The English Headmaster

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      Uh-oh….this is problematical….

          I just took a good hard look at the marks on my ass…

          I have a serious bruise from yesterday.  With cane marks over it.  Serious.  A serious fucking BLACK hematoma.

          I’ve had much worse.  I’m not complaining.  But jeez, this does not look like it came from a little playful smacky-smacky with the girls.  

        What am I going to tell the Mathematician?  He’s naive about this S&M stuff but he’s not an idiot.  He is a very intelligent man.  What am I supposed to do, look this man in the eyes and say, “Oh, Mistress Denise did this to me when she was trying out a leather paddle?” or “Oh, I fell down the stairs with my backpack on…you know how clumsy I am!”

      If he thinks I’m lying to him, he will can my ass.  First he’ll shut down emotionally, and then he’ll leave.  

         Fuck me, man!  I needed the $500, but this is a serious problem! 

Cruisin for a Bruisin 

 

                    *                     *                                  *                                     *
Well, I did it.  And I must admit: the session, silly as it was, turned out to be pretty entertaining.  And the guy loved me! 

        I have to ask: exactly what the hell did they do to English children of the post-war generation?  Really?  What did they do?  Put them in burlap sacks and beat them after class?  Before class?  During class? Because I’ve met a lot of Englishmen of a certain age with complexes pertaining to corporal punishment in education.  The English has a reputation for being reserved and self-effacing, but I think that has to be bullshit–I’ve read too much George Orwell (“Such, Such Were the Joys”–read it and weep) and Charles Dickens.  Oliver Twist–one of the most hair-raising stories of child abuse ever put on paper?  Are you kidding me?  Beating the snot out of kids for their own good was like a national pastime.  I am not surprised those bastards took over the world and ran it for so long!  

       They have a weird sense of humor about it, too.  Try talking to an Englishman about being beaten up at school.  He’ll start laughing about it.  They think it’s funny. One friend of mine, an Indian who was educated in an English boarding school, would talk about wearing two pairs of uniform shorts when he reported to the headmaster to receive his disciplinary beatings.

       “Two pairs of shorts!  So it didn’t hurt so much!” then he’d laugh so hard that his eyes teared up.  “What a hoot!”

        Uhhh….okay.

        (I am just picking on the English.  They’re not so bad.  You have to admit that the scenario is ripe with comedic potential.)

        So anyway…yesterday this Englishman comes into the Studio.  He was quite a character.  A short guy, tremendously friendly…I mean positively radiating good cheer.  At first I actually wondered if he might be a little drunk.  It was awesome.  I love it when clients are there to have fun.

         He was a barrister, which I guess is some kind of lawyer.  He had a very specific scenario in mind: he was going to be the headmaster of an all-girl boarding school at which I was a student.  He would call me into his office to tell me that I’d been caught plagiarizing work in my final exams.  He was revoking my scholarship and expelling me from school.

       He lectured me at length about why I was morally corrupted because of the permissive attitudes about child-rearing found in society today.  I was spoiled!  When he was a boy, young ladies and gentlemen had sound judgement and better character because they were disciplined!  When he was a boy, he knew better than to cheat on exams!  Look at how all this spoiling has ruined you, Miss Margo Adler!   

      (but wait!  There’s more!)

       “Look at you, running about in those tight blue jeans!  That is not a proper costume for a young lady at this academy!”

       “Please don’t throw me out!” I wailed.  “I’ll never do it again!  I promise!  I’ll do anything to stay at this school!”  

        Yeah, you can guess where this is going, haahahahaha.

        “Then you must take a correction, Miss Adler!” he roared.

          Too.  Much.  Fun.  Yes, I know it’s corny, but it was fun.  Fun!  When is the last time you had that much fun at work? 

          First he waled on me with a “slipper.”  A “slipper” is just what it sounds like–a shoe.  That was a first for me.  I’ve been beaten with a lot of different things before, but never with a shoe.

        It wasn’t that bad.  

       When it was over, I composed myself, smoothing my hair and pretending to wipe the snot off my face and dry my eyes.  Then it was time for Act 2: The incourrigible tart, Miss Adler, thinks that she dodged a bullet and tries to seduce the Headmaster! 

       Well, he was having none of that!  He was an upstanding fellow and a married man!  When he figured out what I was trying to do, he blew his stack.  

       Now it was time to really teach me a lesson.  
    
       I got the cane (what else?).  And I had to count (of course).  After it broke after stroke number 11, he switched to the tawse (naturally!).  

         Check this out…this is where the guy really took the cake…oh my God…

         At the end, he took out a wooden paddle and said, “This is out of respect for your American traditions!” 

        BWAAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAA!  Hilarious!  I love it! 

        When it was over, he was so happy!  He gave me a hug and I brought him a beer.  We sat on the couch and chatted.  He really liked me, he said.  We had a great time.

     And he paid me $500 for that!  For something I would have probably done for free.  God, when the Biz is good, it’s very, very good. 

