutual schools–I never saw the Younger One again in person–and the Collector and I fucked off back to NYC. I was pretty shell-shocked and spent a lot of time staring out the windows or at the television (I watched the entire series of Breaking Bad and I hardly remember any of it). The Collector spent the next month worried about me, trying to pretend that everything was under control, and raging at his elder son. The brothers were not talking for the first time in their lives, and the entirety of what I’d done, what I’d let myself be talked in to, threw me into a very bad place, mentally and emotionally. I went to the psychiatrist and got on Wellbutrin. I suggested family therapy to the Collector and he told me that there wasn’t a shrink in New York who would take our case if we were honest about our lifestyle and the things that had happened. He was probably right.

I didn’t think much of the first missed period because I actually bled a little at the time I was supposed to. Spotting. I thought it was an exceptionally light period, but still a period. I don’t bleed nearly as heavily as I did when I was younger.

If there were other signs that I was pregnant, I missed them. I had a lot on my mind. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I had no morning sickness.

I missed my second period and didn’t even pay attention until I was over a week late. The thought that I could be pregnant had never even crossed my mind. I wasn’t looking out for it. One day I noticed the box of tampons under the sink and it occurred to me that I hadn’t used them in a long time. A long time.

One day when the Collector was watching me get dressed, he said “Your breasts look bigger.”

“Do they? I hadn’t noticed,” I said, which was true, but suddenly I did notice, and he was right: my breasts were fuller. They were flowing over my bra cups. I chalked it up to hormones; pre-menstruation bloat.

That planted the seed in my head, though, and after I didn’t bleed for a few more days I waited until he was at work and walked to Duane Reade and purchased a pregnancy test for the first time in my life.

Positive. Fucking positive. I sat on the toilet lid in the bathroom blinking at it owlishly for what might have been an hour. I was too shocked to cry.

To me? To me? Pregnancy had happened…TO ME?!

I couldn’t fucking believe it, reader! Could not…fucking…believe it! I was as shocked as if I’d found out I had cancer. I felt as if something freakishly improbable had happened to me, like I’d been struck by a falling meteor, or witnessed a dinosaur walking down the street outside the window, instead of having my body do exactly what it was engineered to do under the right set of circumstances: procreate.

When I could get up off the toilet lid, I walked to the kitchen and drank the half-full bottle of white wine that was in the fridge. When I could piss again, I took the other test, and it was positive, too.

I wondered if maybe I had a faulty box of tests, you know, broken tests, and went back to the drug store to buy more tests of a different brand. I stopped on the way home to buy some little airline bottles of vodka, which I sucked down with fruit juice as I sat on the sofa staring at the art on the walls, waiting for my kidneys to make more urine.

Positive. The tests were all positive.

I took all the tests and wrappers and the empty vodka bottles and threw them away in a trash can down the block. Then I lay in my bed in my room in the dark and wondered what the hell I was going to do, drunk (but not drunk enough) and staring up at the ceiling.

When the Collector came home I told him that I was sick and just wanted to try to sleep, but he noticed the wine was gone from the fridge and came in and sat on the bed and asked me what was going on.

Did I tell him? No, I didn’t.

I didn’t tell him that I was pregnant because I didn’t know who the father was.

Yeah, yeah, I can hear it from the peanut gallery now: Boo! Hiss! But I assure you, I hadn’t been cheating. You can take my word for that–besides the fact that cheating is sleazy, it would have been impossible to do in that relationship even if I wanted to. I simply didn’t have the privacy.

What I had was a Great Big Problem.

When I Went Back (V)

I agreed to sleep in bed with him, before it all happened. He promised me that he wouldn’t pressure me for sex or even touch me if I didn’t want him to–he just wanted to lay in the bed with me.

Naturally I was skeptical–for a man to sleep in bed with a woman he’s attracted to and not try to initiate sex with her is very difficult. But I thought, let’s test him. I also wanted it. That constitutes an admission.

We both wore clothes. Normally we sleep nude. He had the PJs he wears when his sons visit, and I wore a tank top and shorts. He spooned me and it made me feel small. He also had a boner, which of course I felt, but he was as good as his word.

I’m so self-contained, you know–like I don’t need anyone for anything…? But sometimes the body craves contact. Nobody touches me.

The next day, I agreed to have sex with him. After dinner–as usual, a delicious meal! Pork loin. People in his country eat a lot of pork. I declined the bathtub but we went to his bedroom, and that is when he attacked me.

I don’t mean attacked like “RAAWR! I have you in my clutches, you sexy beast!” Not where everyone is having fun, and one partner is just pouncing on the other.


He did not even wait for us to get undressed. I was wearing a dress. And it hurt, because my body was not ready to be penetrated. I tried to push him off of me but of course I couldn’t, he’s much too strong. He was hitting me, and we did not agree to any BDSM activity. He punched me. He’d never hit me with a closed fist EVER.

I yelled, “You’re hurting me!”

He screamed back, “I’m hurting YOU? You hurt me! You hurt my son! If you ever hurt me like that again, I’ll kill you!”

After it was over, he was sorry immediately. IMMEDIATELY. And I just lay there like a clubbed fucking fish.

“Margo, it will never happen again. I am so sorry. I never did anything like this in my life. Do not be afraid of me. It will never happen again.”

I left 48 hours later, and I’ve been running ever since.

When I Went Back (IV)

I was into my second week back, and I’d become increasingly comfortable with him. Relaxed. We held hands at home and walking down the street, we snuggled on the sofa, when we were laughing about something he’d turn to me and kiss me on the cheek and it all felt perfectly natural. I was also starting to reciprocate his sexual attraction–it was impossible not to; the pain and circumstances that caused me to leave were tremendous, but now that they were diminishing, my former feelings were coming back, and he knew it and I knew he knew it. I was still sleeping in my own room, but he was acting in increasingly seductive ways: walking around with his shirt off, pushing up his shirtsleeves to expose his arms (which he knew I found sexy), inviting me into the kitchen when he cooked so that he could show off and handle knives in front of me. We’d go to the pool and play a game where we’d throw a toy into the water and see who could retrieve it from the bottom of the pool first and then wrestle over it, our bodies touching. I admit that I’d stopped wearing the conservative one-piece I always wore when his sons visited and started wearing my bikini. I was sexually frustrated. I’d had virtually no sex in over a year.

