Imaginary Boyfriend: Max Keiser

     I discovered Max Keiser when journalist Matt Taibbi linked to Keiser on his blog.  As soon as I closed my mouth and put my eyeballs back in my head, I started watching every Keiser Report I could get my hands on.  

     I love Keiser.  He’s kind of scary because he’s fearless and he has a weird sort of manic energy, but I fucking love him.  He always sticks up for the underdog. The man will fight with anyone.  Nobody intimidates him.  He’s like Michael Moore on Moore’s best day–he has absolutely no problem with getting up in some swine’s grill and holding them accountable.  It’s breathtaking to watch.  I especially love it when he gets an interview with some bigshot corporate apologist and Keiser tells him that he ought to be shot.  Miss Margo is too polite (or too cowardly) to say that to someone’s face, but boy oh boy, do I think it.  I’ve mellowed a lot since the days when I was active in a Socialist youth group (“It’s a labor rights organization, Mom,” I’d say, as I returned from stuffing radical tracts in library books about Karl Marx), but I’ve still got a streak in me a mile wide.  Keiser has the right idea. Bring back the guillotine and the gulag, and do it right this time.

       Keiser is also really funny, and he pulls these wacky stunts on his show that make me do a double take.   He might actually be a little crazy.  One time he put pantyhose on his head like a bank robber and imitated a Financial Services thief.  I laughed so hard I choked on my breakfast cereal and started fist-pumping the air.  

        They won’t let him on a lot of mainstream media, but you can find him all over the internet and on good shows like Russia Today.  I love his blog, too.  Actually, I think I’ll link to it.  

       And he lives in PARIS!  How awesome is that?   I love Paris!  It’s beautiful there!  I wish I was in Paris with Max Keiser RIGHT NOW!

       Mr. Keiser: if you ever need a place to stay in New York, you can stay with me!  I would also like to offer my companionship and a lifetime supply of blowjobs on demand.  Just ask!  I’ll hook you up!

Time to Make the Calls

    July 2012 will live forever in my mind as the time my life was held hostage for $4000.  

    That’s my price: four grand, or approximately half of a semester’s tuition.  Un-fucking-believable.  

    It’s sort of pathetic.  For some reason, I thought I’d be worth more. 

    I barely slept at all last night.  I’ve got to wait a few more hours because of the time zone change, and then I’m going to call my mother for help.  

     If she can’t do it, my next call is going to be to my ex, the Surgeon.  THAT SHOULD BE FUN.  

     Four thousand bucks is probably what the Surgeon has in spare change underneath the floor mats of his shiny car.  There’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll give it to me, but he’s not going to just drop it off at my apartment in an envelope with a repayment plan attached.  

      I wouldn’t mind so much if all he would want in return is access to my sexuality.  I’ve been thinking about it a lot this week, and I think that I could handle that, psychologically speaking.  I’ve been with the man a million times, I know what he likes, how to keep him happy.  I know how to manage him.  

      Nope, it’s not going to be just sex.  He is going to want access to my life. 

      Now, perhaps you are thinking–as one person suggested to me the other day–Miss Margo, you don’t have to give him that.  Just take the money, and don’t let him in. 

       Unfortunately, I can’t do that.  Doing that would be insane.  There is no way on God’s green earth that I would be stupid enough to take the man’s money and not give him what he wants.  I would sooner renege on Joe Pesci’s character in the movie Casino.  I have seen him rain down a shitstorm of consequences on people for far, far less.  I wouldn’t do a shitty job of delivering the man’s morning newspaper.  In his professional life, he enjoys tremendous notoriety.  He is feared and hated.  I have heard people talk about him.  The stories I could tell you–Jesus!  

 I couldn’t find the infamous pen scene, but this one is pretty good. Picture this guy, only better looking and with a hundred additional IQ points.  “Miss Margo, you know, the least you could do is return my phone calls!”  I only wish I was joking.  

     My Kim works at a strip joint a few nights a week.  She wants me to go with her this Saturday.  I earned enough money yesterday to buy the shoes.  

     I honestly feel like I’m going to throw up.  

Thanks For the Link, Paltego!

     The blogger Paltego, who runs the website Femdom Resource: The Beauty of Dominant Women, has linked to my blog.  