        But yeah, I definitely have bruises on my ass now.  A little welting from the cane, but it’s not bad.  The paddle was the worst.

      Still, though–the beating wasn’t that bad.  I’ve taken much, much harder.  Mel was routinely more violent.  And the Surgeon…well, we know how he was.  

        The Mathematician is going to see the marks tomorrow.  There’s no way I can cover them up.

          I really don’t want to lie to him…but I don’t know how he’s going to handle it.  I don’t want him to freak out.  How is a normal man going to respond to that.

        I’m going to tell him that we were training novice dommes at the Studio, and I was the demo bottom.  They were practicing spanking on me.

       It will be easier for him to take if he pictures other women doing it to me in a playful setting.  I’ll try to make it sound like it was innocent or maybe a little sexy.  Not a big deal (which it wasn’t!).

       Not a man.  I don’t want him picturing that.

      Is it bad to lie about that?  I don’t decide.  Do you think it’s wrong?


Conflicting Feelings

   Wow, conflicting feelings right now!

    I’m sitting in the locker room at the Studio.  The Mathematician has been texting back and forth with me all morning.  But last night,  I told him that I missed him and I didn’t hear back from him.

     He was probably asleep, but it made me feel anxious, which is just plain crazy.  What?  You don’t miss me?  WHY DON’T YOU MISS ME?

      When I’m with him, everything is okay.  I get so worried when I’m alone, though.  I get paranoid and think that I’m all wrong about everything. I just can’t stand being emotionally vulnerable. 

      What if he just wants me for sex?  What if he doesn’t care about me?  

      I didn’t bring up the FEELINGS last night so I guess this is what I get.  I chickened out.  

      But then he asked–twice!–“So, when’s your last day at the Superstudio?  Let me know!  I’d like to be your last session.”

      A dude who didn’t care about me wouldn’t ask that question, right…?  

      I’m at the Studio today.  In fifteen minutes, an English sadist is coming in to hire me as a masochist.  I’ve never met him, but the receptionist knows him–I guess he comes in once or twice a year when he’s in town, probably to take advantage of the currency exchange rate.

      She said that he would tip me at least $400.  More if I could “take it.”

       She said that I was the only woman on staff now that she knew could “take it.”

     If this guy’s a real player, I’ll be black and blue for a week.  At least.  Probably ten days.  The Attorney marked me for a month.

      If I do this, what will I tell the Mathematician…?  

      What will he think of me…? 

       I need the money.  I won’t get paid from my new job for at least two weeks.  I had to pay school.  Rent is due.  

       I feel anticipation.  The violence.  It’s been a long time

Un-Printers, Douche Canoe Colleagues, and Unacceptable Fantasies

      Allow me to pose a question to the universe:

      Is there such a thing as a printer that actually works?  That actually, you know, prints papers?  Or is this invention a myth–a sort of mechanical unicorn?  

      Tangentially: how can printer manufacturers stay in business selling us these useless machines?  No other industry can get away with making products which don’t work.  If Samsung made a television that wouldn’t turn on when you wanted it to, people would be upset.  Why do the printer manufacturers get away with their not-printers?  Their un-printers?

       I’m in the office making copies of excerpts from The Federalist Papers to hand out in class, and the damn printer is breaking my balls!  

      Who programs these things?  Why are the messages they display when they malfunction so strange and unhelpful?  Like: ERROR 404 or BLOCKAGE TRAY TABLE 2

        I got to school super early because I knew something bad would happen (it always does), so I had plenty of time, but I was still stressed out!  I was debating eating one of my end-of-the-world emergency valium, but I decided that I couldn’t risk brain fog.  

       My irritation bloomed into robust homicidal impulse when some douche canoe with tenure one of my esteemed colleagues came over and reminded me that adjuncts are not allowed to make copies. We’re supposed to use the one in the library.  Yeah, the one you have to pay for.  

        Sorry, tenured douche canoe!  If I subtracted the amount of money that I’d need to make copies of The Federalist Papers for my bright young minds from the princely sum paid to me by this august institution of higher learning, I would have enough money left over to buy…a Happy Meal.  Maybe I should run this by the Mathmatician.  Maybe he could show me a new way to crunch the numbers.  

         Speaking of which, after he gets off work, he’s taking me out to celebrate.  I dunno.  I feel like it might be time to talk about feelings, but I could be wrong, and I don’t want to blow it.  

       I think that he wants me to quit at the Studio…but unless he’s my boyfriend, he doesn’t really have the right to ask me to do that.  If he’s not my boyfriend, it’s none of his business how I make my living.  

        On the other hand, maybe he’s unwilling to move forward with the relationship as long as I keep working at the Studio.  Cause he keeps hinting at it.  He does more than hint at it, actually.  Yeah: “So, Margo, when’s your last day?”  That is more than a hint, I guess.  

        But if he’s not my boyfriend, it’s none of his business when I quit, or what I do.  

