When They Won’t Let You Up (BDSM Nightmares)

Let us discuss one of the worst things that can happen to you when you’re being submissive:

You’re tied up and the guy won’t let you go when you safe out and ask for it.

It’s happened to me twice.  Which, given my significant experience with about two dozen tops, says a lot.

Both times were terrifying.

The first, and by far the worst, was with my restraining-order Ex, John. It was December in Lake Tahoe and there was a foot of new snow on the ground; more coming down every minute. It was the middle of the night. I could not have gotten out of that house without snowshoes.  Even if I called the cops, they would not have been able to come. There was no auto traffic that night.

He started being a rude, abusive jerk, ignoring my limits, during the session. I was dressed in a fishnet body stocking with my arms locked behind me.

I safed out and asked him to let me go. I wasn’t a shrieking basket case, either (not that it would matter if I WAS a shrieking basket case). I called it off and expressed myself in very clear words.

The guy would. not. let me go.

“Why did you agree to do (this thing) and then renege?”

I kept repeating, “Let me up. Let me up.”

I kept thinking, I am going to get raped and I cannot get away from this man, even on foot. This is going to happen.

He kept asking me why I “reneged.”

He tortured me for about an hour.  I was terrified, but holding my composure. Eventually, he did release me.

I ran to one of the spare bedrooms and locked the door behind me.  He proceeded to pound on it, yelling that he never should have let me up until I was “broken.”  Yeah, I’m not making that up.

He broke the door down.

The next morning, I had to endure shoveling the driveway with him in order to get a ride home.  He had snow tires.

I broke up with him once I was in my apartment. We stayed broken up for 5 months.

Eventually, due to his relentless efforts, I took him back.  And I stayed.

I stayed for five more years.

A Wonderful Client

I just wanted to express appreciation for a great, generous man today.

I left rehab (I’m still going to outpatient rehab for my drinking problem) early to attend a session with a new guy.

I came home, made sure my apartment was spotless, and got all leathered up (he’s a leather fetishist) and did my hair and makeup all pretty, and the jerk NO CALL NO SHOWED.

I understand that 80% of my clients are married and scheming around to see me.  I understand they are lying to get away from work or their families. I get it.  I really do.  One little thing goes wrong, and they can’t get away to see me.

But you stand me up, and you can’t even email me to apologize and cancel?

Well, I tweeted about it, because I was pissed.  Twitter is stupid, but, for some reason, I love it.  Very passive form of communication.

In rushes a longtime, established client, who actually knows about my blog and who has been in my home.

He shot me $200 to “make sure I was okay.”  He saved the day! Normally, I’m very wary of a man trying to give me unearned cash, but I’ve known him for over a year and I know he’s not trying to manipulate me/bully me with money.

You know a good man when he puts his money where his mouth is.  A good man wants to take care of the women in his life, because he KNOWS that we are taking care of him.

I will date a poor man.  I will never again date a cheap one. Crucial distinction.

Thank you so much for your help.  You saved the day, Sir. Next session is on me.

Client Misconceptions

Allow us to discuss client misconceptions.

I know these because they have been expressed to me frequently for about ten years now.  The men have spoken them into my ear. I know about that of which I speak.

First and foremost: we are all rich.  They imagine me reclining on a sofa being fanned by submissives, dripping in diamonds, eating fruit. NOPE. Most sex workers are working class. I am on the upper end of this, because I’m white, educated, and Aryan-looking.  I’m not young anymore, but I still look “good” and I’m skinny.

Another one: we do it because we’re constantly randy.  Men think we are nyphomaniacs. Dudes looooove this one! I have had so many men say, “If I was a woman, I’d do this, too!”  If you could last one day in this industry, I’d eat your shorts. I have a very high libido. It is not, however, my motivation to be in this job.  I have a lot of fun in my good sessions. I seldom get turned on. Because boundaries.

“Daddy Issues!” Can’t get you wrong about that one (speaking for myself), but half the women in Congress have the same problem. Also, nobody asks guys how many have mommy issues. Hear me now, believe me later: it’s a lot. A LOT of guys have mommy issues.

“Sex Trafficking!” It exists and it’s awful. Why a man would bring this up to me during a prodomme session is a real head-scratcher. I suppose it does suggest he has a soul. However, I am clearly not trafficked. Furthermore, what sort of mentality does it take to presume the woman you are seeing is “trafficked” and then want to book her anyway?

