A Week Off

     In addition to this blog, I usually have several other writing projects that I work on simultaneously.  One of my hobby pieces could be called a memoir, though I don’t suppose I’ve lived long enough or accomplished enough to have much wisdom to impart.  But what the hell.  We can’t all be Ben Franklin.  

    I spent a lot of time in the archives this week.  Looking through those boxes.  You know which boxes I’m talking about because everyone has them unless you suffered a housefire or the Wehrmacht performed in your village one day on its European Tour or something.  The boxes with photos and paperwork and weird random shit from your childhood (I found, for example, a tiny plush seal I got from Sea World when I was 8.  Why the fuck did I keep it?  Why did I transport it 3000 miles?  Who knows?)

     A lot of time in the archives.  The ones in the boxes, and the ones in my brain.  And I spent way too much time with good old Dad.   Like ionizing radiation, any exposure to him should be under tightly controlled circumstances and kept as short as possible. 

     It was not good for me.

     So, I’m taking a week off from this blog.  Don’t worry, it’s not going away–I enjoy it far too much, and I think it’s a healthful hobby.  But I need to recharge and I need to focus on my sobriety.  I’m going to stay with a female friend for a few days so that I won’t be alone.  As any alcoholic can tell you: isolation is a killer.  Literally. 

      I’ll be back soon.  This is just a rough patch–I’ve been here before, and I recognize it for what it is.

      Radio Silence begins at 9.



    


    
P.S.  you can write or leave comments if you want, but I might not read them for a few days.  Parrot and I are off to Brooklyn, lol.  Pack yo bags, Parrot.  Cobble Hill and a crappy Ikea futon await us.

Nothin but a Hound Dog

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     I checked my blog email this morning and found that I’d received several letters.  Sorry I haven’t responded; I hope to do so tonight or whenever I can go home.  If you have written to me, please don’t take my lack of response personally.  Things have been WEIRD the last few days.  

      I caught one of my students plagiarizing.  Thank God I caught him before he turned in the essay.  Now I’m in between a rock and a hard place because the student doesn’t want me to talk to his parents about it, but his parents are paying my fee and if the kid flunks his summer school course because he plagiarized wikipedia, Mom and Dad are going to sit me down and ask me–with all justification–“What the hell are we paying you for, Miss Margo?”

     This situation cannot be resolved to the mutual satisfaction of all involved parties.  I anticipate I shall be terminated.  Everyone pays.  Even for the things they didn’t do.  If I have learned anything on the great toll-road of life, it is that. 

      It’s not the end of the world, of course, but I’m not looking forward to it, and I’m used to the $100 a week.  

       Speaking of the great toll-road of life, remember that photo of my father I wrote about in my Father’s Day post…?  The one of him as a little kid…?

         Here it is–I took a photo of it.  I’ve re-discovered many interesting photographs recently because I’ve been Spring Cleaning and reorganizing my household.  Maybe I’ll put some of them on my blog.

     Anyway, this image should be safe to post–I believe it is the only one in existence. 

      I noticed something new in the photo…something I’d never seen before.

      See the dog underneath the porch…?   You can see the nose and bright eye peeping out just underneath the second step. 

     My father remembered that dog, a mixed-breed hound.  He felt compassion for it (to his credit, I never saw him treat any animal with anything other than friendliness and respect).  Like most dependent and vulnerable creatures, that hound’s experience with my grandfather proved to be wretched and invariably lethal. 

Ask a ProDomme/Loser Instructor/SadoMaso Anything

      I think that someone, somewhere on Teh Interwebs linked to my blog, because I have received an influx of traffic and email from total strangers (well, I guess you are all total strangers, as I have never met one of my blog readers in person….wait, that’s not true…I’ve met Advo!  And I worked briefly with Mistress Alex when I was just starting out).  

       I know my audience, such as it is: mostly, it’s my fellow sadomasochists, primarily submissive dudes.  I’ve got a few male Tops, most of whom seem to be German (shocker, I know), who repeatedly cruise the “beatings” tag.  Chicks stumble upon the blog from time to time, read all about the Surgeon, and send me email advising me to go to a domestic violence shelter.  Academics–mostly grad students, but a few profs–find their way here through random Google searches, and they either freak the fuck out or send me email asking me if I, and this blog am “really real,” whatever the hell that means.  Do I sound like I’m faking anything, my fellow idiot academic colleagues?  Surely, you cannot fail to recognize one of your own?  Do you think I pulled the Frederick Taylor reference out of my ass?  Does my relentless, perennial whining about my genteel (ha! ha! ‘genteel!’) poverty sound unfamiliar to you, or do you live in some magical academic land with unicorns and leprechans that hide golden coins in peer-reviewed journals in the library, and every day on campus is like a treasure hunt? 