         Yesterday he noticed a lump on the back of my head.  He winced.  “How’d you get that?”

         I paused, considering.  It actually took me a while to remember.  

        Then it came to me: I’d recently seen Mr. Wolf.  Mr. Wolf doesn’t hurt me much, but he is partial to yanking on my hair to move me around.  I don’t mind at all, but yeah, sometimes it makes a knot on my head.  

        “I guess I must have got it at the Studio,” I said.  I guess that was a quasi-lie, but not a bad one.  Keep the answer vague.  I do not want the Mathematician picturing, in his mind, me getting dragged around Mr. Wolf’s luxury condo by a motocross jacket wearing, whip-wielding party animal.  Uhh, no.  I do not think that would be good for him to think about.  

         Better that he thinks of me, say, fighting with the stupid un-printer.  Or the tenured douche canoe.  Something normal and non-threatening.  Better he thinks of me doing nice normal things.

      He really enjoys having sex with me, which is good.  We have good chemistry and I’m very attracted to him.  I think that he’s been a little sheltered sexually…but shit, compared to me, the fucking Marquis de Sade was probably sexually sheltered.  Aside from sex with girls (and, obviously, animals)…well, I’ve done a lot.  A lot

       When you’re a woman, you have to be careful how much of this to disclose in a relationship.  Because a lot of guys are thrilled with having a sexually experienced girl…at first.  Then they get intimidated and insecure.  The more sexist or immature men just flat-out can’t handle it….I’ve had this conversation with a lot of women, and they all say the same thing.  

       This one guy I used to date–and I’ve talked about him on this blog but I’m not going to name him now, because I don’t want to humiliate him if he ever read this–became really concerned and neurotic about his penis.  He was upset and worried that I had been with a man with a larger penis.  It was really, really weird.  It was actually a little bit nuts, to tell you the truth, and I got really fucking tired of holding his hand through it.  I mean, I felt badly for him because he was torturing himself for no reason, but for heaven’s sake, I got tired of reassuring the guy that his penis was just fine.  

       Wait, where was I going with that…?  I got off on a tangent. 

      Sex and the Mathematician.  So far, so good, but I know it’s gonna eventally get dicey, because I am a deviant sex maniac.  I’m trying not to worry about it–it’s too soon in the relationship, and I already have enough to worry about because I’m not used to navigating an early relationship with a nice normal guy who is not a psycho.  

        If we stay together, this is going to come up.  Eventually, it will.

      The other day we were chatting in bed and he asked me, “What are some of the things you fantasize about?”

      Now, I know that he was just being honestly curious and trying to get to know me better.  But I had a hard time answering that question.  Know why?

       Because every fantasy that I have would probably make him run, screaming, in the opposite direction.  The sexual part of my head is black as a mineshaft.  I’m pretty comfortable with most of it, but there are times when I still manage to shock myself.  I’m serious.  If you found a videotape of some of my sessions with the Surgeon, you would not be able to watch it.  I probably wouldn’t be able to watch it, and I did it. 

       “I don’t want to corrupt you,” I said, trying to make a joke out of it.

        “I like it when you corrupt me!” he said.  “Corrupt away!”

       Dude has no idea what he’s getting into, I thought.  

       So it’s a dance.  What do you expose him to that won’t threaten him, offend him, or scare him away?  I’ve done this dance with other partners in the past, and I think I’m pretty good at it, but it’s still tricky.  If you misread the other person….or handle something insensitively…the repercussions for blowing it can be severe.  You want them to think “This is fun!” not “This person is a sick, damaged motherfucker!”  

        We started small.  Can’t go wrong with rope and vet wrap.  

       A delightful surprise: this dude is a whiz with the stuff.  He grew up sailing, so he knows all those nautical knots.  He can do them fast, too.  In fact, he’s teaching me!  

         He’ll be here in two hours–I have to jump in the shower and start getting ready.  

         Should I talk about the fee-fees?  I don’t know.  

    

Snapshots

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This is a scary photo of Parrot.  I was eating a salad at my desk when she flew in, landed in front of me, and snatched at my food.  It was a complete surprise.  

When I look at that photo, I remind myself that if I was only 2 inches tall, Parrot would kill my ass.  She really would.  Look at that beak and those Jurassic Park dinosaur feet.  The unblinking, bead-like eye.  

     I think that Parrot has emotions (at least a few emotions, anyway)…but she is not a mammal.  Sometimes, such as when I look at this picture, I get a feeling about how strange and non-mammal she truly is.  

     I do love her, though. 
      The Mathematician, playing squash.  It’s fun to watch. It’s a pretty macho sport for a math geek.  I couldn’t do it.  I am much too uncoordinated.  

      He’s quite handsome in an understated sort of way.  The first time I met him I thought that he was a nice-looking fellow, but not really my type.  The more time I spent with him…I liked his looks more and more.  He has an open face that shows his emotions.  He doesn’t look sly.  