     My traffic’s more than trebled.  

     I am surprised and very flattered.  THANK YOU, PALTEGO!

     I assume that most of the new visitors who find me through Femdom Resource are looking for the sexy stuff.  I’ve tried to avoid getting pornographic on this blog, but I’ve written a lot about sadomasochism in my private and professional lives, and yeah, I have photos to prove it.  

      I recommend clicking on the tags “beatings” and “The Biz” for quick access to the more lurid posts, or posts that have to do with the business of professional sadomasochism.  

Independence Day

    Update 1 PM

     My Canadian friend got me on the phone and gave me a much-needed reality check.

     “Ask your Mom!”

     “I can’t ask my Mom!” I cried.

     “Why not?  You never had to get a restraining order from your Mom!  And you cannot be a stripper.  Do yourself a favor and sell your kidney first, instead.  It would have fewer negative consequences for you.  I am really worried about you.  Nothing good can come from that decision.  All the possibilities on the flow chart point to tragedy.  And you’ll start drinking in a bar and in two years you’ll be a tattooed, haggard shell of a woman.

      Besides, nobody is going to hire you.  Not if they are talented at vetting strippers.  What sort of music are you going to bring in?  Something from the ’90s that will date yourself?”

       I started to shriek with laughter.  I thought that was hilarious.  “Rob Zombie!  Living Dead Girl!”  

       “Imagine how depressed you are going to be when you don’t get the job!  And on that note, maybe you need to start living a less exciting life.  Haven’t you had enough excitement?  Just reading your blog makes me think I’m having a heart attack.

       Call your Mom.”  

       Thank you, E., for making me feel like a human being again.  


                      *                          *                 *                          * 
     My contact lens case fell over in the medicine cabinet last night and my contacts dried out.  

      They were my only pair.  

      To get new ones, I have to submit to an eye exam.  Three hundred bucks I don’t have right now.  

        I really think I might be losing my mind.  When I saw my contacts, I actually sat down on the toilet lid and started laughing uncontrollably.  Oh boy.  

        The diamond ring my ex, John, gave me has almost no resell value.  I’m thinking about putting it on craigslist, but it seems stupid to sell my only good jewelry for a few bucks.  

          Independence day.  The Studio is closed, which pisses me off.  

           I have no plans.  Maybe I should watch the news.  I literally have no idea what’s going on in the world.  I haven’t checked my messages or talked to anyone on the phone in days.  

           I need to get some new contacts.  Then I’m going to audition at the strip club.  I might as well get it over with.  

          I have no idea how I’m going to do this sober.  

Circling the Drain

    I’ve been working so much that I inadvertently killed one of my houseplants through neglect.  I re-discovered it last night.  I watered it and put it by the window, but I don’t think it can be revived.  

    I had a good day yesterday, but it’s not enough.  

    I might as well tell you: I am seriously considering going to work at a strip club.  

      I don’t know of any other way I can raise several thousand dollars in a few weeks–either to keep my place, or to move into a new one.  

      I’ve been seriously researching the business for a few days now. 

     The good news is, I’m pretty enough to do it.  I thought you had to be younger than 25 and have big boobs.  

     The bad news is, I hate every single thing I think I know about the job.  EVERYTHING.  I hate the stupid clothes and stripper platform heels.  I hate customer service.  I hate the idea of constantly coming on hard to men I’m not attracted to.  I’m not naturally flirtatious.  I hate nightclubs and loud music.  I hate the idea of rubbing my body on some dude and pretending that I think he’s the king of the castle.  YUCK!!!

        (Yeah, you could say half those things about working in professional BDSM, but it’s different.  I like fetish clothes, as opposed to stripper clothes.  And, even when I have sessions I dislike–which is seldom–at least it is interesting. And it’s who I am, it’s an authentic part of my personality and sexuality.  I have tremendous respect and empathy for almost all of my clients.)

       I know someone out there will write me and say: “Stripping! That’s degrading!”

        Know what’s degrading..?  Teaching your student at your apartment in the morning, and having your landlord knock on your door to demand the late fee.  THAT is degrading.  Happened to me this morning.  

        I’m really circling the drain right now.   