One night over dinner (so many things happen over dinner in his home) the Collector asked me straight up if I’d been with another man since I left him, and I told him the truth: I’d gone on four dates with a nurse I met online who claimed to be a Top. He was handsome, had a nice condo, was a pretty good conversationalist, and was even age-appropriate, which is rare for me. And he was a Top. The problem was that he was inexperienced (and I know, I know, compared to me, practically everyone is inexperienced). He knew what he wanted but didn’t know how to do a lot of it well, and the sad truth is that I spent the time comparing him to the Collector, which was shitty of me, but I couldn’t help it. I stopped dating him because he slammed me up against a wall and wrenched my arm behind my back, which would have been fine except that he did it much too hard and gave me a minor black eye (it wasn’t really black, just red). But the point is, I told him on the telephone the next day, if I hadn’t turned my head to the side at the last second he would have broken my nose. Then he would have had to drive me to the hospital and we would have had to have a very awkward conversation with a social worker.

“I like you, but to do this I need to be able to trust you, and I can’t trust that you won’t damage me accidentally,” I told him.

“You could teach me!” he wailed on the other end of the line. He’d been tremendously apologetic about my face.

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t have the time and energy for that right now. I know you’ll find someone else. You have a lot going for you. Just go slower in the future,” I told him, and cut the nurse loose.

The Collector wasn’t upset that I’d been with another man–long-time readers will know that he’s not the jealous type, especially since he was the superior Dom in the story. I always felt that I really was lucky with the Collector in that regard–for most men, non-monogamy is a deal-breaker, or else they fetishize having their girlfriends fuck around.

“What about you?” I asked. I have to admit that I was honestly a little curious. I’m not jealous whatsoever and never have been, but the Collector is, surprisingly, naturally monogamous, and since he’d been stalking pursuing me relentlessly ever since I left, I wondered if he’d been dating.


“But it would be so easy for you,” I said. It’s true. Besides being richer than Croesus, he’s handsome and knows how to dress. “You could have the most beautiful women in New York.”

“I’ve had the most beautiful women in New York. After you, they all bore me. And I have been too busy to hunt them anyway.”

“You could have hired a working girl.”

I DID hire a working girl,” he shot back. Meaning me. The Collector was a client. That’s how we met–when I was still pro-subbing. He answered my ad on Backpage (God I miss Backpage. I miss Backpage so, so much.).

That shut me up for a minute. I couldn’t meet his eyes so I looked at my plate. Foie gras.

“I needed to leave, Collector,” I whispered.

“Let me tell you what you need, Margo,” he said, and I looked up at him, startled. For the first time since I’d come back, his voice was hard. Suddenly he looked very intense. In fact, he looked a little pissed off. “What you need is a dominant man to make your important decisions for you. What you need is for him to protect you from yourself. What you need is, despite your considerable intellect, which you know I enjoy, is to sometimes be treated like an empty-headed little child with a box of matches who is going to inadvertently burn her own fucking house down.”

First, you have to remember that the man almost never swears. The Surgeon swore like a gangster in a Martin Scorsese film, but the Collector is much more elegant. I was suddenly anxious because it’s like being a kid–when your parents were swearing at you, you knew they were pissed and you were gonna get it. His body was tense and his husky-dog blue eyes were blazing.

“I know exactly what you need, Margo, so why don’t you be a good little girl and let me give it to you?”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a child,” I protested, trying to stand up for myself a little and keep some dignity. My voice sounded weak to my own ears.

“You are a child. You’re my child, or have you forgotten how hard I tried to make you happy and indulge you and give you the childhood you never had?” he snarled.

It was true. . He had tried. He’d put a great deal of effort into it, in fact, and he certainly knew me and understood me better than my own parents do. I suddenly felt ashamed and ungrateful.

I sat there, frozen on the spot, looking down at my plate again. I’d been through situations like this before.

He’d told me that he wouldn’t punish me for leaving him. He’d told me that he wasn’t angry anymore, only happy and grateful to have me back. Relieved to have me back. He hadn’t displayed a trace of temper since I’d arrived.

But now I knew that he was still pissed, all right. He hadn’t been displaying it–he’d kept his promise–but the anger was still there.

Perhaps when he saw I was scared, it appeased him because he knew he’d made his point, because he suddenly relaxed.

“I’m sorry, Margo. You hurt me very badly. I didn’t mean to scold you. I apologize.” His voice was gentle again. He reached out and grabbed my arm at the wrist, leaning over to look at me. “I love you. You are the most important person in my life. I would hate to lose you.”

All the tension left the room. I looked at him, and his eyes looked both sad and loving. I got out of my chair and gave him a hug. He closed his eyes and pressed the side of his face against my breasts.

“Everything is going to be okay,” I said.

They wouldn’t.

When I Went Back (III)

He woke me up at 6 PM after I’d been sleeping for approximately 16 hours. He brought me some more hot chocolate (I don’t drink coffee and only sometimes drink tea) and a glass of ice water.

“Dinner is in two hours! Can I get you anything else? Would you like a Valium?”

The Collector doesn’t abuse substances–not that I’ve ever been able to tell, anyway–but he has Ambien and Valium for when he travels. Sometimes he needs to sleep after God knows how many hours on the airplane.

“What’s for dinner?” I inquired.

“Never ask. It spoils the surprise. Some of your favorite foods, though. Elk steaks to start off with, though.” It was was going to be delicious .

“May I pick out something for you to wear…?” he asked me.

“Do whatever you want,” I said, knowing it was a dangerous thing to say. I wass too fucking exhausted and I knew for a fact, that this could blow up in my face. He went to my closet and selected a short cocktail dress he’d bought me for Christmas (or “Yule,” as he usually calls it) a few years ago. His boys were visiting and I distinctly remember being being humiliated when he asked me to try it on. It was shimmery blue with a low front front and is practically backless. Unless you’re wearing a shrug or some sort of cover-up jacket (he recommended a sheared white fur coat he’d given me), it is only fit for a latenight bar or to go “clubbin” in. I am not a “clubbin” type of girl and only wore it once outside the house, when we had to go to the nightclub to entertain one of his Russian clients for political reasons.