     He surprised me with a new Sonicare toothbrush because my old one finally bit the dust.  Nice, huh?  
     
     It works great! 

     If you don’t have a Sonicare toothbrush, you should go get one!  You should get one without delay!  It makes brushing fun!  For real! 

wow!  new Sonicare toothbrush!
old sonicare toothbrush.  You served me well, old friend, but it’s time to go out behind the barn…
   Hotel rooms…oh, hotel rooms I have known.

   I’m starting my new job.  If I am exposed, I have no doubt that I will be terminated. 

    The Mathematician is coming over soon.  I just returned from a session with a Greek bodybuilder.  No, I’m not making that up.  

      He was scared to death.  He said that it was his first session with a domme.  I believe him.  

      He did very well.  I told him that halfway through and then at the end, as I gathered my tools: “You did very well.  You took a lot of pain.  I know many masos who couldn’t take what you just took.”

      I remember touching the welts on his skin.  I counted eight of them.  At first there were four on one side and only one on the other, so after counting them and kneading them with my hand, I took it upon myself to even them up.  To make them symmetrical. Four on both side.  I like order.  I like structure.  

     I knew that he would appreciate that.  He likes structure, too.  I knew that he could only get the body he has through the practice of discipline.  Repetition.  Obsession.  I understood.

       I’m a switch, and definitely a masochist.  I crave terrible violence.  

     But I would feel very sad, and very incomplete, if I never got to dominate and beat a man again.  I’m not a true domme, not like some of the other women at the studio, like C. or Kas…but it is a part of my sexuality.  I am capable of sadism.  I enjoy it.  I’m good at it. I like splashing around in it.  It’s not an accident that I ended up in my Secret Job. 

      What will I do without it?  

View from NYC Hotel Room

…Thy Days Would Not Be Long.

One kiss, one kiss of your lily white lips
one kiss is all that I crave…
One kiss, one kiss of your lily white lips
and return back to your grave…

My lips they are as cold as my clay,
My breath is heavy and strong.
If thou was to kiss my lily white lips
Thy days would not be long.

Oh don’t you remember the garden grove
where we used to walk…? 
Pluck the finest flower of them all,
‘Twill whither to a stalk…

     
          I had two nightmares about the Surgeon this week.

      In the first dream, the Mathematician went to him to have surgery done.  The Surgeon knew who the Mathematician was, but the Mathematician had no idea that the Surgeon knew me.  The Surgeon did the surgery wrong on purpose.  The Surgeon disfigured the Mathematician and made him paralyzed on purpose.  

     Then the Surgeon sent me a bouquet of red roses, with a note attached: That’s what you get.

     I’ve had this dream before, with another man I was dating…

   In the second dream, I rode the subway to watch the Mathematician play a match of squash against a random opponent.  

     I climbed up the stairs of the gym and approached the squash courts.  I saw the Mathematician there immediately, even though his back was to me.  He was playing against another man…someone smaller, wiry, fairer-haired. 
   
     His opponent.

     I thought to myself, That guy looks awfully familiar! Who is that?

     And then I knew: It was the Surgeon.  He’d found us.

     The coldness in the pit of my stomach. The absolute terror. 

     Did I confront the Surgeon about what he was doing…?  My brain was spinning with possibilities.  If I outed the Surgeon, I would have to explain to the Mathematician where I knew this man from.  

     I sat down on the bench and kept my mouth shut.  I felt like I was made of wood.  The way that it feels when you’re shocked and you have no sensation in your face.  All of the information pouring in through your eyes.  

     The Surgeon is older than the Mathematician, but he murdered him.  He nailed him with the hard little rubber ball every chance he got.  He hit that ball hard–I could hear people watching the game through the glass suck air over their teeth and wince whenever the ball connected.  Every time it did, he would look over his shoulder and smirk at me. 

       It took the Mathematician a little while to realize that his opponent was deliberately being an asshole.  At first he was confused, and then he became angry.  

       This awful situation was all my fault, and I felt powerless to stop it.  It wasn’t simply a matter of me throwing myself on the proverbial grenade.  

       It was powerlessness.  

                       *                      *                   *                 *

        I told these nightmares to my analyst.  She reminded me that in our dreams, we are each character in the dream.  The dream is an utterly organic vision.  

      The monster in your nightmare is you.

      The Surgeon really would behave in this fashion…except for the surgical mutilation–he wouldn’t do that because he’d get in trouble. But he didn’t do it. I did it. I am the nightmare surgeon.  

      When I’m with the Mathematician, everything is great.  

      I am falling in love with this man. 

      When he’s gone, I get so paranoid and afraid.  I tell myself that it’s a bad idea and I need to stop it right now.  I tell myself that I have to protect him from myself.  I tell myself that he wouldn’t want to be with me if he knew who I really was.  I am afraid of wanting to be loved.  Needs are dangerous.  When you give someone the ability to say “no” to you, you give them power over you.  When you are self-contained, you have power.  Autonomy. 

