Good Girls Give Gifts

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    The title of this blog post is a takeoff from one of my very early posts, Good Girls Get Gifts. 

     I presented the Surgeon with gifts to express my appreciation that he’d saved my ass from the landlord last month, basically.  He gave me a lot of cash.   Yeah, the motives are questionable, but he didn’t have to do it.

       I am a polite individual–the type who sends Thank-You cards for dinner parties and holiday gifts.  And I hate to shop, but I like to shop for gifts quite a lot.  The handful of people who know me best will tell you that I am a good gift-giver.  I select items only after much deliberation and consideration.

        I bought the Surgeon three gifts: a practical gift, a romantic gift, and a secret gift.

        This is the practical gift–heavy marble coasters purchased from the Evolution Store in SoHo.  I thought they were appropriate because he is a physician: 

         
        This is the romantic gift–a whittled conch shell.  It’s called the “heart” of the conch.  It is pink and beautiful and slippery smooth.  The Surgeon likes things from the ocean:

        He was given a secret gift, too.  I have to keep that one private.

       When he came to see me again, he brought a gift for me.  It was his own–first he strapped me with it, and then he bequeathed it to me.  I’m having it re-sized to fit me now, so that I can wear it myself:

     
         Ostrich skin is so supple and beautiful. It feels so soft –you’d have to handle it to understand.  I can’t keep my hands off of it.  The buckle is real silver, too.  Heavy.  I felt it.  He bought it at a conference out West.

         The Surgeon likes to wear the hides of unusual, strange creatures.  Ostrich, alligator, snakeskin, eel, crocodile.

           Perhaps that is why he still desires me.

Parrot Sez: I Hope You Kept the Receipt

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          Readers of this blog are familiar (probably too familiar) with my pet, Parrot:

      I take bird ownership very seriously, and I try to give her the best possible care that I can (I really need to get her a mate–it’s unnatural for parrots to live alone.  She gets to see and hear my other birds, but they’re a different species and originated on a different continent, so they don’t speak the same birdie language or communicate very well.  Parrot is African and the others are New World birds). 

        Anyway, avian vets and bird behaviorists agree that it is important to give captive parrots the opportunity to forage for things like they do in their natural state.  It stimulates them mentally and discourages neurotic behaviors and boredom.  In the wild, they’re always hunting around for food and chewing things up and exploring stuff.  In captivity, they mostly just sit on their ass all day and move ten inches to partake in an ever-abundant supply of food.  Kind of like most Americans.  

      So, pet companies have designed “foraging toys.”  The bird has to work to get the treats out of them.  Foraging toys are a huge hit.  I make homemade forging toys with paper towel tubes and other stuff, but they’re not particularly challenging.  I decided that it was time to get Parrot a real, top-of-the-line foraging toy.  I found it on Amazon.  The reviewers were all, “My bird LOVES this thing!  Keeps him busy for hours!”   Here it is, the “Creative Foraging Systems Hide & Seek Refillable Canister”:

Creative Foraging Systems Hide & Seek Refillable Canister, 4-Inch W by 6-Inch L
It wasn’t cheap, either. 
       I hung that baby in her cage and waited for the fun to begin!  I think I was more excited about it than she was.  Actually, I know I was.  Because this is what it looks like one week later:

Parrot has declined to forage.
      NOTICE ANYTHING?   She hasn’t touched it.  Not once.  It looks like it just came out of the box.  She doesn’t even look at it.   I wonder if this is what parents feel like when they buy their kid a brand new bike and the kid doesn’t ever ride it.   For her part, she probably feels like she got socks for Christmas.   
      Know what Parrot’s favorite toy is…?  A little hardwood log with holes drilled into it.  I buy cheap wooden spoons from the $.99 store and stick them through the holes, and then hang it from the top of her cage.  She goes bonkers for it.  Amazingly, it never gets old to her.  I don’t get it.   Here is Parrot’s favorite toy, which she chooses over the expensive, state-of-the-art foraging device:

            Yup.  Wooden spoons stuck on a log.  Party down, Parrot.  