       Sometimes I get emails from girls who have eating disorders, and they want updates about how much I weigh now.  Those are the most sad.  I weigh 126 lbs this morning, and I won’t look at the mirror when I get in and out of the shower.  I really hate it, but starving made my brain not work right, and the last time I passed out in Penn Station I hurt myself. It’s a good thing I’m not with the Surgeon anymore, because he would be really mean about it. 

      In any event, I am getting some weird email, so I am going to launch a few feature on this blog: ASK A PRODOMME/PROSWITCH/PRACTICING SADOMASOCHIST ANYTHING.

Got a question about The Biz?  Want to know why I’m such a sick fuck?  Questions about Dungeon Work?  What are clients “really like?” 

You can also ask me about what it’s like to be a failed academic at a  hopelessly irrelevant community college, but somehow I don’t think that anyone cares.  Likewise, alcoholism is on the table as well, though the only advice I’m qualified to give on it is how I myself have avoided drinking myself to death (thus far). 

You can ask anonymously, if you want, through the comments section or email me: piecesofmargo@gmail.com 

If I get enough questions, I’ll answer them in a blog post.  And I would never post your name unless you specifically asked me to. 

Watch, this is going to be a total flop of an idea….I’ll get two questions, and one will be a request for a picture of my boobs or something…

Fortinbras, Resolved (and Updated!)

UPDATE Monday June 24:  Wait, I left out one of the most important parts….the answer to the question I asked all of you readers to help me with!  What to charge Fortinbras–how not to be a chump!
Okay, everyone, both in comments and in personal email, were in consensus that I should definitely not lowball myself, both because 1) Fortinbras can clearly afford it, and 2) if I lowball myself and he knows it, it’ll look like I have self-esteem issues and he won’t respect that.  

DrugMonkey said to charge him the rate I would charge him for sex, but I can’t do that because I don’t know what that rate would be because I don’t provide sex.  It is not on Miss Margo’s Menu of Services.  Mostly doodz pay to smack me around, or vice versa.  I  charge extra if they want to really put me in traction or get topless or something, but I always keep my underpants on.  

So what I decided to do was to charge Fortinbras my hourly fee X 7 hours.  I gave him one free hour.  Lots of women in the industry do this. 

Now, this is the way I see it: I didn’t charge him for sex, so he doesn’t know for sure that he’s going to get it.  This is the type of guy who likes a little challenge.  So he’s gonna be thinking “Can I seduce her?  Can I get her to want to sleep with me, even though that is not what she typically does professionally?”  It’s going to be a game to him, and exciting game.  And it means that he is going to be working extra hard to make sure that I have a wonderful time with him, so that means more fun for me (even though, of course, my first priority is making sure that HE has fun–but see how this works out in both our favors?)!

If, at the end of the night, I want to have sex with him, then I will, and it will be because he “earned” it by seducing me.  And I won’t feel “ripped off” because even though I didn’t charge sex-rate prices, he is still paying me a hell of a lot of money.  

And it will be a win-win for Fortinbras, because he managed to get me into bed–what an ego boost for him, right?  He’ll be strutting around the next morning thinking ‘I’ve still got it!’ 

Aaaaaannnnddd….if I DON’T feel like having sex with him, then I don’t have to, because I didn’t charge him for it and I didn’t say that I would!  I didn’t promise anything–in fact, we clearly discussed and agreed upon my limits and services on our first session.  So if I don’t want to have sex with him, I can walk out and not feel the slightest bit guilty about it, and he won’t be able to complain, even if he doesn’t like it!  And if it makes him mad (I honestly don’t think that he would express anger or hostility, he’s too much of a gentleman, but…just in case, one never knows, right?), and he never wants to see me again….SO WHAT?  TOO BAD!  I still got your $$$$$, Fortinbras!  

See…?  I think this is the perfect solution.  Everyone wins no matter what.  Nothing can go wrong!  

Thank you all for your help!

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(Because this is part of my personal journal as well as being my blog, I want to record what happened to me last night.  I dreamed about the Mathematician for the first time in weeks.  Usually the dreams I’ve had about him in the past few months have been bad, but this dream was a happy, sensual dream.  I remembered washing his hair in the shower.  When I awoke, I just laid in bed and cried for a few minutes.  I couldn’t help it.  I don’t even like him or want him anymore and I wish that the memories of the good feelings would go away..)

