The Surgeon Investigates; Gives Me My Fix

     The Surgeon comes to my home.  Stands in my living room casually, as if the place was his, and removes his cufflinks and puts them in his pants pocket.  IMO, this is one of the most beautiful and erotic gestures a man can make in public (the others, according to your humble correspondent–in no particular order–are: shaving, rolling or pushing shirtsleeves up or down, putting on or removing neckties, lacing up shoes, putting on or removing scarves, and opening stubborn jars.  And carrying really heavy stuff–it’s like watching a special effect!). 

     Flash-forward thirty minutes.  In situations like this, thirty minutes is a long time.  A lot can happen in thirty minutes.

     “Where were you last night?  What have you been doing?  I know you’re not at a (Studio).  I know.  I checked.  What are you doing?  Are you dancing?  Listen–nobody but me gets to watch you undress.  I have been so upset.  You have made me so upset about you.  Why do you have to make me worry about you?”

     His hands go to his belt buckle.  Most exciting thing ever!  I have had love affairs with my partners’ belts, and I have known many of them very well.  The one that the Surgeon is slipping off is an old friend.  And now I’m torn–make a stand, or get my fix.  I must admit: I chose the latter.  

      Here is The Awful Truth: part of what the Surgeon was saying was what my father would say, if I had a healthy, responsible father. I am not a sentimental person, and I do not moon over childish fantasies anymore.  On some deep level, though, I still have a craving for this sort of relationship dynamic.  At least I am aware of it, so that I can protect myself.    The Surgeon is a terrible father.  I see the future of his children; I see it plain as day.  
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Update: 11 PM

      The Surgeon gave me enough money to pay my rent. I didn’t ask or mention it.  Somehow, though, he intuited it.

    I am relieved beyond measure, but I also feel conflicted inside.  I don’t have entitlement issues; I have the opposite problem.  I am neurotically independent.  I don’t take ANYTHING from ANYONE.  I moved out at 19, worked, lived by myself, never asked family for a dime.  
      When you take, you owe.  


    It’s been a long time since I had a car, but you know that sound it makes when the engine is old and it’s been out in the cold all night, and you’re trying to start it, and the motor won’t turn over…?  RRRRRRR….RRRRR…RRRRRRR (grind grind grind)

      Well, that is how I feel.  Won’t turn over.  Can’t get started.  Idiot lights are on.  Nothing doing.

      Between my students and the Studio, I worked (or tried to work, or was going to and from work, or applied to work) over 40 hours between Friday and Sunday.

      I cannot fathom another 14-hour day.  My parrot is neglected and my fish tank has algae in it.  My apartment is a wreck.  I’M a wreck.

      The Surgeon sent me a text inquiring if I was free on Wednesday.  For some reason, I got really mad that I am going through this difficult time and he has not even asked how I am doing.  Like, it would be nice if I had a guy who gave a shit about my life.  The Surgeon only cares when he senses that I am considering cutting him off–they he goes into freaky stalker mode and he pinballs around Manhattan calling me from payphones and I can’t get away from him.  Anyway, I shot him back a text: Sure, if I don’t have to work.  I’ll let you know!  I am here for YOU, after all!   Hmmm, very passive-aggressive, Margo, very passive-aggressive!   And becoming, too.  I guess if I am possibly going to have to hit him up for money before the landlord sends ninja assassins after me (or eviction proceedings), it would behoove me to be sweet to him.  After all, what am I mad about?  That he’s being a selfish asshole?  But that’s who he is, and I’ve known it all along.

      (Tangentially, if I want a real boyfriend in my life, I am going to have to quit at the Studio.  No normal, healthy man is going to put up with that.  The Surgeon wouldn’t put up with it either, if he knew about it.  He would shit purple twinkies–yikes–I don’t want to think about it–I have enough to worry about.  I should be safe; I’ve taken a new name, and he’s never been there).