Operation Barbarossa on Rodents Menacing Margo Manor

Update Sunday 8:30 AM:      

      I caught TWO  of the mice last night with these spin traps.  The reviewers on Amazon.com write that the traps do not kill instantly as claimed, and that they heard the mice struggle and squeak as they slowly perished.  I, however, heard nothing but the sweet, sweet sound of victory.  

                                    *                                      *                                    *
I can’t write much right now–if you read this communique, gentle reader, then it has been successfully smuggled from the front lines of the miserable conflict your humble correspondent is fighting.

     In an unprecedented and utterly baseless act of blatant aggression, vermin have infiltrated Miss Margo Manor.  The small gray mice have demonstrated nothing but naked contempt for diplomacy and the law of war. They never communicated their intent to invade this apartment, nor have they provided any justification for their presence.   They are arrogant, insensitive, and vile in the extreme.  

      Without clear proof of the vermins’ intentions upon this apartment and its denizens, Miss Margo is left to speculate that the mice are here simply to harass the shit out of her, make her uneasy, suck up her free time, and threaten her peace of mind.  

      Hence, we have launched Operation Barbarossa against the Menacing Rodents.

      (…actually, now that I think of it, Operation Barbarossa was a spectacular failure.  Hopefully my campaign against the disgusting mice will be more like Napoleon’s Destruction of the Third Coalition.  Only time shall tell.  And yeah, I’m a war nerd.  I’m worse than a guy.) 

        One of them got into my Parrot cage, man.  That’s what really made me go psycho.  Till then, I was all, “There’s only two of three of them!  I’ll get humane Havaheart catch-and-release traps!”  I even ordered them from Amazon.com.  I’m not scared of mice the way I am of roaches–we had a few rats for a while in my last crummy apartment, and they never freaked me out.  They’re mammals, you know?  But after I saw the little mouse bastard running around in Parrot’s newspaper under her birdbath, I flipped.  I donned my rubber rain boots and long cleaning gloves and got my flashlight and a bottle of spray bleach.  I put on sunglasses just in case. I intended to smash it with the flashlight or blind it with chemicals.  Screw you if you are laughing at me right now.  The mouse tried to hide from me in newspaper shreddings, but then it leaped through the bars of Parrot’s cage.  I pursued, but somehow it escaped.  Asshole.  WHERE DID IT GO?  I CAN’T FIND THE HOLE!

     I spent four hours last night vacuuming, scrubbing, and BLEACHING everything in the kitchen and bird cages.  I have bruises all over my knees that have nothing to do with sadomasochism.  I ruined my fresh manicure and had to take a cold shower at 1 AM because I was sweaty and filthy.  

     Starting last night, I launched my defensive military operation.  Although I have only managed to bleach half the apartment thus far, I have laid out many, many traps.  Fuck those Havahart things.  You shoulda seen this mouse running around on Parrot’s floor!  And how could it jump out of the cage and run away, uninjured?  It would be like me jumping off the Chrysler building and jogging away! 

     The animals are on lockdown and all their food and water has been moved high off the cage floors. I put down poison traps, concealed snap traps (already caught one little bastard), and even the gruesome glue traps.   After they got into Parrot’s cage, I have no mercy left for them.  Parrot is probably big enough to kill one if it attacked her, but the little birds aren’t, and I can’t stand the idea of a rodent climbing in their house and scaring them at night.  NOT ALLOWED.  
       
     New York City living, man.  I never laid eyes on a wild (non-pet) rat until I moved to this area.  In my home town, a person had to live in squalor–absolute filth and squalor–to have roaches or mice in the home.  I had no idea rodents still infested cities in First World countries.  It struck me as archaic, like something out of Charles Dickens.  


      I intended to write something funny, but I guess I am preoccupied with expelling the vermin.  Sorry.

      I’m gonna go check the traps again.

Testing Dr. Psychologist

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       The man I referenced in my last post, “Dr. Psychologist,” kept his appointment.  