 

The Surgeon’s Parrot

It’s a blast from the past: I’m going to write a little something about the Surgeon.

I was thinking about him recently because when I work in San Francisco I board my parrot, Abe. The boarder keeps many parrots. Some of them are Amazons.  The Surgeon had a Yellow-napped Amazon.

People who are not bird people do not understand what intelligent and highly emotional beings parrots are. They are not mammals, obviously, but they feel love and fear and all the other basic emotions. They bond to you, fall in love with you.

The Surgeon’s Amazon was bonded to him.

The Surgeon neglected him because he was working all the time and he was basically a neglectful person in regard to his personal relationships. The parrot is a personal relationship.

He did not take him out of his cage or play with him on a regular basis.  All he said was, “He’s such a good-looking bird.”  Yes, he’s a good-looking bird, but do you KNOW him?

You buy an animal because you think it’s an ornament? It fits in with your house decor?

Well, one day he let it out, and the parrot flew across the room and bit him on his face.  He had to go to the emergency room and get stitches.  The bird did this not because it was cruel, but because its heart was broken.

After that, he did not let the Amazon out of his cage. Soon after, the Surgeon dropped him off at the dog pound. “Bird is history!” he texted me.

I said, “You left your exotic bird at a dog pound?”  This man is a multi-millionaire. There are parrot sanctuaries. Alternatively, he could have gone to a local avian vet to inquire about re-homing the bird.

“He cost thousands of dollars! I’m sure he’ll find a good new home!”

The Surgeon has daughters.

Of this much, I am sure: what happened to your parrot will happen to them. Your daughters will attack you the minute they have autonomy.

Photo Disaster: Please Advise

UPDATE: Thank you all for your input. I read every comment more than once, and I also got more than one email and IM.  Readers gave me very very considered thoughts here.  I want to express my appreciation.

I have decided that I am not going to say anything.  And that’s not because I’m afraid of confrontation (you all know that).  It’s because the younger one’s comfort and security must take priority. If I bring this up with him, he’s just going to be mortified as fuck. He knows what he saw, I know what he saw, he knows I know what he saw.  I mean, what is going to be good about re-hashing it?  This isn’t burying my head in the sand, it’s just trying to give younger one some privacy.

I am really worried this is going to screw up my relationship with younger one.  I like him so much, and he is very much a kind young lad. He did nothing wrong.

THIS IS WHAT WORRIES ME:

The Collector is not a man who makes mistakes.  This is a very calculating individual.  He is not sloppy.

What worries me is that he left that folder out on his desktop because he knew his son would see it. That folder did not get there by accident.

*                         *                     *

 

Well, I have a fucked up situation on my hands and could really use some advice.

Some months ago, the Collector took me on a vacation to Thailand.  We had a blast.  It was a really fun trip and he was the perfect boyfriend the entire time.  Good sex, good food, beautiful hotel, rode the elephants in the jungle, watched Muay Thai fights two nights in a row, did the tourist thing and drank snake blood, all that good stuff.

Well, one day it was raining hard all day long so we just stayed in the hotel suite and played around all day.  I went down to the salon and got my hair and makeup done, and then I let the Collector take photos of me in different lingerie outfits.  He has a great camera and I’ve done some modeling, so I know how to pose.  Some of the pictures turned out great.  I seriously considered posting them here or in my prodomme ads, but it was an intimate time with my partner, and I didn’t want to violate that.

The pictures were not pornographic, but they are definitely provocative.  I would not want my Mom to see them, even though I’m dressed in all of them. Think Maxim magazine or Playboy‘s lingerie issue.  Me on the bed, me on the couch, me straddling a chair, cupping my boobs over my bra, silhouetted against the window.  You know what I’m talking about.

Fast forward to recently.  The Collector’s youngest son, who is now 15, flies in from Switzerland to visit Dad and his brother, who is going to a college in the Tristate area.

He had to finish a paper for school and e-mail it to his instructor.  Well, he spilled a drink on his laptop and fried it.  Laptop is ruined.  Thank God he saved his work on Dropbox.

He didn’t have time to go to BestBuy and get a new one because he was working under a deadline and HAD to finish this paper, so he asked if he could use Dad’s computer in the library.  This is a “public” computer–it’s not the one the Collector uses for business in his office. I’ve used this computer, the boys use the computer, guests use this computer.