      Fuck it.  I’m calling Frau Farbissina.  Will try to take the day off and just go in for the night shift (shudder).  I need to do some self-maintenance.  Go to a meeting, clean the house, email my professor, freak out about the weight I’ve gained, suck down a bottle of wine, GO TO A MEETING.  I can make my home group at 1 PM.

      I guess this blogging is progress–six months ago I wanted to die and couldn’t bring myself to write so much as a grocery list–but it’s not as therapeutic as being with people. People are reading in growing numbers, however!  The blog’s gained significant momentum over the last few months.  I have no idea who all you people are, but thanks for reading.

Parrot Goodness III (Parrot Misses Me!)

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    Oh ma gawd, Parrot just melted my heart!

     I walked in the door ten minutes ago.  It’s 3 in the morning.  I was going to make a snack, so I let Parrot out of her cage.  I gave her a peanut.  Then I went to my desk in my bedroom.

     Parrot flew from her cage and landed on my shoulder!  She came to me! She’s never done that before–flown to me. She is sitting here on my shoulder right now!

     I feel so badly about neglecting her to spend all day and night at work.  She deserves better.  

      Here is beautiful Parrot.  I wish I was as pretty as Parrot!

Awesome Leopard Seal Offers Diver Food instead of Eating Him

On YouTube, this video is called “Face-Off with a Predator.”  What an inaccurate title!  No face-off involved here!

P.S. I signed up for Twitter–see the gadget on the right. Not sure if I will like it, but I thought I’d try it and see.

I have made a little money this afternoon–guy called in and wanted to talk about his, ahh, special recreational interests. Fine. I took the call. It was interesting. Well, not really. It was actually pretty boring. I was surfing the web half the time. Believe me, gentle reader, if you were on the phone with this guy, you’d be surfing the web, too.

Anyway, I found this video. It is awesome. Now I need money. I can’t stop or rest until I get it.

The Thought That Dare Not Speak its Name

      There was a piece of paper sticking under my door when I got home tonight (this morning?).  I almost had a heart attack, but it was just a menu for Chinese food.  

       It has occurred to me that I could make money stripping.  A woman I used to work at a House with now works as a stripper and averages $300 a night.  Now, I can make that doing what I’m doing at the Studio, but only if the men stop wrapping their Christmas presents or watching Football or whatever the hell they are doing and come to see me.  Presumably there are always dudes in strip clubs, but I don’t really know.  I’ve only been in two or three of them.  

     I ran it by a few other girl in the Studio tonight.  I am skeptical about whether I am pretty enough or young enough for the job.  Not sure why–I get modeling gigs and guys seem to like looking at me; the Surgeon would not be with me if I wasn’t nice-looking.  Anyway, the others all concurred that I am plenty young and good-looking.  My body is actually better than it was when I was an undergrad.  

     Cause I sure as hell am not going to run any of this by anyone else in my life, let’s reason this out here:

  • PROS:                                           CONS

fast solvency (presumably)                      socially unacceptable and I could very well get caught
                                                                The Surgeon would cut off my head
                                                                Not a sober work environment (A BAR!)
                                                              Probably not good for my starving tendencies to be around
                                                              naked teenaged Ukrainian models
                                                               I have no idea what music they play in strip clubs, but it is          
                                                                 almost certainly something I hate.
                                                               Somehow I don’t think that the Dean would approve
                                                                Or my Mom
    There’s also the fact that I CAN’T DANCE and I am uncoordinated.  I am also kinda introverted and the idea of going up to strange guys and bugging them for money–or, worse, flirting with them–makes me cringe and want to throw up all over the place.  Ugh, the idea of sitting on some guy’s lap and pretending like I think he’s the King of the Castle.  UGH UGH UGH

      NEVER MIND, I just talked myself out of it.  The entire time I’ve been working at Houses, I’ve almost never done sensual or teasing scenarios (this is distinct from being friendly and courteous, which I always am, at the appropriate time).  I hate that shit.  Mostly, I hate coming on hard to men I’ve just met and am not particularly attracted to–it’s fake, and I don’t do fake.  But also, I just don’t like being coy.  I mean, really.  What’s the point?  Why be so indirect; why the hinting, the big production?  