        He brought me a new pair of shoes (what is it with men and SHOES?).  They are patent platform pumps–an unusual cornflower or perikinkle blue color:

Toe Cleavage Rocks.  And I love the almond toe.


   I still haven’t decided whether I really like them or not, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter (thanks for buying them, Dr. Psychologist.  I can’t afford to buy myself much new stuff.  I appreciate it!).  

      When I learned that he couldn’t swim, I held his head under in a big bucket full of cold water.  That always scares people who are afraid of water. Worked like a charm.  They usually can’t take more than fifteen or twenty seconds.  Max. 

     After I lifted him out, I took a soft terrycloth towel and dried his hair and his face and his shoulders.  I took my time.  I made certain that there were no stray beads of cold water running down his torso or into his ears.  I combed his hair back from his forehead with my fingers.  Where are your ancestors from…?  I asked.  What color was your hair before it turned gray…?  

     Then it was time for the finishing act: once he was dry and comfortable, I had him stand and suspend a bucket of water in each hand, arm held out at the shoulder. (I knew he couldn’t do it for long.  Nobody can.  If you want to really humiliate someone, ask them to hold out a pencil at arm’s length for ten minutes.)

      I turned on a dime.  He was lucky that he told me he couldn’t be marked, because otherwise I’d have taken off half his hide.  I paced back and forth in front of him, behind him, berating him, insulting him.  “Keep those buckets up!  What kind of man are you? What sort of weak little creature?  Keep them up!  I told you to keep them up!  You are PATHETIC!” 

        The muscles in his arms twitched, shuddered, started to give out.  I kept pacing, whipping him, lecturing: “You didn’t underestimate me, did you?  Think I was so nice and sweet to you when I toweled you off?  I think you trust me too much.  How can you fear me if you trust me too much…?  I think I need to do something to violate your trust.  I think you’re a fucking fool if you don’t think that I’m more than capable of doing what you clearly need me to do to you.  Are you a fool, Doctor?  Do you feel like a fool?”  WHAP!  WHAP!  “I asked you a question, you fucking chump!  Did you trust me too much?”

        (There is no right answer to that.  There is no right answer.  I have learned very well from the sadists in my life.) 

        He collapsed, and then I let him go.

       While he got dressed, he told me:  “You are very interesting.  There is such a contrast in your personality.  You were so gentle and caring when you dried me off and toweled my hair–almost maternal.  It was almost loving.  I’m not saying that you love me, of course not.  But it made me think of that.  And then, suddenly, such hardness and force.  It was scary.  You are intense.  It was really good!

        I think of it as a sort of teaching evaluation.  

Doors Opened & Closed

   I wrote like a demon this morning.  Three thousand words; not too shabby.  The pink tablet of a (legal drug redacted) my friend at the Studio gave me probably helped with it, but I’ve been pretty productive all week.  

     Tomorrow I have an extended appointment at the Superstudio with a psychiatrist who also has a Ph.D. in psychology.  I met him a few days ago.  He was seeing another Mistress, and I came in for ten minutes for a tip and dramatic effect.  The good doctor was so interested in me that he came back to see me three hours later, even though he was…quite well used.  

       I couldn’t ride him hard, so we took it easy and talked a lot.  He seemed shocked and thrilled that I understood all of his academic references.  For whatever reason, this always pisses me off.  Why wouldn’t I understand your references, jackass?  Am I not eloquent?  I told you that I am educated–do I seem to be lying? 

      He asked me out to dinner afterwards at A Voce.  No, I will not go out to A Voce with you.  I do not know you.  Management will fire me (besides, I am under retainer to another crazy physician, and food is not on the menu of his therapy schedule). 

      Can I come see you in a few days?  If you trust me then, will you come see me when I travel?  I’m very impressed with you!  My students don’t ask such serious questions! 

        “I don’t have sex with clients, Doctor,” I said, snapping on a fresh pair or rubber gloves.  “That sort of thing may be procured elsewhere with a minimum of effort.” 