       But this voice is just crazy thinking.  It’s not really real.  The Mathematician doesn’t really think these things.  I am just making stuff up.  

     Trusting and honest.  Trusting and honest and don’t lie no matter what. No hiding.

Let’s Try This Again

    I had a bad night last night.  I woke up at 4 AM and couldn’t go back to sleep.  Worried.  

     An anonymous reader left this comment on my “Margo Freaks Herself Out II” blog entry:

Thé moment you think it might be serious with the mathematician, you have to dump the surgeon. The very moment. Otherwise, the relationship is doomed. This happened a few times in the past. The experiment ran its course. If you do not, in a few months, the mathematician will be out of your life. The surgeon will still be there. I used to like the later. After what he did to you, I think he is a cinder block for your progress.

     Whoever this person is, I think they are absolutely right. 

        I’ve been putting off the Surgeon as much as possible since before Christmas because I’ve felt sleazy and conflicted.  I’ve been a coward about it, I admit it.  Readers of the blog will know that he’s not an easy man to say no to, or to discourage.  It’s easier to just give him what he wants.

      I can’t keep avoiding him any more.  He has some boundaries issues and he does whatever he wants.  If he comes over to my apartment when the Mathematician is here, it’ll all be over.  The Surgeon is not going to say something like “I can’t believe you did this to me!” and leave.  Something ugly will happen.  The Surgeon has absolutely zero problem with confrontation and when he really gets combative…let’s just say that you will never forget it.  He’s never turned it on me full blast, but I’ve seen him do it to others, and it’s a shocking experience.  I do not exaggerate.  Shocking.  

     The Mathematician is not going to put up with that.  He wouldn’t fight with the Surgeon or anything, but he would leave, and he wouldn’t be back.  Because this is something I understand very well about men: they will put up with a lot of drama and bullshit from a woman in a relationship…but they will only do that after they’ve made the commitment.  Once he’s in for the long haul, you can burn his house down and turn your head around like that little girl in the Exorcist.  If you hurt his feelings or spook him with some crazy-girl bullshit early on, however, he’ll shut down emotionally and then he’ll leave.  Men are much more inclined to protect themselves that way than women are.  

         The Mathematician would be gone, and I would be right back where I started…even worse, because the Surgeon would stay mad at me for a long time.  To say that little Margo would be in the doghouse would be an understatement.  I’d take the doghouse over being in the same room with Dr. Punishing Ragaholic any day.  

       He wouldn’t dump me, you know.  This is something I now know about the Surgeon: he will never, ever leave me.  A notorious womanizer, he has made a sport out of dumping women in hurtful fashion.  I am, as far as I know, the lone exception.  Lucky me!  It’s sort of like winning the lottery in hell.  The Surgeon always brags about it, as if he were paying me a compliment.  I guess in his mind, it is. 

        He won’t leave me.  I am the one who is going to have to end it.  

         And I gotta do it before this thing blows up on me.  I’m sitting on an IED.

         The thought of it, though…God it makes me exhausted just thinking of it.  

          It has to be done.  Has to be done. 

         And it has to be done differently this time, because I don’t want three months of harassment and emotional turmoil again either.  I do not delude myself that I can take care of this in, say, a single phone call…but maybe I can do it in a few. 

        I talked to my analyst about this yesterday.  We put some serious thought into it.  The Surgeon should reimburse me for the session fee, because all we did was analyze him. 

         “You have to ruin his attraction to you.  Make it seem that the breakup was to his advantage, and that he remained in control and didn’t lose face.  When you left him last time, you took his control away, and that’s what made him feel so angry and threatened.”

       planning planning planning 

The Mathematician and Building Bomb-Proof Trust

      This relationship shit is kind of hard.

       I had (have?) a relationship with the Surgeon, but that was more like a years-long torrid affair with someone completely inappropriate.  He also happened to be psycho.  We were drawn together on the basis of our mutual characterological flaws…there was a lot going on.  

      To be fair, the sex was spectacular.  It was so good that it was a bad idea.  I’ve never been attracted to a man like I was to the Surgeon.  I would have done anything he wanted.  I did anything he wanted. And it went the other way, too.  He starved me emotionally in every way, but he was a very generous lover with me.  Which is interesting, considering the hostility he had for women.  For everyone.  

      I don’t think that the Mathematician hates anyone

       He’s not my boyfriend yet–or at least I don’t think he is–we haven’t had the DTR (Defining the Relationship talk).  

       I know that I want him, though.  

        I haven’t wanted a relationship with a man in a long, long time.  Years!  Years and years!  Honestly…?  Six years!  Why the hell do you think I was with the Surgeon…?  It was a not-relationship!  He was perfect for a masochistic commitment-phobe!  A part-time quasi-boyfriend!  An absentee landlord.  My master.

