I Needed a Laugh

  Haahahaha OMG one of my old classmates fowarded me this video.  My old school had a big Greek presence and I saw this ALL THE TIME!

   This actor is a genius.  Lol. 



                   *                              *                           *                
   Because this place could use a little cheering up….

     The stripper one is the best.  I’d say about half of it applies to Studio work.  I had a counselor at school rebuke me for failing feminism once when I made the (ill-advised) decision to tell her what I do.  As if she was the feminist police.   

      “If I had tenure, I’d smack you right in your face right now.” lol lol lol 

        Actually, the next time a strange man on the subway tells me that I ought to smile, I might just hit him in the eye with my iPhone.  Sometimes these assholes only learn the hard way.  

      “All right all right all right….don’t bite my head off!” lol lol       

Crocodile Tears

Update 11:45   Am home, safe and sound.

*                                 *                            *                          *      

Well, I’m about to do something that I almost never do:  I’m going to see a client I truly dislike.  

      Not one of my prouder moments. 

      I sessioned with him once about six months ago, and once was enough.  This dude is ugly in every sense of the word.  He visits NYC from the West Coast and had a cold intelligence to him.  Usually the smart ones are delighted when Miss Margo, nerdy bookworm extraordinaire, raps on their door–I think they usually expect some scary tattooed stripper type who smokes in the elevator.  

     Not this guy.  He sized me up in about five minutes.  I could see his mind working, wondering what to do with me.  I could tell that he found my intelligence to be a liability. Usually I can charm them, if I put my mind to it, or ferret out some warmth or playfulness.  

    Not this one.  He’s crocodile all the way.  He wears a wedding ring.  No clue who his wife is, of course, but I suspect she needs xanax and scotch to get to sleep at night.  

   But it’s a short month, and I lost a week of productivity because I was messed up in the head over the Mathematician.  Almost two weeks, actually.  I went to my teaching job, but I was just going through the motions.  It’s a blur.  The only thing that I remember acutely is the grief.  I lost 11 lbs on the pain-and-insomnia diet, and I wasn’t even trying.  

       I still can’t believe he did that to me.  I felt like he threw me out of a goddamn window.  

     Anyway…tonight.  

     I’m usually not a clock-watcher, but tonight I’m setting the timer.  He gets 60 minutes of my time.  And I’m leaving my heavy artillery at home (did I mention it’s a sub session?).  He wants to hit me with something really substantial, he’ll have to produce it himself.  

     The rent’s not going to pay itself. 

      And with that: I’m off.

Sweet as My Revenge Part II

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Coriolanus has grown from man to dragon…
…when he walks, he
moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before
his treading: he is able to pierce a corslet with
his eye; talks like a knell, and his hum is a 
battery…

                  Coriolanus, Act V, Scene 4

INCOMING, MOTHERFUCKER!  Brace for impact!
                    –Miss Margo’s text message to a friend, before entering the Mathematician’s hotel room.

     I agreed to meet the Mathematician in a hotel room for “closure.”  I said okay to the hotel room because neither one of us wanted to have this personal conversation in a public space like a restaurant (and if I couldn’t hold it together, I didn’t want the added humiliation of sobbing at a table in front of other people).  I told him that my home was not an option.  I revoked my hospitality.  

      My girlfriends did not like the idea of meeting him in a hotel room.  Because let’s be honest…we all know how that could work out.  While I was crushed, and also furious with him, I still had loving feelings and memories, too.  You can’t just get over loving someone overnight, I’ve learned…no matter how much you wish you could.  Which meant that I was vulnerable, and in a position to be sucked back in.

       My friend C., from the Studio, summed it up in her typically humorous way when she heard that I was in a hotel room with him: “This is C!  You better not be doing what I think you’re doing!  RESIST THE SELF HATRED!!!!”

        But none of my friends knew what I had planned.  None of them knew what I had in store for him. 

         I was extremely nervous before I left my apartment.  More than nervous–frightened, actually.  My hands were shaking as I got dressed.  I can’t know exactly what he was thinking our meeting was going to be (kiss and make up?  amicable negotiation?), but I knew that it was going to be something more like an attack.  An assault.  People respond in all sorts of ways when they’re attacked.  I had no idea how the Mathematician would act.  That was the scariest part.  Worst-case scenario: he could kill me with his bare hands in about five minutes.  You think that sounds histrionic?  That a man might try to murder someone in order to preserve his career, family life, reputation, and financial standing?  People have murdered over far less.  Murders have happened over a spilled beer.  Fact is, I don’t know the Mathematician.  I only know what I think I know, which is what he chose to show me…and in the words of Lance Armstrong, America’s Hero, he was “controlling the narrative.” 

       I knew I couldn’t do what I planned to do if I went in there a nervous wreck. So I sat down on the edge of my bed and did a little mental exercise. 

       Howdy, Daddy!  