“I think we’re both too old to get into this club,” I told him, getting dressed. It was true. Unless you’re a celebrity or a major music producer, we were both too fookin old. “I don’t think we’ll make it past face control.”

“You’re gorgeous and I have plenty of cash. We’ll get in. (Russian client) will come get us if he needs to. Which he won’t need to,” the Collector told me. “I can get in anywhere, and so can you, with that beautiful fucking face and body.” He came over and kissed me.

Anyway, that was the only time I ever wore the dress out of the house, and now I’m supposed to wear it to dinner? And did I mention that when he gave it to me, he wanted me to try it on WHEN HIS TWO SONS WERE THERE? I had to put my foot down for that one. I fucking hated it when he’d try to show me off in front on them, or get competitive with them (namely the elder one, with whom he has an adversarial relationship) over who had the prettier girlfriend.

Now I asked him–not even a full day in the house–if I could wear something more conservative.

“Well, if you insist. But you look so beautiful in this.”

“FINE!” I snatched it out of his hand. “I need to shower and get ready. May I have some privacy, please?”

“You know, Margo, this is no need to be so touchy. We are going to have a lovely dinner, I promise.” He left.

I took a shower and shaved my legs (didn’t tidy up my muff, because if he thought he was getting laid tonight, he was sadly mistaken). I considered putting on some nice hosiery–God knows the man had bought me enough Wolford, La Perla, and StockinGirl to last 20 years–but I didn’t want to give him any ideas. I didn’t even put on heels, or any shoes for that matter. Then I did my hair and makeup. In retrospect, I should have just showed up looking like a complete slob, but in the Collector’s house there is a tremendous sense of pressure to look perfect, and BE perfect. Everything in the house is beautiful and perfect.

Then it was time for dinner.

I padded out to the dining room, and it was only once I started walking (the shower has a shelf seat you can sit down on) that I realized how uncoordinated I was. Can’t prove it and he’d never admit to it, but there was something in that hot chocolate besides peppermint schnapps. My money’s on Valium, which he uses occassionally to sleep after he’s been on an airplane for 12+ hours and needs to sleep after the jet lag, before he starts a grueling day of business negotiations. He doesn’t abuse it–I know, or at least think I do, because he’d offer me one occassionally and I’d count the pills and note the Rx dispenary date. But he’s drugged me before, usually after something incredibly stressful had happened: the horrific fateful weekend where everything went to shit and the Collector’s family imploded and I left; the handful of times over the years where one of our BDSM sessions went too far and I became very upset. I never complained. Why would I? If I can’t have alcohol, I am perfectly grateful for a few benzos a couple times per year. God knows no doctor will give me a Rx for benzos or anything fun unless it’s under direct medical supervision in a hospital.

In any event, I had to touch the wall to keep equilibrium on my way to the dining room. Once I got seated into a chair with arms, I was perfectly okay.

He always sets an immaculate, beauteous table. One of the first things he taught me to do to help was how to set it myself. Unless we were scarfing down delivery sushi or Indian food on the sofa while watching the news or a movie, we ate at the table every night. Candles, linen placemats, the whole bit. As I’ve mentioned before, ritual and routine are very important to the man.

He peeked his head out of the kitchen door. “I hope you are hungry!”

And in fact, I realized that I was ravenous. Besides pineapple-and-vodkas on the airplane, the Chicago layover, and whatever the fuck I was drinking in the hotel room before I got on the plane (I think it was cranberry cocktails. I like to tell myself that at least the juice has potassium and vitamin C), and the hot chocolate, I hadn’t eaten in three days.

Fun fact about late-stage alkies: when you drink, you don’t eat. It’s why so many are skinny and malnourished. When I was middle-stage, working at my last dungeon, I gained 25 fucking pounds because in addition to the booze, I was scarfing down tacos and chinese food from restaurants down the street. Middle-stage alcoholics get fat in a hurry. Once I moved back to my home state and dryed out, I lost it in a hurry, but even still…for someone who makes a living partially by my looks,and who used to have a pretty severe eating disorder, that weight gain was a devestating experience.

Anyway, getting back to the Collector’s little dinner party for two: the food smelled fucking GREAT. He even baked bread, which he knows how to do but almost never does because baking bread is a pain in the ass, not fun at all unless you’re a huge baking fan, and he’s got a great bakery on speed-dial. I know because once he taught me how to recognize very high-quality food, I went shopping for the dinner menu almost every single day. He’d leave me a shopping list. Dorian’s, Randazzo’s, Harlem Shambles, Amato for venison, you name it. Not to mention that fucking swan he orders for Yule dinner every year (don’t ask).

Dinner was elk steaks with white truffle butter (my favorite meat) and white asparagus. Scalloped potatoes and a big spinach salad with avocado on the side (“I thought you would need some potassium,” he said, and he was undoubtedly right). The last thing you want if you’re malnourished and go into withdrawal are severe muscle cramps. Worst pain I’ve experienced in my life, and I’ve suffered scarring second-degree burns on my arm from a kitchen grease fire.

Frankly, I was worried he’d lay a shit ton of heavy questions about our breakup on me, but he didn’t. He’s not a compulsive womanizer or a natural -born salesman like the Surgeon, but he can be charming and even seductive (he sure seduced my mother in meeting her one weekend and then in their telephone conversations after our breakup). He can leave a very positive impression on people. Boy, did he turn up the charm over our dinner, from the food to everything else. It reminded me a bit of our first several dates, when he hired me as a professional submissive. Even after that, he could be the perfect boyfriend when he wasn’t pulling one of his crazy stunts.

“Thank you for wearing that dress. I know you’re not fond of it, sadly. I love what the candlelight is doing for your decolletage. You are such a beautiful woman.” We were dining exclusively by candlelight. His country has a long history of dining by fire and candlelight, especially when the seasons change and the hours of daylight start to get very short. They still do it today, even with electricity. Some restaurants and bars–especially old-fashioned ones–still offer it. Generally I don’t like sitting in the dark, but for a few hours, it does create a lovely ambiance.