Young one worked on that computer all day long.

(You see where this is going, right?  I know you see where this is going.)

That evening, the young one started to act strangely around me.  He was withdrawn and didn’t want to hang out and chat with me, or play chess or a video game (the video games drive the Collector crazy, but as long as the boy keeps his grades up, he doesn’t nag about it too much).  I felt kinda like he was avoiding me.  And his Dad, too, for that matter.  Not that the Collector noticed–or, if he did, he didn’t say anything.

It took me about two days to realize the problem was ME, for reasons I will explain.  I just assumed the kid was having some personal issue–maybe a problem with a girl, or a friend, or a bully at school, though I couldn’t imagine him getting bullied, since he’s good-looking and big for his age.  Or, hell, maybe he was just being moody.  Teenagers get moody sometimes.  Hell, everyone gets moody sometimes.

“Is something troubling you, (Younger One)?” I asked.  I thought we’d spent enough time together that it was appropriate for me to inquire. “You seem a little upset.  Is it just my imagination?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said.

So then–THEN–I went to the computer to look up a restaurant menu to order some sushi delivery.

Guess what is there, my 8 readers! Guess what is there on the fucking desktop.

A folder named “Margo’s Sexy Vacation Pics.”

I clicked it.

YUP.  About a hundred photos of me in my sexy underwear looking seductively at the cameraman who is obviously the younger one’s father, the Collector.

The desktop is immaculate.  The desktop on my computer is complete chaos–it’s so cluttered that if that file was on it, it would probably escape notice. On THIS computer, though, it is practically the only file there.

My stomach flipped over and my heart started pounding.

The younger one HAD to have seen those photos.  I mean, “Margo’s Sexy Vacation Pics?”  How could he resist clickbait like that?  I know I couldn’t!  I can’t even blame him!  I would have clicked it, too!

I deleted the entire folder and then emptied the recycle bin.  I felt sick to my stomach.  I felt humiliated.

Then I went to see the Collector and told him that I needed to speak with him in private.  We went to his bedroom.

“Why the fuck did you have our vacation photos on that computer? On the desktop?  I thought they were supposed to be on your private computer and password protected!  The young one SAW those photos!”

The Collector just chuckled. Unbelievably.

“Relax. I’m sure he sees much more explicit content on the internet on a regular basis. Besides, you look great.”

That sound you hear is my jaw, hitting the floor.

“He sees more explicit stuff on the internet, but not of his father’s girlfriend!” I yelled.

“I am sure he did not mind seeing those pictures,” he said, still smiling.

“Of course he minds! That’s why he’s acting weird around me!  Those pictures sexualized me to him!  And they also suggest something about his father’s sex life!  The last thing any kid wants to think about is their parent’s sex life!  He’s probably freaked out!  Collector, you could have just ruined my relationship with younger one!”

“I doubt it. He may look at you differently from now on, though.  You are right about that.  I’d be surprised if he hasn’t noticed you that way before, however.  He’s not blind.”

I was so fed up that I just walked out.

This is my question, readers.  Please advise:

Do I approach the younger one and say something like, “Oh, hey, I think you might have seen some pictures of your father and myself from our vacation in Thailand.  Of me in my bikini and stuff.  I’m sorry that you saw those photos.  They were supposed to be private.  I really hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.” And just leave it at that?

OR do I just say nothing and wait for it all to blow over?  HOPING that it ever blows over?  Pretend like it didn’t happen?

Readers, what do I DOOOOO?

 

 

 

My Horrific Fast Food Experience (Communist Revolution Now)

My Twitter tweet:

“Should I write a blog post about working at Long John Silver’s for a year and a half for $5.15/hour? The worst job I’ve ever had in my life? My gratitude for not working there ever again? #Thanksgiving”

Well, the response from my 8 readers was positive, so I’ll do my best.

I got hired at Long John Silver’s after a 3-month job search. I was 16, and expected to earn my keep. Old enough to work, you’ve got to work.

So, of course, I applied to all the retail places at the mall. Then it was fast food. Fast food is bottom of the labor hierarchy. Let’s not kid ourselves.

Jack in the Box did not hire me. I had no labor experience. Neither did Burger King. A man who had a huge crush on me when I was in High School, who later went on to serve as a tank crewman in Iraq and came home to be an air-conditioner machine repair man, who eventually committed Selvmord, said “I work at Long John Silver’s. I can help you get a job there.”