       Hi there, Sweetpea! It’s been a while. You have a problem?  Why don’t you come have a seat by me and tell me about it?

       I got in touch with Franz Adler.  I felt like a fish swimming into a turbulent, powerful current that I usually keep away from. I don’t enjoy being in that frame of mind, and I can’t stay there for very long.  But it’s there, and I can go to it when I need to.

       By the time I got to the hotel room, I wasn’t the least bit nervous.  I wasn’t nervous at all.  I was actually looking forward to it.  I couldn’t get there fast enough.

       The cab driver complimented me on my beautiful smile. 

                 *                   *                    *                *

        Before I walked into the room, I did the same thing that I always before going into a client’s hotel room or apartment: I texted a friend in front of him with my exact location and said that if she didn’t hear from me within an hour and a half, she was sending the police.  

       He thanked me for coming and asked me if I’d gotten a haircut. He said that it looked good.  I was a little dressed up and had pretty makeup on.  I bet he thought that I’d dressed up for him and that he was going to get laid.  Hahahahahhahaha WRONG

      I ignored the compliment and sat down in the chair.  He sat down straight across from me, on the edge of the bed. 

      “Produce your identification,” I said.  I wanted to see if he’d do it.

      “What?”

      “Produce…your…identification.”

      He took out his wallet and handed his ID to me.  I took my time looking it over.  Then I gave it back.

       I sat straight up in the chair.  I didn’t shift or figit or move my hands.  I sat there like a statue, and I stared right into his eyes.  Aggressive, intense, unblinking eye contact.  The psychopath stare.  Like a hawk.  Or an owl:

“Produce your identification.” 


       It completely threw him off guard.  He couldn’t handle it for 30 seconds before he looked away–at the bed, at the wall, at the floor, wherever. I didn’t let up.  It was owl stare, silent and unblinking, the entire time.

       He started to babble.  He said that he was sorry that he “omitted the crucial fact” but he didn’t know how to tell me and he didn’t want to do it before the holidays because that would be bad timing and he had no idea that things would develop between us as they did and blah blah blah blah.

       He’d stop talking and give me the opportunity to respond, but I didn’t.  I just stared at him like an owl that didn’t speak English.  When I didn’t respond, he’d start babbling some more.

       I let him go on for at least ten minutes.  Maybe fifteen.

       Then I reached for the briefcase by my chair.  I slowly opened it and removed a thick file folder.  On the front of the folder was the Mathematician’s legal name, written in black marker.

        I handed it to him without a word, put the briefcase back down, and resumed my owl stare.

        The folder had to be opened from the back.  On the back flap, I’d written the legal definition of a lie by omission: A lie of omission is an intentional failure to disclose the truth in a situation requiring disclosure.  Also known as a Continuing Misrepresentation, a lie by omission occurs when an important fact is left out in order to foster a misconception. 

        He took out the contents.

        On the top was the name of his current employer and his office address.  Underneath that were wedding photos that he’d posted online on a social networking site.  Underneath that were printouts of just about every photo he’d put online, along with comments from his friends and family.  

       When he saw the first sheet, I heard him exhale pretty hard.  A bit of a cringe.  The wedding photos got a wince.  

       He glanced up at me.  I could tell that he didn’t want to keep going through it, but so what.  I hadn’t enjoyed looking at them either.  So no mercy.  Look through it all, you liar.  You can either look through that, or look at my hard eyes, boring into the back of your skull.  Take your pick. 

       He picked the file.  HAHAHAHAHAHA

       The soft wincing noises he made from time to time were absolutely delicious.  The man seemed to be shrinking in front of my very eyes.  It was great.

       At last, he said, “Yeah, that’s me.”

       Very astute observation! I wanted to say, but I didn’t.  No humor–even sarcasm.  I needed to keep it scary.

       “I have a copy of that folder–one that’s twice the size, actually–in a safety deposit box at the bank.  It also contains a description of our affair.  If anything happens to me–if I get hit by a car, if I fall down the stairs–other people will find it.”

        He exhaled and slumped over like he’d been punched in the gut.  It wasn’t quite a clubbed fish impression, but it was pretty good.  I got him.  Oh yes, I got him.

        Suddenly it’s all real for you now, isn’t it?  The way it was real for me all along, I thought. 

         “I would never try to hurt you.  Please.  I’m not that kind of person.  You know who I am,” he said.

          “Actually no, I don’t know, and I’m trying to decide how dangerous you are.  Are you just a selfish, entitled liar, or are you something worse?  In any event, you’re a high-IQ motherfucker, and I need to protect myself from you.”

          He opened his mouth–probably to object to being called a motherfucker, but who knows–and shut it again.

          “Listen to me.  If any harm comes to me through you, there will be consequences.  Now, or ten years from now.  If you poison my career or my reputation in any area of my life, there will be consequences.”

        “I would never do that to you.  I wanted to help you, blah blah blah blah…..”.