    Want to see me, Miss Margo, do seduction?  Here it is: “Hey, wanna jump in the sack?”  or, “Take off your clothes.”  THERE.  SEDUCTION ACCOMPLISHED.  Dudes always go for it.  I’ve never had one tell me, “No, I don’t feel like you’ve made enough effort to seduce me!”  Men never say no.  

      That’s something I don’t think that a lot of women realize: men are the easiest things ever.  Unless they are in a relationship and loyal (one does not necessarily presume the other), or in a position of power over you at work, they will not reject you.  I’ve asked out scads of men.  The only ones who have ever said no to me had girlfriends or wives.  Women: ask out men.  They are dying to be picked up.  You can do whatever you want to them.  They will love it.  I’m telling you.  I know what I’m talking about.  

      Anyway, that’s it: the idea of stripping sucks so badly that I simply can’t entertain it.  

      It’s funny–the idea of giving a lapdance makes my hair turn white, but I’ve done what I’ve done in Houses like The Superstudio and in my own bedroom, and haven’t thought one thing about it.  

Crickets and Tumbleweeds at THE SUPERSTUDIO–Glamazons Going Hunting

      Update 11:55 PM   Well, I made a booking, so that’s good.  But he paid with a credit card!  LAME!  Why did you pay with your AMEX, Mr. Man with Wedding Ring?  How are you going to explain the charge to Wackadoodle Productions on your bill if your other half inquires? 
       I don’t get the money from the CC until next week.  Not helpful!

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      WHERE oh WHERE are the MENZ?  Fucking shopping for Christmas presents at Toys R Us?  Getting wasted over steaks at The Palm? Watching DVDs with their wives?  I have no idea, but they’re not here…!

      Nobody’s turned a dime all night. It’s the slowest Saturday night in recent history. You should see this place.  All these gorgeous women hanging around, Tweeting and emailing and eating poptarts in their finery  (I took a nap and then did pushups and situps and then freaked out in the corner over my monetary situation).  

     Since men are not coming here, we are going to go to them.  Hunting expedition!  Not that much hunting is involved when you are a girl.  More like gathering.  Guys are basically just lying there, waiting to be picked up.  Whether or not anyone worthwhile is around is another question, however.   

     We are going to a party to forage.  Wish me luck.  I’ll take notes from the others; I’m not particularly extroverted and I don’t like hustling.  

Calling All Wackadoodles

Update 1:20 AM
     Oh thank Jesus, Manager Frau Farbissina is letting me go home early.  I found another video of Frau:

     I was speaking with a Japanese girl, a student at FIT, about my money woes.  We compared rents.  I said that I was vexed–sorely sorely vexed.  

     “Don’t worry about it.  You can make that here.  Easy!  I live in (ritzier neighborhood than Miss Margo’s) without a roommate.”

       Tomorrow, I am going to get up early and play with Parrot for an hour.  I will stop at the bodega and buy almonds for her and feed her till she is stuffed.  Lots of HEAD SCRATCHES for Parrot!
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Update 11:30 PM
    The Russian manager is so ferocious and intimidating on the phone that I am astonished anyone makes it past her.  One guy called to say that he couldn’t find the buzzer to ring in (there is, in fact, no buzzer).  Manager shouted “THERE IS NO BUZZER!  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”  In the lounge, I quailed.  

    I have decided that she is actually the Russian version of Frau Farbissina of Austin Powers fame:  

       I have to fly back home next week.  I don’t have much time to make money.  January is just around the corner.  

        If I don’t make enough to appease the Landlord by Monday, I’m going to have to ask the Surgeon.  I hate that; I’ve never asked him for money before and I don’t want to.  But I can’t get evicted.  I just can’t. 

        My little parrot is lonely and neglected.  My laundry is neglected.  Dishes.  MISS MARGO is lonely and neglected.  I can’t believe I ate a dish of potstickers.  I can’t buy presents for Christmas.  I’ll have to give my mother a piece of my jewelry.  I don’t even have a fucking Christmas tree.  