He reached out and touched my hand. I was mostly done with my meal. I could feel his sexual desire for me radiating off of him; it was palpable. To tell you the truth, it was making me a little fucking nervous. Back when we were still dating, one thing I always enjoyed is that he remained very attracted to me, even after over four years. And I was always attracted to him. But I know that after two years–or, shit, with some men, after one year–the sexual attraction starts to wane. The Collector’s attraction to me never decreased. If anything, it increased as my boundaries deteriorated and our relationship became more perverse, and we planned on marriage and a baby. He was ready to be a father again, and he very much wanted a daughter.

Now, tonight, my first night back, all this just made me anxious.

“I would really like some wine,” I said.

His brow furrowed. “I do not know if that’s a wise idea, Margo.”

I laughed. “That’s never stopped you before. Do you think I don’t know what was in that hot chocolate? What, do you think I’m going to get out of control in your house? You know I don’t act out even when I’m smashed.” It’s true. I don’t get aggressive or morose or histrionic. And getting remotely out of control is impossible, unless I ran out and got some booze while he was at work. At my request, he’d shut down his small bar for guests and moved all the liquor to a locked mini-cooler and put a double lock on the wine closet. I couldn’t get into either without a crowbar. Believe me, I’d tried a time or two in the past.

“Very well then. Not very much.” He poured a glass for me. I think it was pinot noir. He was keeping it in an ice bucket on the table with just a layer of ice on the bottom.

“Do you miss (Younger Son)? He misses you very much.”

“Of course I missed him and I was so very sorry that I hurt him.”

“We can discuss this later, when you are ready. You put him through hell when you left, Margo. Thank God he was already accepted to university because he became depressed and his grades went to hell.”

I started to tear up. I knew all about Younger One’s problems when I left the family. The Collector had elaborated upon them at length during one of our last conversations. “You have an OBLIGATION to Younger One!” he’d ranted. “He is crushed!

What about YOUR obligation to your own son? What happened to that? What about your obligation to your Elder son, Praying Mantis, whom you cut off when everything turned to shit, and now you won’t help him again until he come groveling back with his hat in his hand? This is what I thought, but I never said it to the Collector. I did say it to my shrink.

So, back at the dinner table: I teared up when he was talking about younger one. The Collector stood up to embrace me and I drew back and said that I was sorry, but not ready.

Again, he had the good grace not to be offended. I could tell how much he wanted to touch me. He sat back down and just reached out and held my hand. “Everything will be all right, Margo. You’ll see. I think we should spend some time alone together. When the time is right, we’ll tell him you’re back. He will be so happy.”

Then he asked if he could give me a bath. No, I wasn’t ready for bathtime either, and I said I wanted to sleep in my room until I felt comfortable.

I thanked him for dinner and then helped clear the table. Then I went to my room and changed into gym shorts and a tank top. I locked the door. After a little while he knocked and I asked through the door what he wanted. He told me that he had hot chocolate for me and he’d just leave it on the floor outside. I waited until I heard him walk down the hall. Then I opened the door and took the chocolate and went to bed.

To my knowledge, he didn’t try to get into my room that night.

In the morning, he was completely respectful. He proposed fun things to do.

For the next week, he was the perfect boyfriend. He took me to do all of the things he knew I love to do.

We went to the Butterfly Conservatory. He got a few butterflies on him, but I got lots of them. You have to stay super still so you don’t scare them or crush them. He said, “Oh, they like you!” He knows animals love me. He took lots of pictures.

We went the NY Aquarium. We both loved that. They have a special shark exhibit, and the Collector loves sharks. They are probably his favorite animal. He loves Hammerheads the best, and has a beautiful poster-sized photo of a Hammerhead in his home office. The photo was taken from below, close to the surface, so all you can see is the outline of its body as it’s executing a turn, so the body is almost a circle. He had it hanging in his work office for a while before he decided it might give visitors and clients a bad impression. I think sharks look scary as shit–the dead black eyes, ugh! But we also saw lots of amazing fish and a huge sea turtle. And penguins! And a beautiful jellyfish tank.

We went to the Cloisters. I’ve been there before and wrote about it here. He knows A TON about history and art. I know a lot–definitely more than most people–but He knows almost everything, so he was a great tour guide.

We went book shopping. He even bought me a dress. I have lots of dresses in my closet at his house–most of which he bought me–but he loves to buy me dresses and he can afford it; it’s not as if he’s racking up debt. So I let him. He wanted to buy me lingerie too, but I wasn’t ready for that.

We went to a few great restaurants, including Del Posto, which is one of my very favorite restaurants.

We were having a great time. Unless he’s acting crazy, I really do love his company. I fell in love with him for several reasons, one of which is that I truly enjoy his conversation and I admire him. Or I did, until everything turned to shit one weekend. That week just reminded me of why I fell in love with him in the first place. He can be so much fun, and he genuinely enjoyed introducing me to new experiences. New foods, new places to go, new travel experiences, new shopping experiences. He taught me a lot about cooking and he was always very patient with me, even when I ruined the food sometimes.

(Unlike with his Eldest Son. One time we were at his house in Europe and Eldest was told to cook scallops. Now, scallops are surprisingly hard to cook. One minute too soon and they’re raw. One minute too long, and they’re tough. Well, Eldest cooked em a minute too long, and the Collector yelled at him, which shocked me because this man never raises his voice.

“We’re trying to eat them! Not play hockey with them!” Like chill the fuck out, we have more scallops in the fridge. Supervise him so that he can learn. Later that night, in the bedroom, I rebuked him, which I seldom have the courage to do where his children are concerned. I guess my inner educator came out. I have taught a LOT of young people the age of Elder Son, starting when I was 25 years old.

“You can’t teach anyone anything by yelling at them! You’re not a drill sergeant in the Army! We had 20 more fresh scallops in the fridge! Maybe he’s mad at you all the time because you hurt his feelings. And you yelled at him in front of me, which is humiliating for a young man! Was that the point?!” I’ve seen the Collector dominate people, most especially myself. I know what he’s like when he’s in that mindset.

He was sitting on the bed taking off his socks and paused to consider. Then he said, “Well, you have a point.”

“I think you owe him an apology.”

Well, I don’t think the Collector gave it to him, because the next day I said, “I can teach you how to cook the scallops. It helps to have an egg timer or the timer on your phone.”