        I let him babble.  I’d tell you what he said, but it really isn’t that interesting. 

       I’d made my point, but I wanted to play with him some more.  

      “How long have you been reading my blog?” I asked him.  

       “Blog?  What blog?”

       Owl stare. 

       “I don’t know.  Which blog?  I saw a blog last summer.  It was about your last university.  Is that the blog?”

        Owl stare.

        “Can you give me some more information?  What is this blog about?  Can we talk about it?  Does it have sexual content in it?”

         Owl stare.  He sounded guilty to me.  If he really had no idea what I was talking about, he wouldn’t be trying to get me to answer questions about it.  But I wasn’t going to give him ANY information.  It would have to be enough that he knew that I knew.

         I changed the subject.  I said, “Health insurance.”

“Health insurance.”

          Cause when he told me that he was married, he mentioned that he was married for health insurance.  I mean, how fucking stupid does he think I am?  So I threw that preposterous excuse back in his face to watch him squirm.

           It was sort of funny to watch him explain that one.  I kept my laughter on the inside.  I could laugh later.  Stay scary, don’t let up.

      “The bird,” I said.

      “What about the bird?”

      “You brought your bird over.  That was a manipulative thing to do.”

       “I wanted you to like me!”  Yeah, thanks a lot, asshole.

       “Exactly.  That was very manipulative.  You knew I would like it.”

         He admitted that it was manipulative.  At least that was something. Then he said something very odd: “It was my bird!  I didn’t borrow it or anything!”

        I didn’t borrow it.  A very ODD thing to say.   Hmmmm.

       “Do you want to tell me more about this blog you mentioned?”

       I ignored him.  No, no I don’t. 

       “So, when you’re sitting next to me on the couch, in my home, and complimenting me and telling me that you’ve been looking for someone like me, how exactly am I supposed to interpret that, other than ‘I am very attracted to you and would like to have a relationship?'” I asked.  

“How, exactly, am I supposed to interpret that?”

        He winced.  At least he had the decency to look ashamed of himself.  He looked at me and nodded.

        “You knew it was wrong and did it anyway.  You knew I was developing feelings for you and did nothing to stop it, because you were having fun with your exciting little fantasy of having a hot younger girlfriend in NYC who liked having sex with you.  You just justified it in your mind by telling yourself that after all the hard work you do and the sacrifices you make for your family, THIS is something FOR YOU.   Your gift to yourself, right?  You deserve a little fembot girlfriend.  That’s all I was to you, right?  A vehicle for you to address your stupid mid-life crisis.”

        He looked extremely uncomfortable.  Maybe he has a conscience after all.  

        “Well, you hit the nail on the head, but I never thought of you as a fembot and I meant all the nice things I said about you and justification justification rationalization rationalization blah blah…”.

         Let me tell you: my mascot is Beaker the muppet, but at this point in the narrative, the Mathematician was the one doing the Beaker impression: me-me-me-me-me

         He sounded very selfish and self-centered.  It was pretty gross, actually.  

         “Hey asshole,” I interrupted.  “Exactly what did you think I was supposed to get out of all this?  I was supposed to be happy being your girlfriend on the side, and waste more of my rapidly dwindling youth on a man who not only can’t give me what I need in a relationship, but isn’t even willing to?”

         Time to move on.  Fuck with his mind a little bit.  

        “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”  I leaned forward a few inches in my chair. 

         He leaned away from me.  Oh, this was fun.

          “Like what…? Babble babble babble.”

         “You don’t know what I know,” I said.  Confess!  Spare yourself!  Hahahahahahaha 

“You don’t know what I know.”

           He coughed up a few interesting things that I hadn’t heard before.

           “More information is coming in about you all the time.  I hope for your sake that you are not lying to me now, Mathematician.”

           He looked very scared and miserable and about ten years older from when I walked in the door an hour ago.  I was loving every second of it.  

            Time to wrap it up.  

            I gave him my most intense stare.  He flinched.  He couldn’t look at me.  Ha!  Ha!  This big, strong older man!  He was afraid of me!  Ha!  HAHA!

            “Look at me,” I said.

             He still wouldn’t do it!  Ha!

             I leaned forward again.  “LOOK AT ME.”

            Finally he did.  I could see himself forcing himself to do it, inside.  

             I held it for about ten seconds.  Then I repeated: “If you try to harm me in any way, there will be consequences.  I WILL FUCK YOU UP.” 

             Haaahahahahahaha I bet nobody’s ever told that to him before!  Matter of fact, I’ve never said that to anyone before!

            It felt great!  And you better believe that I meant it…and he knew that I meant it. 

         I stood up to go.  As I picked up my bag, I said, “You’re lucky I’m an ethical person, Mathematician.  You’re lucky that I’m not shaking you down for cash.  Many people would have.”

          I just wanted to put that out there.  I think that I deserve credit for it. I knew that he was going to be hurt (and probably a little angry) at the harsh treatment I’d given him later, after the shock wore off, and I wanted to remind him that I could have done much, much worse.  