       I’m thirsty again, which is sick, so sick.  And I have three more hours to work, at least.

       I am sad for Parrot.  I would bring her in to hang out with me here tomorrow, but she is such a shy and timid parrot, I do not think that she would do well.  I miss Parrot badly all of a sudden.  I wish she was here.  I could use a hug.

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    Update 2:44 PM:  SUCCESS!  I had a booking with someone.  He was pretty cool, too–not even a Wackadoodle, really.  I am way more of a Wackadoodle than he is.  He told me stories about flying fighter airplanes for the military.  At first, I was skeptical–I mean, really, what are the odds?–but his shop talk was so erudite, and he answered my inquiries so well, that I decided he was the real deal.  
         He did not want to be oppressed.  “My CO tortures me enough!” he said.  
          I was curious about whether he’d been in the wars, but I didn’t ask because I didn’t know if it was appropriate.  

         YAY $$$  Now I need more!  LOTS MORE come on wackadoodles–momma needs a new pair of shoes (or the rent)
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     Calling all Wackadoodles!  Come in, Wackadoodles!  

     If you are a Wackadoodle in the Tri-State area (or beyond!), please come visit me in a secure, established, luxurious Manhattan location.  It will be my great pleasure to oppress you, violate your human rights, and beat you in a most unpleasant fashion.  

     For more information, please inquire within: 

Climbing Back on the Horse, and Channeling My Inner Fascist

      This morning I met my friend, she of the fantastic envy-inspiring hair, at a coffee shop.  Then we went to an AA meeting, my other home group, together.  Again, I confessed terror and vodka-swilling–meeting the grad director and snarfing gummi bears on the train.

        Huge amount of support.  People reached out to me afterward–CALL ME NEXT TIME.   This was a different sort of AA group, a group for people who, like myself, are not religious and do not believe in God.  My other group is important to me but I am also very fond of this group because I am intellectually at home here.

     We all went out to eat together.  I had a CHEESE!!! SANDWICH!!! AND FRENCH FRIES!!!

      Afterward, I came home and worked out my schedule for the weekend.  I have only one meeting with a student–it’s the end of the semester, and the others I have are laying off for the Holidays.  So, I’ll be pulling double shifts at my secret job at THE SUPERSTUDIO for the next three days.  I can’t rest until I finish making my back rent.  It sucks, because I hate working nights.  Also, there’s a saying in this sort of work–you should never do it because you need to do it.  If you go in there needing to do it, it can make you vulnerable to a whole shitstorm of consequences.  Need can make you weak.

      I want to see my analyst this weekend and bounce some ideas off of her and seek her advice.  If I turn money tomorrow, it won’t be a problem.  But if I can’t, I don’t think that it would be responsible of me to spend the money on her fee.

      I’m wary, because I need to stay focused on my most important goals: not drinking, and finishing my academic degree.  I also need! some money! right now!  Working at THE SUPERSTUDIO is a timesuck, but more than that–it has the potential to become a TRAP.  Moreso than any other place I’ve worked–infintely more.  It’s like The Surgeon.  It’s fantasyland, baby, it’s drugs.  For someone like me, wired like I am?  It’s drugs.  Or at least, it has the potential to be. (FYI: I never used drugs, I just mean ‘drugs’ in the metaphorical sense.)

      I am thinking about how I am going to maximize my earning potential over the next three days I’ll be fucking living there.  Because I must have a plan; I can’t just go in and hope things work out for me.  I have seen the other employees.  Competition I’ve never experienced before–and I’m not bitching about that, I’m saying it in total admiration.  This is a totally different level than what I’m used to, and I didn’t fall off of the turnip truck yesterday.  I have to develop and utilize my existing skills.

       What do I have on the others…?  My education, obviously.  I speak very well.  In formal situations, nothing about my demeanor is rough or uncouth; I can be very convincingly bourgeois.  They respond to that.