Praying Mantis said, “He can cook his own fucking scallops from now on.”

ANYWAY, back to the time I went back: at the end of the week, we watched a movie, “American Factory.” It was really good. We were sitting on the sofa, and I let him snuggle with me. He hugged me under the blanket with his head on my shoulder. Then me laid down with his head on my lap. It was nice and I felt comfortable. He looked so cute and emotionally needy, and he’d been so respectful, I started stroking his hair.

That was the last good day. Then everything got ugly. In a hurry.

When I Went Back Part II

He was waiting for me at the baggage claim. I had no baggage to retreive; I’d come straight from the hotel room. All that I had was a backpack with my laptop and some toiletries and a duffel bag with all the BDSM gear I need for work.

I was self-conscious because I knew I probably looked like shit. I’d tried to do my hair in Chicago during the layover, but all I had was a small bag of makeup to do my face (touch-ups in between sessions in the hotel room) and I was wearing jeans, Sketchers (I love Sketchers! Fuck the haters!), and a baby T-shirt with a campus mascot on it which is…a Gecko lizard.

He looked great, as he always does, but I gotta say, he didn’t look as good as when I left him. He’s always taken care of his skin and hair–he’s the only man I’ve ever met who uses uses Retin-A and sunscreen daily–but he looked older. I used to tell my shrink that it was as if he would get stronger as I got weaker (and, over the course of our relationship, I did get weaker, both as I became thinner to meet his demanding aesthetics, and as my boundaries broke down). He looked smaller somehow. Maybe he stopped taking the testosterone when I left (because that was what the Collector needed, MORE TESTOSTERONE)? Did he have more silver in the wheat-blonde hair? Was I imagining things?

But he practically ran up to me when I came off the elcelator and crushed me to him so tightly I couldn’t breath. I dropped my bag and he picked me up and spun me around.

His sweater was so soft–all his clothing is of the best quality. He smelled good. Why didn’t it feel like coming home? I was still hurt.

He grabbed the back of my head and kissed me hard. I’m sure I tasted great after four vodka-and-pineapples on the airplane. I brushed my teeth and Listerined, but after about three, you invariable taste like booze. When he released me, I pulled away.

“I’m sorry. I’m not ready, Collector.”

He had the good grace not to act offended. “I understand. Let’s go home.”

He picked up my bad and I followed him out to his car. He has a gorgeous car he almost never drives. I’ll never understand why anyone in Manhattan has a car–the fucking parking space alone is hundreds of dollars, and driving in the city is a goddamn nightmare–but I guess if you’re rich, it doesn’t matter.

“I’m so glad you’re here! Are you warm enough? Do you want me to turn on the seat heaters? You must be tired. Are you hungry? Do you want me to cook anything? I ordered elk steaks. White asparagus. African pineapple. All your favorite foods. I had the housekeeping put fresh linine on the beds.”

“I’m just tired. I’m sorry.” I was, and starting to feel hung over, too.

He patted my hand. Then he tried to put his hand on my thigh. That was too fucking much. I did let him hold my hand, though. The Collector’s hands are huge for his size, and his fingers are long. The left one is covered in scars from his years of cooking, where he’s cut himself. They are not soft. It’s one of the first things I noticed about him when we met years ago. I thought it was odd that a man with a desk job would have hard hands. I learned it was because he doesn’t wear gloves when he lifts weights. I loved his hands. They are downed in golden hair. I thought of them as wherewolf hands, which he found complimentary.

We got back to his building and he turned in the keys at the parking garage. The front doorman recognized me. I would never live in a doorman building, even though it’s convenient to get packages. I hate that they can monitor your movements. I guess rich people are used to it.

“Do you want me to give you a bath? Do you want to take a shower?”

Now, I don’t know if you remember, but bath time used to be a serious ritual between the two of us. Almost every night, it was bath time after dinner. I was just not up for bath time. Too intimate.

“Please don’t be offended, Collector, but I’d prefer to sleep in my own bed until I feel comfortable again.”

I have my own room in his house. He gave it to me when I moved in, so that I could have my own space.

I went to my room. He’d put the door back on the hinges. I hadn’t had a door on my room in years. His sons had commented on it, and we just said it was “broken.” Yeah right, it was in a fucking closet. When I examined it, I saw he’d even installed a lock.

As if any lock could keep him out. But I appreciated the gesture.

He was as good as his word: everything was exactly as I’d left it. Right down to the Hello Kitty toothbrush he’d left me in the bathroom.

I changed into gym shorts and a fresh tank top and fell into bed. After a few minutes, he came in with some hot chocolate and an Ambien. I could tell the hot chocolate had alcohol in it, and God knows what else.

On top of all the other alcohol you’ve had today, not to mention the propronolol, this shit might knock you out for days, I thought to myself.

Then: fucking fine with me.

(You know, I had a dream about the Collector in the last month or so. I was back at his house, and he gave me dinner, and then drugged the food. I passed out in my bed, and when I woke up, I threw off the covers. He’d amputated my feet. There was no blood or pain, just bandaged stumps where my feet used to be. He came into the room and said, “Don’t worry. You’re still beautiful. I just needed to make sure you couldn’t run away from me again.)

I still have my feet. But that is, in a sense, exactly what he did to me.

I did indeed sleep the rest of the night, and most of the day. He woke me up at 6 PM to get ready for dinner.


Happier Times

Before we continue with the tale of what happened when I went back, a brief interlude. A memory of happier times. Perhaps I feel compelled to write it as a sort of justification…?

CONTENT WARNING: I try to keep this blog rated R, but what follows is pretty sexually explicit, and the sex is kinky. Don’t read it if that might offend you.

The Collector and I were a little more than a year into our relationship, and things were getting serious. Not as serious as they would eventually get–wedding plans and the discussion about having a baby were still in the future–but they were serious enough. He’d already told me, point blank, that I was his future wife. He’d done this without proposing. To him, this was merely a matter-of-fact observation: this is the way it is going to be.