        The Surgeon would help me, but I just can’t go back to him.  He would be nice to me at first.  And then he would make me pay.  And pay.  And pay.   

Restless Late-Night Scheming

  I got home from work an hour ago and tried to go to bed, but I can’t sleep.  

   (Work sucked, by the way.  I tutored a student this morning, so I got paid in cash for that, but I made a grand total $20 at the Studio.  For the second day in a row, nothing was happening.  I don’t get it.  Why?  Where are the men?  Out on Long Island, not having sex with their wives?  Cleaning their grills in anticipation of Independence Day?  What?  Where?)

      So here I sit, blinking owlishly at the computer monitor.  


      A girl at work was drinking marshmellow-flavored vodka.   I could smell it from across the room.  It smelled delicious.  My mouth watered.  UGH!  Disgusting.  It’s been almost a year since I dried out–when will I stop being aware of it…?  

      I have been reduced to scheming, most of the day and once more now.  Restless late-night scheming.  My anxious brain picking up the questions: How are you going to resolve this?  How can you deal with the potentially worst-case scenario?  I pick them up and worry them.  Worry them worry them worry them.  

      I am seriously considering doing something…kinda bad.  (No, not shooting my landlord–ha! ha!)  

      The opportunity–the solution to my insecurity–is there.  All I have to do is do it. 
      But once it’s done, it can’t be undone.  What fresh hell is this, right?  

Watch this Film re: Russian Prisons

     I’ve watched this film twice in the last two days, which probably suggests something about my state of mind…

      The Mark of Cain. A documentary about the culture of Russian prison tattoos and Russian prisons.  It’ll make your hair turn white.  I have to say, as I’ll walk back to work tonight, I’ll definitely appreciate my freedom a little more.  I have no idea where I’ll be in a month, but at least I won’t be at the White Swan prison in Russia.   

     The tattoos are fascinating.  I wouldn’t call them beautiful, because I don’t like tattoos on anyone except aboriginal peoples, but they are certainly interesting, and some of the ones shown in the movie are executed with very skillfully.  The artistic style is definitely different than in the tattoos I see on people.  

     I also like the way the filmmaker lets the prisoners and other narrators speak for themselves and give their own explanations and stories.  There is nothing condescending (or romantic) here, and a minimum of editorializing.  It’s a very good film.

You will have to watch it in segments on YouTube…this is the first.

31 Days

     Thirty-one days till my lease is up.

     It’s been so oppressively hot that after I limped home from a meeting last night I sprayed down my birds and replaced half the water in my aquariums so that the fish didn’t boil alive.  Then I took a cold shower and drank half a bottle of children’s liquid Benadryl and fell asleep on top of the covers in my underpants and a camisole.  

      It was over 80* when I woke up and by the time I met my student in Hoboken, my makeup had run off my face.  I am absolutely disgusted by my body today.  I think that I want to lose twenty lbs.  Maybe that would help.  Help what, I don’t know, but it would help something, I am sure.   

      My student is not the sharpest crayon in the box and he routinely comes to our sessions without paper or a writing utensil. I am skeptical of whether his parents will keep me in their employ after they receive his Spring semester report card.  Somehow, he has kept them from seeing it so far.  He claims not to have gotten it, but this is implausible.  

    Nevertheless, I do the best I can with their Moppet-Haired little Dudebro.  I always have.  I swear.  

    Back underground into the oven of the train platform.  Midtown is sluggish, the sidewalks almost empty.  Crickets, crickets, crickets and tumbleweeds.  My iPhone says it’s 94*.  

     As I ring the buzzer at the Superstudio, I consult the calculator in my head and do the math: two days off in the last month.  

      And I’m still behind the 8-ball.  

      Business was dead as heaven on a Saturday night. Incredible.  Dante brought in two clients I kicked around for a bit for tips.  I finished off two manuscripts I’ve been hired to copyedit and sent them off. 

     I came home for a bit to tend to the animals and change my clothes.  It’s cooler now; looks like it might rain.  I hope so.  

      Time to go back out.  

       I have no idea what I’m going to do right now.  In my head, I’m kicking around two or three options.  None of them are good.  

       But 31 days can be a long, long time.  A lot can happen in 31 days.