        What sort of energy can I project…?  I think, a fascist.  I find the politics reprehensible in every way, but that is neither here nor there.  As I have joked in the past, I am the Frederick Taylor of Pain and Suffering.  Order–we will have order here!  Ideological, demanding, impeccable, meticulous–unassailable and effortless authority.  The science of exploitation.

        In short, I need to take the voice I do to myself, and instead project it outward–much more than I usually do in these circumstances–to the Nth degree.  My father’s incredible greed and casual disregard and fearlessness; my mother’s military discipline and OCD.  These are a few of their gifts to me–whether they are good or bad is irrelevant in this context.  They exist within my personality; if I give thought to it, I can harness them and channel them when I want to.  If I master the knack to do so.

      I had a dream the other night.  I dreamed that I was dressed in my finest clothes, and reading journal articles at my desk.  I was taking notes in a notebook.  There was a man outside the room, and when I registered that he was there, I told him to come to me. On the floor.  I didn’t look up.

       When he shuffled up to my desk, I extended my free hand, encased in a brown leather glove, and instructed him to take off my glove.  With his teeth.  I only looked up once or twice.  “Do not leave marks on my glove!” I ordered him.

        After he finally managed to take it off, I seized it in my other hand and beat his face with it, hard, until he was crying.

      I dismissed him then, and went back to my papers.

“What You See Here and Hear Here Stays Here.” Riiiiiiight….

    I doubt my general readership will find this interesting, but I just wanted to say that AA has the most efficient, reliable grapevine I have ever come across in my entire life.  Gossip spreads through that organization like wildfire.  It’s stunning, really.  It’s as if they all have twitter, and they all use it.  That guy in the back of the meeting who is the timekeeper, or who’s emailing his boss?  He’s tweeting.  I’m sure of it.  Have you ever wondered why the official newspaper of NYC AA is called The Grapevine?  I’m telling you why.  

      Case in point:  I went to one of my home groups (I have two…two and a half if you count “Scream and Cry,” which I blogged about here) and spat out The Awful Truth about sucking down two liters of vodka over the weekend.  It’s shitty that I have to lose all my time, but there’s no way that I could honestly try to pass that off as a “slip.”  It’s a relapse.  A small one, thank God, but that’s what it is.  

     Everyone was great, very supportive, was glad to see me again.  It’s a good group.  I like most of them  a lot (I think one of them is going to bring a gun and kill everyone one day…everyone else seems to think he’s harmless, but I think that he is frighteningly hostile).  

    Meeting ended; the group dispersed.  

    Not thirty minutes later, my phone blew up.

   How?  How did word travel that fast?  The people that called me don’t even go to that AA group.  They go to different ones.  I don’t get it.  Did someone leave the meeting, run around the corner, and whip out their cell phone and call Intergroup and have the news of Miss Margo’s vodka-sucking mailed to every AA member via certified letter?  

     I am not even a popular member.  I don’t have close AA friends (shocker).  I don’t Chair anything.  I have one small service commitment. I’m not sleeping with anyone in AA. I’m not important.  Why gossip about me?  

      So weird.  So, so weird.  (FYI, I’m not mad or anything.  I don’t care if anyone knows what I did.  After all, I talked about it.)

     I will take this opportunity to warn my readers: AA is not anonymous.  Not really.  I’ve noticed that it can get very secretive and closed to outsiders, but within the membership, everybody knows everything.  If you say it in a meeting, or to people at fellowship, or at a AA party or study group or wherever, then it is public knowledge.  That’s a fact, and you ignore it at your peril.  

     I’ve told em a lot, but nowhere near everything, and that is why.  Last name?  No way.  Secret job?  Forget it.  What I study?  Nope.  No identifying information.  

     I hope that nobody reading this construes what I’ve said as a criticism of AA.  Believe me, it’s not.  I have criticisms of AA.  Many of them.  Sometimes I want to write them down and take them to a meeting and nail them to the door like Martin Luther at Wittenberg.  What I’ve written about in this blog post is not a criticism; it’s an observation.  That is all.