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     On the heels of that: Fortinbras.

     On my analyst’s couch, staring up at the ceiling: “I need to handle this one very carefully.  Makes me anxious.  I need to do it right.  I want him to like me.  I don’t know what to charge him.  I don’t want him to think he’s entitled to sex because I don’t offer that.  But eight hours is a lot of money.”

     “Why do you want him to like you?” she asked.

      “Well, repeat business, of course.  He’s a well-to-do man, fascinating, respects my boundaries…could be a bread-and-butter client.” 

       “But why are you confused? Why are you confused about how to act with him?”

       I blinked up at the ceiling.  Then (dig the irony in this one, ha ha): “I’m sorry, but don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

       “If Fortinbras was some client you could barely tolerate who asked you for an 8-hour session, what would you say?”

         No hesitation at all: “Pffffft…! My hourly fee X eight.  Maybe a nominal discount.  Maybe.

        “Then why not say that to Fortinbras…?”

        I grasped; I grappled.  I felt like a bee in a bottle banging against a glass wall whose substance I couldn’t fully comprehend.  “I am impressed with him and it doesn’t seem fair to charge him so much just to be around him and have him take me out and make me dinner.” 

         “You crave his approval and that is why you want to give him the ‘right answer.’  Who has the ‘right answer?‘  Fortinbras?  Even though it’s your business and he asked you to name your fee? You are attracted to him.  Why?”

          “But…but I want all my clients–or most of them, anyway–to approve of my performance.  It is a matter of professional pride to me to give them the experience that they want to have.  This is one of my jobs.  It is important to me that I be good at it,” I said.

         “But Margo, you are confused here because you are reversing the roles.  You don’t know how to handle Fortinbras because in your mind, he is giving you an experience that you want to have, ‘just by being around him.’  That is why your hourly rate doesn’t seem ‘fair’ to you.”  

           Just like that, the issue–my problem–clarified in my mind, clear as crystal.  I gaped up at the ceiling, mouth ajar, stunned at how obvious it was.  Aghast that it had happened to me again, unfolding right in front of me, and I hadn’t seen it happening.  Repetition compulsion, baby, repetition compulsion.  This is the power of the subconscious.  

           I hadn’t been lying to myself about Fortinbras–not one bit.  I have been in this business long enough to know exactly how it works.  And I know men and what they are like, and I know clients and the multitudinous reasons they have for hiring me, and while I am still young enough to get skeptical looks when I enter a classroom as an instructor, I no longer pass as a spring fucking chicken while I run around campus with my knapsack on.  In sum, I am old enough, and experienced enough, to be a little wise.

           I wasn’t lying to myself about Fortinbras.  

           I was being lied to by myself.

           …..Can you see, grasp, that crucial distinction…?  Bully for you if you can, because it’s a slippery fuckin concept even for me, and I’ve been bearing down hard on it for years now. 

           That, my friends, is the subconscious. 

           Fancy psychoanalytic mumbo-jumbo aside: I wanted Fortinbras to like me because I experienced him as benevolent (but potentially violent) elder male authority. 

          Vater.  If my father had a zillion bucks, a loft that looked like an art museum, several advanced academic credentials, self-control, and a penchant for sadism. 

           Well, Franz Adler is a sadist.  One out of five.  

           (I have no idea how far my father has degenerated since I ceased communicating with him–I expect his deterioration has been significant.  At his best, however–when he was about my age, perhaps a little older–I think that he could have held a conversation with Fortinbras about art in Western antiquity, and Fortinbras would have respected my father’s contribution to the exchange (“Not so bad for poor white trash, eh?” my father would say, lighting his pipe or cigarette).  Not that my father is amazingly bright…like myself, he is just intelligent enough to be a bit dangerous.  His memory is incredible, however, and the mechanism of his thought works in odd, uncanny ways.  He makes connections; he intuits relationships most people never would.  He sees things in people.  Usually the bad things.  The bad habits; the secrets.)       
                       *                         *                            * 

        Fortinbras, Fortinbras….getting back to Fortinbras.

       It took me almost two weeks to figure out that Fortinbras triggered my terminal Daddy complex, but it was apparently obvious as hell to everyone else.  

        Get your head out of your ass, Margo.  Don’t forget what you are doing here, Margo.  Don’t forget what your job is here, Margo. 
Snap snap, Margo.  What is he paying you for, Margo? You are the professional here, Margo, so what is your job?  EARTH TO MARGO, COME IN PLEASE!