        I know that.  Of course I know that. You would have your own room, your own space.  You could leave whenever you wanted.  I have a beautiful place in Boston….

      I turned around again and eyed him carefully.  Sizing him up.  One of the things working in the Biz has taught me is how to read and interact with people that I would normally never, ever come into contact with in my day-to-day life.  I’m not saying I’m a mind-reader or an excellent judge of character, by any means, but I think I can get a decent handle on a lot of these guys.  

       I see someone academically successful, intellectually vain, ambitious (at his age!) and insecure about the fact that he is only financially very comfortable instead of being rich, like most of the people he interacts with socially (and probably treats as a clinician).     Goddamn, goddamn, my antiques are mostly expensive imitations! Wife has died or dumped him.  He is lonely.  Wants to shoot Dr. Phil in the face.  Will be THE BEST PSYCHIATRIST EVER!!!!  In the 70s, I was into Gestalt Therapy. 

       “Come back in a few days, if you wish.  We’ll see how it goes,” I said. 

      “What is your shoe size?  Would you bring me a sample of your writing?”  he asked.

    Size 7 and Are you crazy? I led him out.

     I have no idea how it’ll go tomorrow–experience has taught me not to expect anything, one way or the other.  I am skeptical.  He’s an interesting fellow because he is so flashingly intelligent, but that’s about all I think about him right now.  I have no investment.  

     I will say, though–on this topic–that this work can open doors for a talented and attractive woman.  Hell, she actually only has to be one of the two in order to get some impressive benefits.  There are women at the Studio who’ve made this their career, and they own their own condos in Manhattan and summer in France. It is astonishing, truly astonishing, the people and personalities you can run into in this profession.  I’ve always had straight (usually academic) jobs, always done this part-time, and I’ve never considered it to be anything other than a way to make ends meet financially whilst I was working towards a more meaningful career.  I’ve never used this work to, say, promote myself.  Quite the contrary.  I operate under layers and layers of lies and aliases.  The only authentic pieces of me that most of them ever get access to is the connection I give them during our time together.  

       But I have met individuals, and had experiences, that I do not think I ever could have had otherwise.  The Surgeon is the most obvious example, for better or for worse, but there are many, many others. 

     It’s a resource.  Not necessarily material, but definitely a resource.  To have access to this experience, this expertise, this perspective.  It is an education.  

      But everything in life is a trade-off.  And I know what I have traded for this freedom and knowledge.  

FakeMTA’s Tournament of Champions

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So, so true. My pet peevs: 1) riders who don’t take off their backpacks and place them at their feet in crowded trains; 2) riders who eat real meals (not snacks, but real food which requires eating utensils); and 3) panhandlers who make their pitch by saying that they have decided to beg rather than steal and rob, which I can only interpret as a menacing, semi-veiled threat.  Yes, it is so noble of you, Sir, to ask me for money instead of just punching me in the face and taking my purse.  I am proud of you.  Here, have a dollar.

Some station agents are real assholes, too.  You should see the looks I get when I ask them to combine the leftover credits on my old Metrocards.  Look, I wouldn’t want to work in a grimy subway station all day, either, but at least you have a union and health insurance.  I’m not asking you to bring back the Golden Fleece, for chrissakes.  Just combine my credits, okay?

In contrast, the engineers/conductors are usually pretty cool, even though they, too, have to answer the same damn questions and see the same damn things allllllll day long.

Found on FakeMTA’s twitter.

I’ll Take That: The Tear

     I saw a man at the Studio today.  Not an hour previously, I’d been sitting in the office of a Columbia U. epidemiologist, dressed in my dove-gray skirt suit with pink pinstripes.  The fall back through the veil, back into my secret life, was unusually jarring. 

      The man was in his early 40s, boyish-looking, and has usually hired me as a sub.  I’ve had to suspend most of my sub work since the Surgeon rode back into town, because I can’t get away with being seriously marked again (and God, I forgot how stressful it is to be running around on the guy), but today, the client said: You can be in charge.