It was early afternoon, and we were making out on his couch in the big room. I was naked, which was typical–the Collector was always big on rules (only for me, of course), and one of those was no clothes inside the house, unless of course we had guests or he wanted to see me wear something. Or if I had my period, in which case I could wear underwear. There were various throws all around the house so that we could keep things at least sort of hygienic and I wasn’t sitting my bare ass on the furniture–you could just throw them in the wash every other day. He was magnanimous enough to crank up the heat a few degrees so that I was comfortable.

Anyway, he was laying halfway on top of me and I was getting pretty turned on. The Collector could always turn me on; we had a tremendous amount of chemistry and despite all the crazy stunts he would pull or the punishments he would subject me to, our sex life was consistently and reliably excellent, even if it made me hate myself–and him–from time to time.

“Do you like being mine, Margo? Do you like being my property?”

I nodded, breathless. When I had my clothes on and my wits about me, it was mostly true. When I was turned on, naked, and vulnerable it was completely true.

“How long will you belong to me?” he asked.

“As long as you want me to…?”

Forever,” he said, and put my hand on the bulge in his pants. “Show me.”

He sat back up and tossed a pillow on the floor. I awkwardly slid onto the floor between his knees, undid his belt buckle and the front of his pants, and got to work.

“Look at me,” he said.

You have to be pretty special to me before you get sustained eye contact from me while I have your dick in my mouth–it’s just too intimate. I did it for him all the time.

After a minute, he just laid back against the sofa and tilted his head towards the ceiling, taking it all in and running his fingers through my hair. When he relaxed like that I always knew I was doing an especially good job. “Relaxed” is not a word I would usually use to describe the man.

I thought he was going to finish in my mouth, but instead he pushed me away gently and put his cock back in his pants. He told me to get on my hands and knees, with my face on the floor.

“I’m going to take my pleasure from you now,” he said, standing up. When I heard him taking off his belt, I shivered, and when he doubled it up and started to beat my ass and my back with it, I started moaning. It wasn’t anywhere near as hard as he could hit, but it hurt, and it felt great. The next day I would find a few bruises.

“That’s right. Keep your head down.” He obliged me by stepping on my head, pinning me to the floor.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” he paused and looked down at me. “You are smiling.”

“I’m just so happy,” I answered, my eye rolling up at him from the floor.

After a second, he nodded down at me. He was panting a little and his blond hair had become disheveled and was hanging in his eyes.

“I am, too.”

When I Went Back part 1

I went back to the Collector once.

For over a year, he was relentless in getting me back. With one exception, the men I’ve fallen in love with have all been stalkers, but the Collector was the most persistent. I stayed in my Western state because it felt more safe. I stopped using the email account he’d used to communicate with me for years and opened a new one. When I stopped working as a prodomme in San Francisco, took an office job, and eventually started domming in my home town under a new stage name with all-new photos, he found my ads on the sex worker ad malls and started emailing me there. He called my mother at her home and would talk to her for hours–leaving her with a very positive impression, of course. He send me birthday cards and gifts, none of which I opened. When I decided to teach a course at one of the local colleges in exchange for a partial tuition waiver (and a nominal salary), he somehow found out and enrolled in the course, which was online due to COVID.

I went to the administration and explained that he was my Ex who was stalking me long-distance. They told me that they needed to see a restraining order before they could block him from taking the class. I’ve been through the restraining order process before and the last thing I wanted to do was have to answer some very awkward questions about our BDSM relationship.

“He doesn’t need to be in my class! He’s an attorney in New York! He’s not working on another degree!” I told the administration. The administration was sympathetic–I could tell that they believed me–but their answer was the same: restraining order, or it didn’t happen.

Every time I logged into Skype, there were his texts: You’re hurting me. Stop hiding from me. I had to change my phone number twice and he found me both times. How, I do not know, and the anxiety about not knowing fueled my ever-increasing paranoia. The third time he found me, I gave up and got TracPhone, which is a virtually untraceable burner.

In the meantime, I was ranting and raving about the man to my therapist once or twice a week.

“Stop letting if affect you to this extent. You don’t owe the Collector anything. He dragged you into the gutter and made you do the worst thing you’ve ever done,” the therapist reminded me.

“But you don’t understand. You don’t understand what he’s like. What if he sends the school administration my ads? What if he sends the ads to my mother and tells her I’m and S&M hooker? He could ruin my life! And sooner or later, he always gets what he wants!”

“Well, you don’t have to give him what he wants.”

But in the end, I did.

“Margo, just get on the plane. I’m looking right now. There are still three leaving today. I will make you the reservation immediately,” he said when I finally called.

“I need to go home and pack. I need to get my contact lenses and makeup bag and cancel my appointments. I need to tell my family where I’ll be going!” I sniffled pathetically in my hotel room, surrounded by the detritus of my last session. Of course I’d been drinking and made the mistake of reading his most recent emails to my work account, which is what made me call.

“You don’t need to bring makeup and you don’t need more clothes. Everything is here, exactly as you left it. I’ll buy you whatever you need. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of everything. We can discuss it all when you get here. Just get on the airplane. Margo, this can’t go on! Do you know what this has done to me, Margo?”

That’s what they all say when I leave: I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!

“I’m going to get there and you’re going to punish me for leaving you!” A very legitimate concern.

“I will not! I promise you I will not. I would never hurt you, Margo! I love you!”

The magic words.

I got on the airplane. A first-class ticket back to God-knows-what. Except that if I was being honest with myself, I knew exactly what. Layover in Chicago, during which I told myself You need to turn around and go right back home. Instead I boarded and availed myself to the complimentary booze.

The plane touched down in the middle of the night and I texted him when I arrived, expecting to take a cab into Manhattan. He was already waiting for me at the baggage claim.


What He Never Had

I thought that he’d had a charmed life. That’s how it appeared to me, from the outside. I especially considered this when I intended to have a baby with The Collector. I saw a youth who’d had the best of everything–things I could never have imagined as a child, or even as an adult. He’d had the best education money can buy, and two brilliant and naturally gifted parents in a traditional nuclear household. I imagined a household full of music, trips to the symphony and the children’s opera, and visits to the parks and all the family exhibits at the greatest museums in New York and several cities in Europe. Parents who indulged and encouraged his curiosities and fascinations, and introduced him to new ones. The extracurricular activities and school sports he cared to pursue (but which he was never pressured to precipitate in). College was a given, and the money to pay for it was a given.