I went in for the interview. They made me watch multiple videos telling me I would be fired and prosecuted for anything if I stole anything from them.  As if Long John Silver’s had anything to steal, besides, maybe, the purse of money at the end of the night. It really says something when your employer openly says he expects you to be a thief.

It was $5.15/hour.  I considered myself lucky, because at that time it was $4.25/hour.

Let me tell you, good reader, what I had to do: I had to constantly stock ice, clean the dining room, empty garbage that weighs 30 lbs, scrub everything down, clean pubes out of the male toilet, restock the freezer with “key lime pies,” deal with an aggressive Mexican fry-cook who wanted to “date” me, and, again, deal with a person on the drive-thru.

For $40 a day after taxes.

I remember, vividly, coming home and collapsing in bed. My healthy teenaged body would ache. My clothes would reek like oil.  My feet would hurt. My back would hurt.

I will suck dick for money before I go back to that. As long as the guy isn’t a scary piece of shit, it’s not remotely comparable.

Interview to be my boyfriend

I am doing an interview for you, a new potential boyfriend.  Please answer honestly (ha!) and completely:

Do you hate your mother, or just have a very weird relationship with her?

Are you a genius and at the height of your profession?

Do complete strangers call you “a total fucking asshole?”

Do you experience road rage?

Are you capable of breaking into your ex-girlfriend’s apartment when she leaves you? Does home invasion give you a boner?

Are you a sadist? Does saying things like “You’re my property!” turn you on?

Have you published in peer-reviewed journals?

Do you hire sex workers, and then blame the sex worker for doing that work?  Are you a massive hypocrite?

Do you fantasize about murdering your colleagues because you’re so damn competitive?  Do you actively try to hurt their careers?

Are you jealous of my parrot, Abe?

Are you capable of borrowing a cockatoo, or, alternately, abandoning your Amazon parrot at the dog pound when you got tired of him?

Are you emotionally unavailable?

Married?

Will I eventually have to get a restraining order?

Do you have a personality disorder?

Will you go through my purse, my phone, and my drawers?

Are you a notorious womanizer?

Are you a millionaire who is absurdly cheap?  Will I have to grovel to you to help me out with rent once in my life when I’ve fallen on hard times, after we’ve been together for years?

Do you tip 10%?

Are you ostensibly a Democrat, and then give money to Republican candidates “because taxes?”

Do you have strong opinions about black Americans, even though you have none in your social orbit and practically never speak to one?

Do you own Gucci loafers?

Are you old enough to be my father?

Extra credit if you are Jewish.  Sephardic guys to the front of the line.  Extra extra points if you fetishize me because of how white I look, but would never marry me in a million years.

My Type

He was a Scotsman who worked in Edinburgh. Tall, handsome, cultured enough to keep a conversation. He had brown hair going gray at the temples.  I have to hand it to the Collector: he picked my type.

When the Collector introduced me to him, he did the typical male up-and-down (I was wearing a coral satin halter dress) and said, “Collector, I see you’ve done well for yourself.”

“Of course,” said the Collector.

“Come sit at the table and enjoy some cheese before the steak comes out,” I said, taking his hand.  His hand was soft.

I found out that one of his degrees was in psychology, specifically Organizational Psychology. I studied this in school, so we had a lot to talk about.  If there’s one thing I love in a man, it’s his ability to talk nerdy to me. I’d fuck Quasimodo if he wrote a book I admired.

We discussed BF Skinner and Chris Argyris over Cotswald and Brei cheeses on slivers of French bread while the Collector roasted some asparagus.  He poured the Scotsman a big glass of wine.  I had ice water.

I did a test and adjusted my garter briefly. He didn’t say anything, but he focused in on it with laser-like intensity, and forgot the words he was saying.

I have him, I thought.  There is a part of my personality that loves the chase. I like to be hunted, but I also love to hunt.

The steaks came out.  We all liked them medium-rare.

The Collector kept exchanging glances at me over the table, and even nodded at the Scotsman.

“This is delicious,” said the Scotsman.

“If you think that is delicious, you ought to try her. Sweet and briney at the same time,” said the Collector.

The Scotsman turned beet red and started scratching the back of his head.

“Is this a proposition?” he asked. He was almost stammering.

I reached out and grasped his hand, which was still holding a knife: “It’s a proposition if you want it to be a proposition.  Do you want it to be a proposition?”