      This Mathematician–he’s a good choice.  Do you see it?  He has everything I want, except that he’s not an abusive, sadistic douchebag. He’s a nice normal man.  He’s emotionally complex and I’ve caught glimpses of a few neuroses, but he’s a good person and he’s…he’s loving.  He’s loving and he’s responsible

      And he sees me.  He doesn’t just use me.  I’m not like a prop with him.   When I say something, he pays attention to the words that are coming out of my mouth.  He respects me. 

      Please, God, don’t let me fuck this up.  Men like this don’t just fall out of the sky. 

       Why did his ex-wife throw out this man? What the heck was she thinking?  Boy did she ever blow it.  

       This is what I keep telling myself: be open and emotionally vulnerable and don’t lie don’t lie don’t lie don’t lie don’t lie don’t lie
   
      He doesn’t know that I’m in AA yet and I don’t have to tell him because it’s not necessarily the right time, but if/when it comes up, or if/when he asks about drinking, I must not lie about it! 

      Same thing for the Surgeon!  Cause I haven’t told the Surgeon what’s going on!  I’m worried that the Surgeon is going to cut my head off!  But if the Mathematician asks about it, I can’t lie or minimize!  

      Or my father!  Or school!  Or the stuff that makes me scared!  Or even my sexuality.  NO LYING!  

      He has to be able to trust me if the relationship is going to go anywhere…if it is going to develop and flourish.  It’s okay to omit certain stuff depending on the level of intimacy and knowledge in a relationship, but if he wants to know something topically relevant, I have no be honest no matter what.  And if he rejects me that is his prerogative, but I owe it to him–and to us–to be honest and do this in good faith.  

      Does that make sense?  Does that make sense?

       There has to be a good foundation.

        Especially given where he met me.  He needs to see me be totally consistent in the application of my moral principles.  No matter how tolerant, how understanding, how mature he is or thinks that he is being…at some later date, he is going to have to come to terms with the fact that he met me at an infamous dungeon where I worked as a dominatrix and a professional masochist.  Men came in off the street, or wherever the hell they came from, and I went into a room with them and did things to them that the Mathematician can’t even imagine.  Bad, good, in between.  That’s a fact.  

        Even the most liberal, not-jealous guy is going to wonder about that, and have to come to terms with it.  

      That’s another reason why the Mathematician has to know–and feel–that he can depend on me, and that I have always been transparent with him, and that I have always done what I said I will do.  When I said that I did not have sex with clients, I meant it.  When I said that I had boundaries, I enforced them.  When I said that I didn’t consider him to be a client, I didn’t, and that’s why I stopped taking his money.  

      He has to trust me.  Otherwise, there can be no love.  

      Bomb-proof.  People fuck up in relationship and God knows I’m not perfect or a perfect partner and maybe he will decide I’m not the girl for him, but he has to have bomb-proof trust in my honesty and earnestness.  In my honor.  

       no lying no hiding no shady bullshit no lying even if it’s The Awful Truth

    

Most Jobs Mostly Suck: The Worst Jobs in History



 Many people can’t fathom why I voluntarily spent my adult life in college.  

      Let me tell you why.

      I was standing in line at the drug store the other day.  While I’m in line, a drug-store employee walks in the front door.

      The cashier behind the counter turns to the employee who just walked in and asked, “Are you back yet?”  

      The other one says,  “No, I’m still on my ten.”

      As in, ten minute break.  Ah, yes.  I remember them well.  The twenty-minute lunch for a six-hour shift.  Thirty-minute lunch–unpaid–for an eight hour shift.  I remember what it was like to work all day, really work, not the reading and writing and talking shit that I do now, for $40.  That’s what eight hours of my labor was worth.  Blogging at this job absolutely would not have been possible.  And I had to ask the manager when I needed to use the bathroom.  I had to wear a name tag, so complete strangers could address me by my Christian name.  The humiliation of the American worker is something that I still can’t wrap my head around.  It’s demoralizing enough to work in a job that doesn’t even pay you enough money to live–why do we have workplace policies, like name tags and permission-only bathroom breaks, which are insulting and serve no practical purpose?  We are workers, not prisoners.  

       Really, where did this shit come from?  It’s an honest question. Are these humiliating, control-freak policies relics from Progressive Era management theory, which operated under the paternalistic assumption that the average person was a shirking idiot whose job performance could only be optimized through the benevolent intervention of his superior, enlightened overlords?   Scientific management, baby.  The science of exploitation.  

     UGH.  It’s enough to make you a communist.  I don’t know how so many people handle it their whole lives without getting radical, killing themselves, or turning violent.  I guess having kids makes people docile–your children become your hostage to fortune.

      (Wait–didn’t Bacon say something like that?  Let me go look it up….OH YEAH!!!  Who knows Bacon?  Margo knows Bacon!  Francis Bacon: “He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief.”  BAM!)

        Anyway, where was I…?  Oh yes: most jobs mostly suck.  I understood right away that if I had any hope of getting out, I’d need a lot of school.  