        That he got off very lightly.

        When I walked to the door, he stood up and approached me.  

         “Do NOT touch me,” I said.

          He actually backed up.  Hilarious! “Sorry, sorry,” he said.

           I walked out the door and got the elevator.  

         By the time I got to the street, I was walking on air.  I stopped channeling my father, and became me again.

          I think that I knocked it out of the park.  The only thing that could have made it better is if I made him pay for the safety deposit box.  That is kind of expensive.  A small price to pay for peace of mind, however. 

          Oh boy.  I wish I could have seen what he did in that room after I left.  Because when I walked out, I felt his relief.

          I hope that he lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.  Like a clubbed fish.  Visions of safety deposit boxes running through his head.  

          It was a small revenge for what he did to me.  A small revenge.

          But very sweet.

         P.S.  I see you watching.  Well, hope you like the blog, because it’s as close to me as you’re ever going to get.

Sweet as My Revenge Part I

     Without a doubt, this has been one of the most miserable and difficult weeks of my adult life.  Now I know what it’s like to have my heart broken (the Surgeon broke it a little bit, back in the day, but nothing like this.  I have to hand it to him: he’s a crazy, abusive asshole, but he never mislead me about that.  I knew exactly what he was at the start.).  

     At least this means that I have a heart to break.  It still hurts like hell.  The pain and disappointment have been excruciating.  The emotional instability, the rollercoaster, the tears, the insomnia.  I was so messed up for the first few days that I couldn’t even take care of myself.  I couldn’t work or write.  I didn’t clean.  I just sat in my apartment staring into space.  I cried so much.  

    Then I came back to life enough to wonder, “Just who IS this person?  If he lied to me about being married, what else did he lie to me about?”

     I wanted to know who he really was…just to get closure for myself.

     I went to look for him online…and couldn’t find him. 

      Because he lied about his last name.

     (I suppose that one could argue that I should have google-stalked him from the get-go.  If we’d met in a normal setting, I would have.  But he was a client, and I don’t invade client’s privacy, because: 1) it’s unprofessional and inappropriate and 2) I don’t really care about their lives.)

      When I couldn’t find him, an awful black flower of rage bloomed in my chest.  It was like a second betrayal.  I was furious.  Then I felt helpless and demoralized and pathetic.  Taken advantage of.

       A sucker.  An idiot.  A stupid, gullible fool.  I had been so open and trusting with him.  

       I already have trust issues, and I’m not used to letting people in.  I really felt violated when I learned that the one time I let my guard done, I was burned.

       I decided that I would find him.

       I was successful. 

       I will not disclose how I found him, because I think that he’s reading this, and I don’t want him to know and learn from his mistakes so that he can protect himself in the future.  

       But I can say that I used my resources, and a friend helped me out.  Boy, did they ever.  They really went to bat for me.  They were the greatest single source of emotional support and caring I had during that time, and I cannot express the depth of my gratitude and appreciation for all the time, hard work, and sympathy they devoted to me.  

        You know who you are…and I am now, and ever after, at your disposal.  

        My friend found him and delivered him to me.  

        And boy oh boy, what a find!

         Oh, the giddy joy of getting some of my power back!  

         The Mathematician is lucky that I had a few people telling me to cool it until my emotions calmed down and not to do anything brash.  

        Because I was ready to nuke him.  

        You know how heat can turn sand into glass?  That was the temperature of my fury.  

         I wanted him glassed.  

         For the first time in my life, I was having truly dark revenge fantasies.  I’m not talking about run-of-the-mill stuff, like thinking that I would like to run over my old Dean with my car if I ever had the opportunity and knew I could get away with it.  I mean black fantasies.  Seriously considering, in my mind, exactly how I could cause him the most harm, the most regret, the most humiliation and loss.  The thoughts were intrusive and they deprived me of sleep.  It was shocking to me that I could be thinking these things, because my personality is not like that at all.  I never schemed to hurt a person like this before (even though, frankly, a few people in my life have deserved it).  It was not a fun experience.  I know that might be confusing and difficult for some readers to understand, given that I’m a professional SADIST, but really, I never have cruel intentions (I can fake it if you want me to, though.  Ha, ha).  

        If you’re reading this, Mathematician, I want you to know that the fury you caused me to bear was something that I could have lived without…and that this corruption of my soul is on your shoulders.    

        So I waited for a few days while I decided what to do with him.  

        Quite a few people told me that I ought to shake him down.  Take some money.  I know blackmail is illegal, but in this situation, I was pretty sure that I could get away with it.  You say you’re proud of my intellectualism…?  Well, I was mostly a scholarship kid, but I do have a little student loan debt, and it ain’t paying itself!  If you’re so proud of it, maybe you ought to help fund it! 