I’m telling you, the guy was trembling like a leaf.

“What do I do?” He asked.

“Finish your wine and come with me,” I said, softly.

He gulped it down and I took him by the hand and started leading him to the first hallway. The Collector followed.

“Second bedroom on the left,” he said.  I understood.  It’s a lovely bedroom, but it’s a guest bedroom, neither mine nor his.

Once we got there, I started to undress the Scotsman. Take it from me: men love to be undressed. They turn to water. This one was no exception.

The Collector unzipped my dress from behind, so I was nude except for my garter and stockings.  The way his eyes widened when he saw my little breasts!

“I told you she tasted good.  Find out for yourself,” the Collector said.

He dived between my legs.  His technique was not the best–he was a little too frantic–but it felt good.

The Collector was fully dressed and he would let me touch his hard-on through his trousers, but not take his clothes off.  “Save it for later,” he said.

He left the room for 90 seconds and came back with some condoms, which he threw to the Scotsman.  The Scotsman dropped them and picked them up from the bedspread.

“Fuck her well. Fuck her hard. Make her come,” said the Collector.

He kissed me gently while the Scotsman screwed my brains out. I was being held by men at my mouth and my pussy.  I cannot envision a better shangri-la.

Eventually, the guy came, and I invited him to relax on the pillow next to me for a few minutes.

“Do you mind if I vape?” he asked.

“Not at all,” the Collector said.

He vaped while the Collector brought him a glass of Port.

After 30 minutes, we invited him to use the shower and then walked him to the elevator. Bye-bye, back to Edinburgh.

“I’m not done with you yet,” The Collector said. “Go take a quick rinse and go to my bedroom.”

He tied my arms behind me and put my legs in a frog-tie.

“Nobody get to fuck you like this but me,” he said, thrusting into me. “What was your favorite part of today?”

“The way you controlled everything,” I gasped.  “What was your favorite part of today?”

“Seeing another man covet what is mine,” he said.

The Monogamy Talk, aka “The Big One.”

It was with great trepidation that I sat down with the Collector to have The Monogamy Talk.

You see, I know myself, and I’m not naturally monogamous.  Frankly, I used to be the biggest player I knew.  When I was with the Surgeon, for example, he was my main squeeze, and then I had two or three other guys in rotation all at the same time.  I dated as much as I could while still keeping my grades and work up.  I didn’t lie to any of them–I’m not a sleazy cheater–but that’s the way that it was.  The Surgeon didn’t like it, but since he was (and, presumably, still is) a notorious womanizer, we had an uneasy compromise: I never, ever talked about any other men, and he pretended he was the only one I was seeing, even though he knew better.

The Collector, on the other hand, seems to be a serial monogamist.  This came as a hell of a shock to me, because in my experience men are only as faithful as their options. Since he is handsome, wealthy, and a fascinating conversationalist, I expected him to have girlfriends all over the world.

To my eternal surprise, the Collector is only interested in seeing one woman at a time, and his relationships typically last for years at a time. When he’s with vanilla women he hires professional submissive fetish workers from time to time–which is, incidentally, how we met–but he doesn’t have sex with the pros.

Given this difference in our sexual preferences, I was not looking forward to having The Monogamy Talk, but I felt that it had to be done for the sake of honesty.  My solace was that I knew he is not a sexually jealous man–he has never held my work against me or felt any retroactive jealousy about men I’ve been with in the past.  If anything, the only emotion he’s displayed about my previous relationships is curiosity.

But there’s a big difference between not being upset over my clients, whom I do not technically have sex with, and not being upset over the fact that I will want to fuck other men, and I am telling him that to his face.

Typically, the only men who don’t care if a girl they’re seeing wants to sleep around are men who have zero emotional investment in the girl.  Otherwise, unless it’s their fetish–like they’re into cuckolding or they’re poly–most men I know are not able to handle something like that.  In fact, it would make most men flip their shit.

Well, I felt that, for the sake of honesty, The Monogamy Talk had to be done.  I’m not going to lie to myself and I’m not going to lie to him, either.

Oh, The Awkward.  Oh, The Trepidation.  Oh, the field of land mines I was about to tap dance across.

Here’s how it went down:

“Collector, there’s something important I need to talk with you about,” I said, sitting down across from him on the sofa.

With a completely understandable look of wariness on his face, he put his book down and gave me his full attention.