What I didn’t see was a didn’t see was a dead mother, a stepmother who was gone half the time touring for her artistic profession, and a father who was gone more than half the time on business. He said that it was because he was making money to support the family, but the truth was that they had been born into wealth and nobody had to work a day in their lives.

When I bent over him and worked over his seated, trembling body with a very course exfoliating mitten, really putting my arm into it, I saw something else: nobody had touched him in his life.

Most certainly no woman.

The wet eyes and the dumb animal gratitude. He was soaked, so I couldn’t tell if he was crying or not.

I felt pity, and a desire to give him what he never had.

In time, the Collector twisted that. I can’t blame it all on him. After all, he couldn’t have done it without me.

The Strapon Post

It seems to be a taboo topic in a job where nothing is taboo. There is a reason I haven’t written about it on this blog, where everything else is fodder for conversation. Clients have incest fantasies? Want to pretend to be corpses, and I’m the undertaker? Eating dog turds? Want to be murdered, dismembered, and stuffed into Hefty bags? Or locked in a cage and covered in ants? Sure! Just don’t talk about fucking guys up the ass!

I cautiously presume prodommes don’t talk about it in public is because it’s admitting to doing something illegal—and make no mistake, any sort of penetration of a person is illegal, including, theoretically, a client sucking on the high heel of one’s shoe.  Another reason is because it’s not exactly the most glamorous aspect of the job. Most people don’t want to have anything to do with a complete stranger’s asshole. It’s sexier and more socially acceptable to tell the public that your clients pay you to worship your feet or be put in a leather sack and sensory deprivation. Understandable.

For the record: it’s a very common request and while I’m sure there are dommes who do not offer it, I can state with authority that I have never met one.

Every dungeon I’ve worked at (3) has strapon harnesses and dildos.  In fact, seeing a sink/washing machine full of dildos is one of the shocking experiences for a newbie telling her that she’s truly arrived. It goes without saying that the dildos are not there for the women to use on themselves. Tiny dildos and dildos the size and shape of a man’s hand are all in stock.

I do not enjoy doing it at work and my regular clientele gravitated towards other fetishes—birds of a feather, and all that. However, I would not refuse a session because it involved strapon and I have done it many times.

When I was a babydomme, it squicked me out so badly that I WOULD decline clients who wanted it.  I would also decline clients who wanted me to piss on them. I quickly learned that I was turning down a lot of money, and, as I became desensitized, my boundaries changed. Some, like willingness to do strapon or anal play for money, relaxed, while others hardened and became immutable.

I don’t enjoy doing it professionally, but clients reading this shouldn’t get butthurt (HA!) reading this, or take it as a rejection. I don’t find strapon “gross” or disgusting. It’s completely understandable.  Some do it because they find it very pleasurable. Some do it because they find it painful, which makes them feel more completely dominated.  Some do it because they have a phallic fixation which might or might not be a homoerotic impulse. Some do it because they’re misogynists who imagine being penetrated by a dick is the most degrading, pathetic thing ever, as every domme who’s ever had a crossdressing  “Beat me and fuck me like a whore!” client can attest.  There are many reasons why clients desire it.  

 I don’t like doing it with clients because it is so physically intimate that I consider it to be sex. And also because, frankly, most clients do not wash their rectums properly beforehand and I find shit repulsive. I am also OFFENDED that clients seem to think it is perfectly okay to subject me to their shitty asses for the relative pittance I was paid ($85-$120/hr) at the commercial dungeon.

If it was just trace amounts of shit, I could deal with it. I’m definitely not a germophobe. I work with all types of bodies, most of them not conventionally attractive, for a living. It is okay with me if you have back hair, are obese, have skin tags, a bad complexion, whatever. Horrid feet with Frito talon toenails make me gag, but otherwise I do not care if you are an ugly motherfucker as long as you are CLEAN.

When I think I might have anal sex with MY boyfriend (and he has to be my serious boyfriend—I have to be in love with him)—I spend serious time in the bathroom making sure that I’m as clean as possible so we won’t come into contact with any significant fecal matter. Shitting on his dick would be humiliating in a truly terrible way and I would hate for him to lose his attraction to me.

Why, then, do some guys roll in off the street and want strapon and either act apologetic (rare) or pretend indifference when I, game spirit and professional that I am, am putting my body up close to their buttcrack and plugging away, and a turd runs out and plops on the floor?  Seriously, men, how am I supposed to feel about this?  This has happened more than once.  I had to clean up the shit, too, and spray everything down with bleach repeatedly.

“I’m married and don’t have privacy blah blah blah” My dude, a Fleet enema kit is available at your local drug store and it only takes minutes. No excuses.

When I first when Indy (prodommed outside of the dungeon), I had a client who essentially wanted me to make love to him while I fucked him with a strapon. No PIV, just strapon and love. At first I found this offensively personal, but the man was true to his word—he never pushed to get regular sex. He brought his own harness & dildo for me to wear, and his body was squeaky clean, inside and out.  Because he was so appreciative and considerate, this man grew in my esteem. I wouldn’t kiss him on the face, but I’d hug him and lay on him and give him a lot of eye contact whilst I was doing it, and I still remember him with affection. I don’t mind doing strapon or anal play on the guy in my private life. It’s not something that naturally occurs to me, but if my guy likes it, I’m happy to do it. I think it can be fun. The prostate gland feels like a walnut and it’s fun to see men go like an overwhelmed limp beanbag just by penetrating them and touching it. Especially if he’s the Dom. Tots fun.

My First SA Date: Pretty Damn Awful

Well, I met my first potential tuition-funding guy this afternoon. It was not the worst date I’ve ever had, but that bar is set so abysmally low that I can’t say clearing it is an achievement or even complimentary.

I met him on, so my expectations were not particularly high to begin with. What I was expecting was an average-looking middle-aged guy in his 50s, probably cheating on his wife, whom I would not be attracted to but would not find offensive, either.  Ideally, I’d like him a little bit and think Yes! He seems cool and has a good attitude, and I could totally spend a few hours a week with him and not dread it.  But really, I would be content with someone I could tolerate.  With standards that minimal (realistic, I told myself, realistic), I thought I wouldn’t be disappointed.  I mean, as a guy, how do you fuck that up?  Bathe, be friendly and polite, diplomatically but clearly state your expectations, listen to her questions and preferences, and schedule a session, or “intimacy,” as its referred to on that embarrassing website.