         I wonder if most jobs have been awful throughout history.  I’d expect so, though contemporaneous accounts suggest that gratuitous workplace suffering intensified with the Industrial Revolution and stayed that way for a long time. Once capitalism outgrew its quaint Adam Smith phase, it got really nasty.  Yikes.

      There is an awesome TV series I enjoy called The Worst Jobs in History.  The tremendously affable and entertaining host, Tony Robinson, runs around the UK presenting sucky jobs and trying his hand at them, with predictably funny results.  Middle-ages iron miner.  Chimney sweeper.  Leather tanner.  That poor loser who had to make golf balls by hand when they were first invented.  

      Check out this one: Tudor Age Executioner.  Starts about three minutes into the clip.  Beheadings are not funny, but this still cracked me up.

        You can find all the videos on YouTube if you’re interested.

Margo Freaks Herself Out II

   Sorry about that…where was I…? 

    Oh yes…I’d just finished lying to the Mathematician about the date of the start of the Spring semester at the (fake) school at which I was hired. 

    I lied to him, and I saw his face change…but he didn’t say anything.  I tried to switch the conversation to a different topic, which he followed. 

    But in my mind, I kept seeing his face change when I lied.  

   I thought to myself: he looked up the fake lie school online to read about it, and he knows that the semester start date that I gave him is WRONG.  You’ve been caught!  Caught!  CAUGHT! 

      I tortured myself all weekend. Friday night.  Saturday.  Sunday.

      You lied and he knows that you lied and the relationship has not even really started yet and now he knows you’re a no-good liar! I thought.   

        He sent me text messages, which I interpreted as cold and unfriendly, such as: Hi.  Sorry, was busy tonight.  I’ll be in touch tomorrow after my game. 
      
      In my mind, I was asking: WHAT, no joke?  No ‘miss you?’ OMG I am IN TROUBLE!  I fucked it up already! 

      I was so upset that I spent last Sunday night scouring the grout in between the tiles in the bathroom with bleach and a hard bristle brush.  I scoured and scoured till my elbow and shoulder were sore. All the grout had to be the same color.  People called me and I didn’t answer the phone.  I was afraid and angry at myself.  I didn’t even answer the phone when the Surgeon called, and I almost always take his calls, because he gets pissed when I don’t. 

     I was supposed to see the Mathematician Monday night, and when I woke up Monday morning, I felt like I was going to a funeral. 

     I’d decided that the best, most honorable thing I could do was cop to the lie I’d told, explain why I’d lied, and apologize.  Nothing else to do as far as damage-control was concerned.  I was exposed.  

     I was worried and depressed all day.  

     I came to his place early and sat in a chair, waiting for him to arrive.  I was wearing nice clothes and earrings and my hair was pulled back.  I felt like I was waiting for my parole officer.  

      He arrived, saw me, and came over.  He gave me a quick peck on the lips.

     Was that kiss cold? I thought.  Was that kiss markedly different from earlier kisses?  

      It seemed to me that it was. 

      We went to his room.  On the way there, his tone seemed superficial and unnaturally cheerful.  I looked at my feet. 

    When we got there, he sat on the bed and I sat in a chair by the bed.  

     Time to get it over with, I thought. 

     “So,” I said.  “Do you want to talk about it now, or do you want to talk about it after dinner?  I’d just as soon talk about it now.”

       He cocked his head.  “Talk about what?” 

       “Talk about what’s been going on between us the last few days.”

       “Uh…what’s that?”

        I leaned back in my chair.  “You can be honest with me.  I detect a change in you.”

        He froze and I saw him doing decision-making calculus in his brain.  “What change?”

       I saw that he was being crafty.  He wanted to see what I would admit to!  Well, I’d just admit the truth.

       “You’re upset with me,” I said.

       “No I’m not.”

       I narrowed my eyes at him.

      “Come here,” he said, and opened his arms.  

     I went over to him and he hugged me and we hugged and lay on the bed for a minute.  

      “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” I asked.

      “Talk about what?” 

      “You’re upset with me because you caught me in a lie,” I said.

       His face went blank.  

       Then: “What lie?”

      “You’re upset with me because I lied to you about what school I was teaching at!  I said it was (fake school) when it was (real school)!” 

       “Oh.”

       “I lied because I wasn’t thinking and I’ve felt terribly about it ever since and it was a stupid lie and I want you to know that I trust you and I’m very very sorry that I lied and you didn’t deserve that!” I blurted.

       He took it in.  Then: “I really had no idea that you lied.” 

      Yes, gentle reader, I psyched myself out. I guilt-tripped myself.  He had no idea what I was lying!  For real!  I thought that he was being cold and distant when he wasn’t!  I made it all up in my mind!  

      You have no idea how much I was torturing myself!  No idea!  

      For what it’s worth, it seemed to make him modestly happy that I was so vexed.  I mean, I guess there are worse things than knowing that someone you might care about feels so guilty about lying to you that they fess up in short order.  