I just spit it out, unrehearsed.

“Look, I feel like an asshole springing this on you out of nowhere, but I don’t know how else to do it. I want you to keep in mind that the absolutely last thing I want to do is hurt or offend you.  But I have given this serious thought, and I think we need to have this conversation.  I know myself very well, and I know that eventually I am going to have to have sex with other men.  It doesn’t mean that I don’t love you or that you’re not enough for me, and it doesn’t mean that I am not committed to you or that I’m interested in pursuing other relationships.  Nor does it mean that I want any other men right now or that I’m looking at anyone.  I’m just saying that eventually it will happen, and I’m asking your permission about whether or not I can do it.  If you say no, I won’t do it.  You don’t have to worry about me running around on you.  I’m not a sleazy cheater.  If I say I won’t do it, I won’t.  But if it’s okay with you, then we can work something out, and I will always be honest with you about it. I know how to manage this emotionally and nobody else would ever come between us.”

Then I just sat there like an idiot, wondering if he was going to tell me to get packed and get the hell out of his house.  Maybe he would ask me if I was some sort of pathological slut or an ungrateful little monster.

He sat there for what felt like a hundred years, considering.  There was zero expression on his face.  I had nothing to go on.

At last, the verdict:

“Very well.  From time to time, infrequently, and only at my discretion and under my direction.”

That was it.  No argument, no debate, no rage or hurt feelings or confusion.  No misunderstanding.

I felt sort of pole-axed that it was so easy and final.  I sat in my chair blinking at him like a mole thrust suddenly into sunlight.

“Thanks,” I said weakly.

He went back to his book.

Things went on like nothing had happened for over a month, and then one day when he was at work and I was at the movies (IT, highly recommended, FYI), I got a text:

Margo, I have a special gift for you.  I am coming home early to cook.  We are having a guest for dinner. 

TO BE CONTINUED

 

Almost a Woman

There was a teenage girl there–in rehab.  She was sixteen.  Skinny,  pretty, save some acne. I recognized this chick immediately, even though she had all of the other women eating out of her hand almost at once.

All of the other women had children.  They were in rehab to get them back. The addiction is very strong, but the maternal instinct is also strong.  I think about half of them have a good shot at it. You should hear the sobs I heard at night while they looked at pictures of their kids.

(Coincidentally, there was a gambling addict there who reminded me a lot like my father, Franz.  He was an Ad Man in NYC for 27 years. The guy was friggin meticulous. Button-down shirt, trousers, bright blue socks.  He had perfect posture.  And he was smart…highly intelligent. I’m a sapiosexual)

“No offence, sir. I actually like you a lot.  However, I don’t take any risk with gamblers,” I said.

“IT’S GAMING!” he yelled.  No, guy.  My father was a gambling addict, from whence I inherited this addict gene. The fact that you use an euphamism to cover up this factiod–“gaming”–like it’s a playsport–speaks tons. I don’t touch gamblers. That shit is poison. It ruins lives.  Ask me how I know.

Anyway, getting back to the girl…

She was manipulative as heck.  And I didn’t really dislike her. I put on my professor hat almost at once: I’d respect her and give her space, but I never trusted her.

She was smart. She was not a a good liar, however.  Not yet.

She came off as “shy.”  There was nothing shy about her.  The shyness was a real head-scratcher.

She consulted me constantly about legalese. I hate to be a snob about it, but I was the most educated person in the room.  This kid ain’t no fool.

“Is it legal that my Mom sent me here?” she asked, coming into my doorway.

“Well, yes.  I’m not familiar with minor jurisprudence in this state, but I am pretty sure that until you’re 18, your Mom has legal custody of you.  You are her ward. Basically, you are her slave, unless you can prove you’re being abused. I wish that wasn’t so, because I do believe children have rights, but that’s how it is.

You get drunk at school and your Mom keeps a wine closet in the house.  This is exactly where you need to be.  Back out now while you can.  Trust me.  I’ve done the research.  I’ve been struggling with this most of my adult life.  You’re smart. Too smart to be an asshat.  Stop lying.  Go to college.  You know most of my students were almost your age, right?”

Know what she did…?

She ran out the front door 15 minutes later.  All of the alarms went off.

I want to protect her.  All of the other women were swarming around her the entire time she was there, because they felt guilty. They did not see what I saw.

I still have hope.