         My personality and established values system is incongruent with those decisions.  I just don’t think that I could be okay with myself if I did that to someone.  Even if he’s a rich asshole who deserves it…and, frankly, owes me SOMETHING for all this grief and pain and lost work.  What’s the legal term for it?  Pain and suffering?

       In the end, though, I decided not to do it because I am still pure of heart, and if I did something that I felt was against my moral values–like blackmailing him–I wouldn’t be so pure of heart anymore.  He’s not worth that.  He is not worth compromising my integrity and self-respect.  

       There was another reason I decided not to blackmail him or just get on Ye Olde Facebook and nuke his life: I didn’t want him to hate me and carry a vendetta.  The Surgeon and I run in completely different social circles and work in completely unrelated fields.  The Mathematician…it’s possible, in five or ten or fifteen years, that we might know some of the same people.  Who knows what the future holds?  I don’t want him dripping poison into my career or my personal relationships down the line.  He’s rich and well-connected, and he has compromising information about me.  He could make my life very ugly.  Rich people have lawyers. 

     ….Furthermore, I have no idea how dangerous he is.  I’ve never talked to his family or seen the way that he is in his home–he could be a domineering control freak, a tyrant, a total psycho!  What do I know..?  

        I decided, in the end, that I needed to protect myself from him.    Now and in the future.

        Let him know that he dodged a bullet with me.  Barely.  

        But I still hold the gun.

        And that, my friends, is exactly what I did.

I Am Alive

That is all.

On the up side, grief and insomnia have been great for my figure.

My housekeeping, notsomuch.  It looks like a bomb exploded in here.  I guess, metaphorically, one did.

I am taking the day off to get this place back into shape.  There’s supposed to be a Parrot under all this mess.

Then I am going to eat at my favorite neighborhood seafood restaurant, which I am NOT going to let you ruin for me.  Selfish man.

Roses and a Knife

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   Note: this post was written on Wednesday night.  I withheld it because I knew at the time that I was going to meet with the Mathematician later, and I didn’t want to give him ANY information in advance.  I am 95% sure he’s reading the blog.

   I’m not going to post all the lurid details.  Let’s just say that we met and I made it clear that if any harm comes to me through him in the future–whether tomorrow or ten years from now–there will be consequences.  

     One psycho down.  One to go.

     Can I pick em, or can I pick em…?  

          *                   *               *                *               * 

 Oh wow.  My 8 readers are going to like this one!

    I found a bouquet of roses and an unsigned valentine in front of my door.

Creepy Valentine


    Whoever left it there didn’t knock.  They just left it.

    Weird shit.

     After staring at it for a minute, I picked it up and brought it inside.  Then I started contacting people who I thought might have given it to me.

     It didn’t take long.  Pretty short list.  

     Everyone said no.

     The creepiness factor in my apartment shot through the roof.  I went to my front door and put the security chain on.  Then I went to my bedroom and checked the locks on the windows.  

     Being a woman is no fun sometimes, guys.  If you were wondering, let me tell you now: it’s no fun to be weak little prey for whatever comes along.  

     I was a little afraid to touch the flowers, but I decided to unwrap them.  Maybe there was a clue inside.  A receipt, a note…  

     …something.

      Oh yes, there was something inside the flowers, all right.  



      Because nothing says, “I love you, Honey!” like ROSES AND A KNIFE.

       It was, as I’m sure you can imagine, exactly what I needed for my mental and emotional health this week.

       I’m sure he thought he was being honestly romantic.  The Surgeon has a flair for showmanship, and something is also screwed up with his “filter.”  Put those two together, and you get a man who hides syringes and random medical equipment around your apartment instead of post-its with hearts and smilies on them.  

      I tell you…can I pick em, or can I pick em?  

      

Right Now, M. Margo Doesn’t Give a….

   Remember when I posted that beautiful video about birds?  After I worked through my anxiety about being emotionally vulnerable with the Mathematician?

     WELL NOW I FEEL LIKE GEORGE BUSH IN THIS VIDEO

     (warning: nsfw)

     Now I have to go teach.  My students are in for a treat this morning.

      Someone else is in for a treat, too.  Watch and see. 

      I’ll bring the professor an apple. 

P.S.  the good news is that my sense of humor has come back.  That means I’ve come back to life.

I always know when I’m close to death when my sense of humor goes away.

An Open Letter to The Mathematician

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      The pain of the good memories hurts most of all.  Why did you have to be so compassionate and tender, and do shit like bring me flowers?  I took pictures of all the flowers you bought me.  I showed them to my girlfriends.  

        You held my birds.
      
   When I was going to get a haircut, I asked you whether you’d like me with that style.  I did that because I always ask the man in my life for his opinion before I alter my appearance in any meaningful way.  

    I took down my online dating profiles.  I turned down dates.  My friend at the Studio, C., passed me the business card of a kinky ad man she said would be a good match for me.  I threw out the card. 