        So everything was okay between us.

       I told my analyst this story and it cracked her up.

        “I psyched myself out!” I wailed.

         She said that it was some sort of transference.  Identity transference, or something like that…I need to ask her next time. 

         Talk about guilty conscience! 

               *                           *                                *                     * 

         The Mathematician brought over his nice HUGE parrot so that I could meet the Parrot and help groom him.  

       My heart melted.  Mathematician’s Parrot was so lovable.  I petted him all over–on his wings, on his beautiful face, under the crest on his head.  The feathers were so soft.  Even silkier than my Parrot.

     We bundled Mathematician’s Parrot up in a towel and Mathematician held him, and I took out his little Jurassic Park dinosaur foot and clipped his nails and filed the sharp points off with an emery board.  

      He didn’t scream or resist very much.  The Mathematician said that he was amazed.  Usually, his bird freaks out whenever anyone touches his feet.  

      I seduced him because I was tender and gentle.  Animals know when you mean well by them.  They want to trust you.  

      I made love with the Mathematician and then we went to eat. Then he took his Parrot home.

      I think I’m falling in love with this one.  Look at all the emotions he provokes within me.  These flashes of fear and insecurity, which I never experience with men.  

      But God, I’m in trouble with the Surgeon. 

Margo Freaks Herself Out

     This story is embarrassing to me, but I’m going to share it because the experience was constructive…and also funny.

     A few weeks ago, I mentioned to the Mathematician that I’d been hired at a new job. 

     “That’s great!  Congratulations!  What institution?”

     I froze.  One second.  Two.

     “(Hopelessly Irrelevant) Junior College!” I blurted.

    And here it is, the Awful Truth: I lied.

               *                     *                      *                      * 

     Let me explain my thought process. 

     I do not tell secret job clients about my other jobs, my academic work, where I went to school, or what I studied (or what neighborhood I live in and what state I come from, for that matter).  Or, rather, I don’t tell them the truth about these things. If they inquire–and I’m always surprised at how many are curious–I give them a story that is similar to the truth but not factual (the story is not embellished; I don’t try to make myself more interesting).  I do it because I have to protect my professional reputation (such as it is)…and, to some extent, to protect myself psychologically.  The nature of this work can be very intimate, but the men are still essentially strangers to me, and it is unwise to give strangers personal information about oneself. 

    The Mathematician, though, was no stranger.  He’d stopped being a stranger a long time ago.  I’d told him many true things about myself–even intimate things, things that only people close to me know. I told him that lie after we had sex but before  I stopped taking his money.  I didn’t think of him as a client and hadn’t in some time…but that’s how I met him, and there’s no getting around it.

    When he asked me where I was hired, I froze.  I registered the cognitive dissonance, but there wasn’t time to think about my feelings and our relationship and what was morally correct (and, interestingly, I cannot believe that I hadn’t prepared myself for that inevitable question from him far, far in advance.  I’m usually very good about that).  I had to make my decision in two seconds.  

     Instinctively, I resorted to my default behavior: I lied. 

                     *                             *                                * 
    
     It was the first lie I’d told him since I invited him into my home and started developing feelings for him.  When we first met, I told him the same cover-your-ass quasi-lies I tell all clients (the Surgeon and I didn’t know each other’s real names for over six months), but the first time I had him over and we went out to dinner, I told him the truth.  There’s still a lot–a lot–he doesn’t know about me (the Surgeon, alcoholism, raging sadomasochism, and a still-unresolved eating disorder spring to mind), but that’s okay because our relationship has not reached a stage where it’s healthy and normal to share serious baggage like that.  

     I realized almost immediately that the lie was a really bad idea, because I felt guilty about it.  I’ve also been trying–truly trying–to treat this man in an honorable fashion, because he’s special and I don’t want to fuck it up.  If things don’t work out between us then it won’t work out, but I’m determined that if it doesn’t work out, it’s not going to be because of some bullshit dishonest behavior or sabotage on my part. 

      The also understood that the lie was a bad idea because it was stupid.  It’s dangerous and imprudent to tell lies which are easily exposed. It’s like posting old, unrepresentative photos of your online dating profile–you can’t pull it off.  You will be busted.  And when you are busted, your date is going to be pissed.  

                    *                       *                                     * 

      Fast-forward a week: the Mathematician asks me when I start my new job.

      Arrrgh!  I couldn’t remember when the new semester started at the fake school I told him about! 

      I frantically did the numbers in my head and announced a date that I hoped to God would be a Monday. 
   
     He looked at me.  

     I swear to God, gentle reader: his face changed.  I saw it. 

    “What did you say?” he asked.  “(Fake Date)?”

     “Yup!  (Fake Date).” 

     “Oh.”  He looked troubled.

      I changed the subject.

     But a few hours later, I was convinced I’d been caught.  

     (Continued later–I have to run to work!)