      “Very well.  What can I do to you?” I asked, pulling on a pair of my soft suede gloves.  

      “Whatever you want.” 

      I barked laughter in his face.  “Sure you want to put it like that to me?”

      He shrugged sheepishly.

      “There’s a new girl here I like a lot.  Her name’s Dannie.   She needs to watch in order to learn.  Want to be our little guinea pig, Steve?  Our little lab rat?”  

        “Okay.”

        I reached over and snatched a big handful of his hair.  Then I started pull his head down.  The pain radiated off of him; he resisted.  “OW!” he said.

       “Been a while since you haven’t been in charge, eh…?  Don’t answer.  It’s a rhetorical question.  You see where I’m going?  You feel where my hand is moving your head?  You can answer that.”

      “Yes!”

       “Fine!  If you see where I’m going, then why don’t you do it?”  I am, as a personality, very partial to rules and structure.  I express my rules to the men I control or dominate, and make allowances based upon their experience, expertise, and character.  But my first two rules–the rules most crucial to me–are: 1) Don’t resist.  2) Obey.  Steve here wasn’t immediately getting with the program.  He needed a little reminder (it’s okay.  We all make mistakes, after all). 

       He bent over at the waist and I led him out like that, by his hair, down the corridor and past the locker room.

       “Oh, my!” said one of the girl by the refrigerator.  “What have we here?”  A few others laughed at him.

       “Dannie,” I said.  “I’m going to show you a few tricks on this one.  I’ll be in (room).  Come give a knock when you’re ready.” 

                    *                              *                        * 

       Twenty minutes later:

       He was suspended from the ceiling and his weight was carried–barely–on the balls of his feet.  I was strapping him with his own leather belt.  It made a whistling noise as it cut through the air.  I do love belts.  I have to say, I do love belts.  

      I’d say that the bark of this one was worse than the bite, but the edges of it were so thin and sharp, that they were leaving some decent marks.  His sweat had sprang up all over his body, light and eager.  So had mine.   

       Dannie had just entered the room.  I invited her to pull up a chair and have a seat in front of him.  I didn’t interrupt my beating. 

       She sat.  She is a beautiful brunette, petite, immaculately coiffed.   Her posture is absolutely perfect.  She sits like a ballerina; a finishing-school graduate.  Crosses her legs below the knee and all that. 

       “Isn’t she pretty, Steve?” I asked him.  WHAP!

        “Yes!”

        “Then tell her how pretty she is, Steve.  Where are your manners?  Tell her how lucky you are to get to look at her and admire her and be the center of her attention.”  WHAP!   WHAP!  

        Steve babbled some stuff.  

        “Does he sound sincere, Dannie?  Does he sounds like he means it, or is he full of shit?” 

       “Oh, he sounds sincere,” Dannie said. 

        “That’s good,” I said.  WHAP!  “Do you know, Dannie, that before we got started, he asked me if I thought I could make him cry?”

        “Oh no!”  Dannie said.  She giggled. (This girl is gonna be a natural.  Trust me).  “Really?  That’s doesn’t sound too smart!”

         “Yes, indeed!” I said happily.  WHAP!  “What do you think, Dannie?  Does he look like he’s about to cry to you?”

         “Hmmm…well, I don’t know.”

         “Does he look distressed, at least?”  WHAP!

         Steven screamed.

       “Oh yes, very distressed.”  Dannie said.  Her tone was amused. Like I said–she’s going to be a hit.  

       “Well, that’s a start.  That’s a start.  A good way to start.  Everyone needs to start someplace.  Don’t you agree, Steve?  Steve?”  WHAP!  WHAP! WHAP!  “Steve, why aren’t you answering me, Steve?  Does pain clog your stupid fucking brain, Steve?  Does it make you stupid?  See, Dannie, you have to be prepared for this: pain makes them stupid.”  

        She leaned forward, close to his red, sweating face.  “Oh!  Margo!  I think he might be crying.”

        WHAP!  “Are you sure?  Sure it’s not just sweat?” 