     I wanted to do right by you.  I was so, so careful.  Every decision I made was deliberate.  Nothing manipulative.  No false steps.  I wanted you to know, at the bottom of your heart, that you could trust me with everything, and that I was exactly who I said that I was.  

      I would drift off on the train or at work.  Fantasizing about you. I would fantasize about being your girlfriend.  I would fantasize about making you breakfast and packing you a lunch for work.  The hope that I felt was excruciating.  It was terrifying.  But it felt so good.  I was so scared, but I wanted it.

      You told me about your children, your best friend, people at work.  I would think to myself about how I was going to do my best to make a good impression on them when I met them.  

      I showed your photos to my family when I went home for Christmas.  

      I would fantasize about how I was going to support you.  You made it seem like your ex-wife took advantage of your dutiful personality and then rejected you.  I was going to show you what it was like to be accepted and appreciated.  I was going to make you feel like a hero.  I was going to show you how proud I was of you.  

      I was going to bat for Team Math.  And I was going to play hard.  

       We were going to be a team, I thought.  With a man like you in my corner, I felt like I could accomplish anything in life.  All the advice you gave me.  All the support about teaching.  

      When you bought me an apple and said that you were proud of me, it provoked within me a primal longing that I could not contain.

       When is the last time a man said that he was proud of me, for anything at all?  When is the last time a man saw me for the person I was, and not just for what I could do for him?  

        Why are men so fucking selfish, Mathematician?  Can you tell me why men are so entitled, Doctor?  You have a Ph.D., you must have a few thoughts on the subject.  Elaborate on the ideas you have in your excellent mind.  

       You brought over your cockatoo so that we could have a bird playdate and I could help you groom him.  Your cockatoo really loved me.  Next, you said, I’d meet your dog.  

        Next, I hoped, I’d meet your children. 

        When you confirmed that we were boyfriend and girlfriend, I was going to suggest that we go to the doctor and get tested.  Then I would get back on birth control and we could have sex without condoms.  

        When you put your cock into me, it felt so good that I’d actually go limp for a few seconds before I started moving.  Like you had injected me with a narcotic.  I guess in a way, you were.

        I would have given you anything sexually.  Anything.  I was planning on it.  To say that I was going to expand your horizons is an understatement.  Because with me, there are no limits.  When I love a man, nothing is forbidden.  Sex is one way that I express love, and I never tire of it.  I do it all.  I do it well.  And I will never tell you no. 

        There is no experience on earth like the feeling of being desired by Margo Adler.  My desire is a force of nature.  Why do you think that the Surgeon was so obsessed with me for so long?  

         I’d like to sic the Surgeon on you now, Mathematician.  I really would.  He would annihilate you.  He would drop by your office after work.  

         The only reason I don’t do it is that I know that after he was done killing you, he’d come to my apartment and kill me next.  I know how he’d do it, too.  

       Death might be an improvement in my state of mind and emotional well-being, however.  Because I feel pretty fucking awful, Mathematician.  You made me cry a lot, and I don’t think that it’s over by a longshot.

       But what, where was I…?  Sorry.  I was being morbid and got distracted.  

        Remember when you told me back in November–you were laying on my bed, in my home, “Please don’t think of me as a client?”  Exactly what the hell was going on in your mind, Dr. Responsibility?  

        You didn’t have to do this, you know.  You could have been a friend and a good client.  If it’s business, I really don’t care if you’re married.  I would have seen you on an ongoing basis until I got a real boyfriend and had to knock this professional BDSM shit off. 

      But nooooo, you had to have your stupid, selfish fantasy.  Because that’s what this was all about for you, wasn’t it?  You were having fun pretending that we were developing something real.  It made your boring, sexless life more interesting, didn’t it?  The constant text messages, emails.  Contacting me before class to wish me good luck.  Talking to me about books.  Updates on the score of your squash matches.  Telling me what you were going to do to me the next time you saw me.  

        I was so impressed by how well-trained your dog is.  It takes a lot of discipline and patience to train a dog like that.  I really admired it.  I admired everything about you.

       I wanted to belong to you, like your dog.  I would have taught you how to be my master.  You could have owned me.

        I used to fantasize about our future, and all the ways that I would make you happy.  

       And you let me do it.  

        You ought to hear all of this, because you deserve to know the consequences of your actions and the extent of my pain (and by the way, #1 Dad, how would you like it if someone treated your teenaged daughter this way?).  You deserve to know so that you never do this to another woman ever again.

        But I’m not going to tell you, because after Thursday night, you get NOTHING from me.

        I come from a death penalty state.  It’s a hard, hard fucking state and I grew up in a tough fucking town.  My father supported the death penalty, and he was a cruel, pitiless man.  You tried to lay a hand on him and he’d rip your goddamned arm off.  If he was here, I know exactly what he’d say.

         You’re not going to hear from me, Mathematician, because after Thursday night, I am the judge, jury, and executioner–and I am administering the proverbial lethal needle that you, and our relationship, so richly deserve.  