Well, this guy fucked it up.

We met at a Starbuck’s, and I ended up being glad that we did.  I wanted a place where I could GTFO if necessary and not be trapped with a jerk over dinner, hating life and pondering the decisions that have led me to this cruel fate.

“No-obligation coffee date,” I wrote, in an email explicitly stating that didn’t plan on having sex the first time I met him. “Just to assess mutual compatibility and get to know each other a little bit.”

He showed up on time, and I was pleased he was not physically repulsive.  A six-footer in a polo shirt and pants (thank God no shorts) with most of his hair, including the bit that came out the opening of his shirt.  He’d said that his ethnicity was Persian/Greek, which had made me side-eye his profile a little–I’m not a fan of macho cultures, and Iran, well, do I have to enumerate things that suck about Iran?–but I figured, what the hell, it’s unfair to judge a person by their nationality.

He didn’t order anything and sat down at my table. We shook hands.  I gave him a fake name.  He said his name was “Ryan.”  That’s probably fake, too.

“So, why are you on SA?” he asked him.

I thought it was pretty obvious what I was doing on SA, since I said so in my ad and emails to him, but spelled it out: “I’m going back to school in the Fall and I need to make money for that.  I’m currently completely single and I don’t have kids, so I can do whatever I want, and I decided to try this and see if it works out for me.”

“What are you expecting financially?”

Ah, reader, that’s the question, isn’t it?  I’ve asked myself a million times what it ought to be.  I spent some time cruising the local sex worker ad malls to gauge the local market and asking myself how much I could reasonably expect from a delusional psuedo-client who wanted the facsimile of a vanilla relationship without paying escort prices.  Then I asked myself what I could charge and still keep my self-respect.

I gave him a number that was more than a prodomme session and less than what I could charge as an escort in San Francisco, the nearest big market.  Frankly, I think the man (or men) who eventually get it will be getting a hell of a deal. I bring a lot to the table

He winced and then said that he could do it.

I did not like that wince.  I do not like it at all.  Rude!  The only acceptable reactions are to grin like you just uncovered your lucky numbers in a scratch-off lotto ticket or to respectfully decline with dignity.  Don’t wince like you just got a massive unfair parking ticket. 

“So, what kind of sex do you like?” he asked me.

I met this guy five minutes ago.

I think a civilian woman would have picked up her handbag and walked out.  It was enough to make me remember the girl I once was, a million years and another lifetime ago, before I became totally accustomed to interviewing men and being questioned about sexual matters in the consultation rooms of dungeons.

I sighed.  Yup, it felt like I was back in a consult room at a dungeon, maybe dealing with some rando dungeon barnacle who was asking me what wanted to do, what turned me on, except that this man was not a sub, and I could not say “Sensory Deprivation and caning,” which is what I always told to time-wasters who offended me.

“I like a lot of things,” I said, but not with you, I thought.

“Do you have toys?”

If you only knew, I thought, picturing the big green suitcase that holds all my gear.  Probably not any toys you’d like, though.

“Do you like other girls?”

Oh jesus CHRIST, I thought to myself.  I put my tablet into my handbag and sat up straight, away from him.  I crossed my legs.  Any idiot could have read my body language.

“I don’t have sex with women,” I said.

“No threesomes with another girl?  You never tried it?  Not even once?” He had a big smile on his face, as if I’d said something preposterous, like I don’t eat fruit.

“No.  I’m not sexually attracted to women.”

This is true: I’m a Kinsey 0, a pure heterosexual.  But I have had MFF threesomes, of a sort: I’ve had sexual experiences with my ex, the Surgeon, and another woman…but I didn’t have sex with her.  Just a little eye-candy touching above the waist, no making out, all very superficial. I did it for him, and I was happy to do it–we had fun–but there was no way I was going to share this with my Starbucks date.  No way on God’s green earth.

“That’s too bad. It’s something I really like to see, two women, you know, really going at it.

I swear to God, he was polite in his emails.

He started to reminisce about threesomes he’d had.

“Where do you find the women?  Do you hire escorts?”  It was an honest question, as it seemed to be the only logical explanation.

“No! You can find women, pick them up in a bar or restaurant, bring them back to your hotel! Especially young women.  They just want to have the experience!  Try something new!  Maybe you see them again for a little while, maybe it’s just a one-time experience.”

I sat there, trying honestly to imagine what type of woman this man could pick up who would be willing to go back to his room and have a threesome with him.  I was having a hard time imagining it.  I sure as hell never would have gone home with him, not even when I used to drink in bars and was smashed half the time.  He wasn’t ugly, really–I mean, I guess you wouldn’t have to put a bag over his head–but he wasn’t good-looking either, and he didn’t have a great figure or sparkling conversation to compensate for it.  He definitely wasn’t a charmer.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  So how did it happen?  How did he pick up women?  I was mystified.  I am still mystified. Does anyone have any ideas?  Maybe he was offering them unlimited drinks and cocaine?

“Well, that’s okay, if you don’t like other women. I can do that with other girls. You don’t expect me to be monogamous, right?”

“I absolutely don’t.”

“Just as long as you love sex!” he said.

I had already made up my mind that I was never, ever going to sleep with this asshole.  The only thing that could have made that possible for me was twice the money I was asking for and three martinis and a taxi to jump in the minute it was over, and since none of that was happening, I was gone.

“Can you get together next week when I come back here?” he asked.

“Sure!  Just send me a text!”  I said, and hustled out the door.  I know, I know, I should have told him off, but really, what would that do?  Do you really think that telling him he was an offensive swine who gave me immediate sandy vagina would have been a transformative experience for this guy?

Well, he’s blocked on everything now.  The entire date took about 18 minutes.  I checked my watch repeatedly.

I am not giving up.  I’m telling myself that I got a bad apple.  These guys are like clients, I’m telling myself: the shitty ones are so bad that they destroy your will to live, but most of them are perfectly okay and some are even wonderful.  So I’ll try again.  The tuition isn’t going to pay itself!