        “No, he looks really sad!  Awww, poor thing!”

        “Let’s take a look.”  I dropped the belt.  It fell to the floor and uncoiled like a dead snake.  I walked around in front on him.  The metal horseshoes on my boots clanged on the hard concrete floor.  

       I moved my gloved hand towards his face and as I did so, he flinched.  Delicious.  I love that part.  I love it when they flinch.

        “It doesn’t have to hurt every time I touch you, Steve,” I said gently, and grabbed his face in my hand.  I looked into his eyes.  Yeah, they were tearing up.

         “A tear!” I exclaimed happily.  “I’ll take that!”

         With my other hand, I brushed a teardrop off of his cheek with my gloved index finger.  I looked at the water on the leather and turned around to show it to Dannie.    

Checkmate

     I had an ugly confrontation with one of my students.  It concerned plagiarism. 

      I was in a foul fucking mood when we started.  Plagiarism offends me worse than nuclear war and I’ve lost seven lbs. in 9 days, which is making me feel very grouchy, very grouchy indeed.  
Aside from my weird five-minute crying spell the other morning, I’ve pretty much felt made out of metal.  My favorite way to feel. 

     “Look, you’ve got to re-write this before you turn it in,” I told him.  

      “You don’t even work for my school!” he argued.  “That’s not your job!”  

       “You will be identified with or without my help.  And the further along in your academic career it will happen, the more severe the consequences will be.  I am trying to warn you.”

       “You’re threatening me and sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong!” this kid actually yelled.  “My parents hired you!  My dad’s a lawyer!” 

      I lifted out of my chair, just a little bit, and bore into him.  I don’t remember precisely what I was thinking.  I felt rage, but it was cold.  There are maybe a handful of people on this earth who get to push me around these days.  This spoiled, cheating punk is not one of them.  

      “My father’s Franz Adler*.”  Checkmate, bitch.  If my father was an idiot, he’d probably doing life in a SuperMax somewhere.  Don’t you dare underestimate me.  

      He backed down and said he had to leave early. 

      They might left me go.  But I bet the kid will re-write his paper, and keep his mouth shut.  And I will, too.  

       Even when I am most down on myself, I must remember: I do have skills.  I do have certain skills that almost nobody else I know has. 

*Franz Adler is not my father’s real name.  

The Asylum

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       Alleluia!  I’m found some hot porn!

       As all 4 longtime readers of this blog will know, I have a pretty hard time finding “porn” that excites and interests me (yeah yeah, I know you’re thinking “Who in hell wants ‘interesting’ porn?” I do, that’s who!).  As much as I loathe advertising (not so much in concept…what really offends me is its intrusion into public space, like billboards and train stations), I must admit that I find a lot of my favorite sexytime images in ads.  By “a lot,” I mean 14.  I am only being somewhat facetious. 

      As I’ve mentioned in the past, I have a special “coconut porn” folder.  I ripped off the term from defunct blogger Bitchy Jones, but since I’m citing her, I think it’s legit. You can click on the label tag “making porn out of coconuts” for more.

       And now….check out these awesome pics!  I found a few on Paltego’s site, but then I went to the original sources and got em all!  

       *sigh* if only, if only one of the models was a boy!!!  Girl/girl does nothing for me, but when you’re a perv like myself, you take your thrills where you can get them! In my mind, I just pretend the darkhaired patient model is a boy. 

      P.S.  It should go without saying, but: I have tremendous compassion for the mentally ill and I would never advocate treating them in such a fashion. 

        I’m just digging the fantasy sadomasochism here.  And gosh, these photos are very well done!  Artistical!  These models did a really good job as actresses.


The white boots and the key ring really make this shot. for me.  The doctor looks so intense and powerful.   And who’d they hire to do that rigging?  See her on her toes?  

See how the doctor looks casual yet authoritative, as if she were reading a patients’ chart. 

Nice rigging!  Darkhaired model is very flexible–most can’t touch their elbows in back. See the dirty feet, and how pristine the doctor is.