The Valentine that I bought for you that you WON’T be getting

   

Crestfallen: I Let Love In


The door–it opened just a crack, but Love was shrewd and bold
My life flashed before my eyes…it was a horror to behold.
A life sentence sweeping confetti from the floor of a concrete hole

I let love in
I let love in
I let love in
I let love in

Well I’ve been bound and gagged and I’ve been terrorized
And I’ve been castrated and I’ve been lobotomized…
But never has my tormentor come in such a cunning disguise….

I let love in 
I let love in
I let love in
I let love in




        When I told him my real age and he did the math in his head and he said: “I’m (more than ten, less than fifteen) years older than you. Do you think that’s too much of an age difference to have a real relationship?” 

      I said, “Not at all.  I’ve had years-long relationships with men who were even older than you.”

      The Surgeon is old enough to be my father. 

     He said: “Okay, that’s good to know.  I was worried about the age difference.  That’s all.”  

           *                     *                     *                      * 

      Over dinner:  “I’ve been looking for someone like you.  I can’t believe I met someone like you.  You’re amazing.”

                    *           *                            *                     * 

           The day I started my new teaching job, he brought me an apple.

       “For the new professor!” he said.  As he stood on my doorstep.

        *                               *                    *                                * 

       “You’re the whole package, Margo.  You’re extremely intelligent.  You’re beautiful.  You’re ethical.  And you’re so, so sweet.  I’ve been looking for someone like you.  I’ve been wanting to meet someone like you.”
               
              *              *                                   *                          * 

   All of these quotes are verbatim.  He really said it.  All that and more.  
      
                  *                            *                             *                    * 

      Despair and deception, love’s ugly little twins….

      Darling, you’re the punishment for all of my former sins…

Why Doesn’t He Have a Girlfriend?

     Monday, October 22:

  I’ve had some interesting conversations with my analyst recently.  

       I was telling her about the Mathematician.

       “He’s a really good guy.  Educated, hard worker, handsome, responsible, loves his kids.  He’s very transparent.  Gentle.  Makes money, too! I don’t know why he doesn’t have a girlfriend,” I said.

      “Yes.  Why doesn’t he have a girlfriend?” 

      Beats of silence.  Excellent question.

      “You know, I really don’t know.  He says he’s too busy with work and kids.”  

       “He doesn’t want to be with someone because he’s too busy?  He’d rather be alone because he has children?  That sounds like an excuse.  And you’ve seen him every week and spent the night with him twice, and he hasn’t tried to have sex with you?  For a normal man, that would be very difficult.” 

      The Mathematician doesn’t have a girlfriend because he’s married.

      How could I have been so shockingly gullible…?

               *                   *                        *                        * 

       I feel like I’m frozen.  For two hours, I have been staring out the window at the falling snow.  

        Then something happens inside and I make an awful crying noise, like a dying animal, and my eyes start to leak.  The front of the camisole I’m wearing is wet.  I’m going to throw it out.  

       How could he do it to me.

       I clamp my hand over my mouth.  I always do that when I’m freaked out.  

         I let him in to my home.  I let him in to my life.  

            *                      *                       *                          * 

        Last night he stayed in the city because he had a presentation. I went to Victoria’s Secret and bought a lacy new bra and underpants.  I bought it in blue because blue is his favorite color.  

        Met him at his hotel room.  We talked about my class and his presentation and goofed around. Everything was happy.  Then we had sex.  For two hours.

       I went to bat for that man.  

       Then we were cuddling in bed.  I screwed up my courage and said, “I really care about you.  How do you feel about our relationship?”

        I really care about you too this relationship makes me very happy

      “Well I want you to know that I’m not with anyone else right now and I’m not looking for anyone else while I’m with you,” I said.  “I’d like to be your girlfriend.  How do you feel about that?”

       I already think of you as my girlfriend and have thought that for some time and you are so smart and beautiful and blah blah blah

      I squirmed around in a frenzy of joy and anxiety.  Then I picked up a pillow and hit him with it.  

      “WHY DID YOU NOT TELL ME THAT SOONER?  I was feeling all insecure!”  I laughed

      “I’m sorry!  I haven’t been in that many relationships!” he said.

       Then we cuddled some more.

       “Is there anything you would like to change about our relationship?  Anything that I can do differently?” I asked.  “How do you feel about me working at the Studio?  I get the impression that it makes you uncomfortable.” 

       “I don’t like it but it’s how I met you, so what can I say without being a hypocrite?  If you work there because you have needs for that, I wish you’d let me fulfill them for you.”

       Perfect answer for me.  We snuggled some more.  I felt so happy.  I felt like my future was so open.  I was proud of myself, that I’d managed to achieve this with a man.  I haven’t had a real, loving relationship in years.

        “This means that we’re boyfriend and girlfriend now, right?” I asked again.

        “Right,” he said.

