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.  


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