                      *                        *                 *                  * 

        Then this morning, around 5 PM, I woke up and used the restroom.  

          Then I stared at his profile like a psycho.  Because I was in love.

       Then he woke up and said, “Good morning, girlfriend!” 

        We were hugging.  This motherfucker actually let me give him a big hug and put my leg over his body.

       Then he started talking.

       I don’t remember the start of the narrative, because it was the crack of dawn (before dawn, actually) and I was still half asleep.

       “…the very first time I saw you at the Studio I told you that I didn’t do this often because my wife….”

        My body didn’t move at all, but everything changed inside.  I felt like I was going numb.

       “Wait, wait.  Are you telling me that you’re married?  Not divorced, but married?”

       Divorced.  And re-married.

       I rolled over on my back and stared at the ceiling like a clubbed fish.  My face felt made of wood.  A clubbed fucking fish.  I cannot describe the sensation, or lack of sensation.  It was awful.  It was breathtaking.  

         He was babbling about being married for health insurance and how his wife was basically a roommate and they didn’t have sex and he knew it was wrong to let me think that he was not married and blah blah blah blah blah blah

          I just laid there, staring at the ceiling.  Stunned.  Clubbed fucking fish.

          Then he started hugging me. ” I understand if you never want to see me again but I hope you don’t go everything I told you was the truth I put all my cards on the table now.”

         He wants me to absolve him and tell him that he wasn’t so wrong and that everything is okay.  Now he passed the responsibility to make him feel better on to me, I realized.  That was the first flash of emotion, breaking through the ice.  The emotion was anger.  

        Just like my father.  Just like my fucking father: I broke your heart, but love me anyway.  I can’t help it.  You didn’t stop it from happening.  Fix it. You owe me. Don’t be angry with me.  Yeah, that’s my father, Franz Adler.  Franz Adler–alternately a degenerate junkie or a pitiless killer.  Always, always a black hole of entitlement. 

         “I have to process this.  It may take a while,” I said.  My voice sounded dead to my own ears. 

         “Okay,” he said, concerned, trying to spoon me.

         “Why did you lie to me?” I asked.  I couldn’t think of anything else.

           “I was selfish and didn’t want it to end.” 

          I nodded. I got up and went to the bathroom.  I unwrapped the bath soap and took a hot shower.  I scrubbed all over.  I scrubbed everywhere twice.

          Then I dried myself and put on lotion.  I touched the bathroom door handle and took my hand away.  Touched again.  Took my hand away.  I thought: You will not cry in front of him.  WILL NOT WILL NOT

          I strode out and turned on a bedside lamp.  Then I got dressed: socks (and he laughed at my socks the night before, because they were bright electric blue), underpants, skinny jeans, camisole.  My boots.

        He was sitting up in bed.  He didn’t say anything.  I didn’t look at him.

       I gathered my stuff, piece by piece, and put it in my bag.  I omitted the things he’d bought for us last week at Purple Passion, and the new blue lingerie I’d purchased at Victoria’s Secret.  I left the condoms and the lube in the drawer.  

        I put on my coat and my scarf.  I stared out the window at the snow. 

         “In your future life, I heartily advise you to never do this to another girl.  It’s awful.  And in the future, if you want to come to the Studio, you call first and see if I’m working that day.  If I’m working, I don’t want you to come in.  I never want to see you there.  Will you do this for me?”  Dead voice.  I wouldn’t look at him.

         “Of course,” he said.  He was sitting on the edge of the bed.  He’d put his boxers on. 

      I picked up my bags and went for the door.  When I got here, he came up behind me and hugged me. 

       I dropped my bags.  I let him hug me.  I was a statue.  So far away.

       “I’m sorry that you’re unhappy,” I said, and yes, I actually said that.  I didn’t really FEEL sorry, but I went through the motions.  What a fucking masochistic codependent I am.  Take advantage of me and then I feel sorry for the pain you feel when I leave you, asshole.  

       “I don’t want to lose you,” he said.  “I’ll always be there for you.”

        Miss Margo finally revived enough to feel a little emotion again.  I didn’t tell him what he deserved to hear–not really–but at least I told him something:

       “I won’t be with a married man.  You ought to fix it or leave it. Don’t ever do this to a girl in the future.  I really, really liked you.  I need a partner.  A life partner.”

        THEN I looked at him.  THEN I made eye contact for the first time since he’d dropped the bomb on me an hour ago.  He looked miserable, but so what.  WHATEVS! 

          You will not cry you will not cry you will not cry I told myself. 

         “I was in love with you, Mathematician,” I said.  He needed to know.  He needed to know the consequences of this bullshit.  He needed to know what he cost me. 

        “I’m in love with you.  The feeling is mutual,” he said.

        I picked up my bags and walked to the elevator.  Got a cab–the cabbie was talkative and cheerful the entire way, when I just wanted to be quiet.

       I took another shower and fed my animals and stared out the window for two hours.  
  
      Then I wrote this.