       Gawd, how embarrassing.  How unprofessional!  Kick this Daddy shit to the side and focus on the job at hand. 

      Concentrate on this man.  What have you seen?  What do you know?  When he was trying to impress you in the kitchen with his skill with the knife…and then in the bedroom, when he was stripped to the waist with that bone-cruncher…what did you see, what did he want you to see?  He struck you as mostly unaffected, not a man who needs to work to impress anyone.  He is wealthy enough and educated enough and old enough to tell anyone he doesn’t like to get lost.  

       Focus on him.  Focus on Fortinbras. 

      What does he want from me?  Yeah, of course it could be sex, but he could get that anywhere.  He might have five girlfriends right now.  He could hire the most expensive call girl in NYC, ballerina-perfect and younger than me. There are not so many pro-switches, but there are a few, and in any case, money is a hell of a persuader. 

      What does he want? Why did he extend our first session to several hours?  Why does he want at least 8 hours now–a public date?

      My Neo-Freudian Analyst: You made him feel like the hero parental figure he has always longed to be.  It is biological.  He is not necessarily conscious of it. I’m not saying that he wants to be your father.  I mean that you make him feel like a hero.  You admire him!  And no matter how rich or comely he is, do you think that he has pretty educated impressed younger women running around flattering him by asking him questions about his art all day?  Hanging on his every word about it? I’m sure the friends of his daughters all but ignore him!  He starts talking about art and their eyes glaze over!  They listen to Rhianna. Asking him about Copenhagen?  How many American women know about Copenhagen?  How many even know what country it’s in?

      One of my favorite readers–a fellow whom I know nothing about, other than that he used to see dommes, and he has lots of brains cells to rub together, wrote this to me: 

    “The big question is what sort of experience is he fantasizing about.  He gave you a thank you note.  I think that this is a big indicator of his fantasy about the transaction…The books are also a major tell.  Why would he do that?  Does he fantasize about mentoring a younger woman?  Was insisting on paying your hourly fee for dinner an attempt to show you how much you are worth?  Throw out little statements and see how he reacts…


There’s nothing wrong with providing fantasy fulfillment.  That is what you are doing every minute you are with him.  He should know that every time he hands you money.   Structure the experience for him, based on what you sense his desires to be.  Your goal is to keep him buying time – if he falls a little in love with you that’s OK.  Eventually he will tire of you and move on.  I think that the thrill of his emotional attachment to you is what he is buying.   For your part, this works best if your feelings are genuine, but you maintain some inner detachment.

Remember, you are playing a role to fulfill his fantasies.  If you feel that you are getting something other than money – a sense of being taken care of, or a sense of security – then he is fulfilling your fantasies, and that is a problem.  He is not there to fulfill your emotional needs – you are there to fulfill his.  Fortinbras could plug into any daddy issues you might have and that can be powerful stuff.  A pleasant job is better than an unpleasant one, but it is still a job.  What you get from it is money.”


     Anon Reader (you know who you are!) your advice is precious and I wish I had your good sense. And yes, I think he wants to mentor me.  He lectures me, kindly, about the art I question him about.  He recommends books for me to read.  Somehow I don’t think he does this to every ho that walks in the door. 

      I read the last paragraph of your letter to my analyst–about the roles being reversed, and him fulfilling my fantasies, as opposed to vice versa.  You are completely correct.  I am there to do a job.  Period.  

      If Fortinbras meets my emotional issues, then I am, at minimum, being unprofessional.  Otherwise…endangering myself. 

       I’m tired now.  Sorry.

      Please write me any time.  If you don’t want any of this printed, let me know, and I’ll delete it.

      Best regards,

      Margo

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BWAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAA

I think my analyst would concur that Fortinbras likes me because I make him feel like THIS GUY….THE MOST INTERESTING MAN IN THE WORLD…lol lol lol  omg I’m gonna die laughing 

Please forgive me…Fortinbras really is a fascinating fellow, as are many of my clients…but if I didn’t have a sense of humor about this shit, I’d go crazy. I’m sure you understand….

Nightmare: Paris, Poodles, and Parrot

    Miss Margo Note:  This is a nightmare I had fairly recently…the last time I saw the Mathematician, actually.  Boy oh boy, did my analyst have fun with this one.  

     It’s deeply personal, but also pretty funny, in a grotesque sort of way, so I’m sharing it.  Enjoy.  



   I dreamed that I was a prostitute living in Paris.  I had a small French poodle with its fur styled in the elaborate classic poodle haircut.  I used pink food coloring to dye parts of the poodle’s fur pink. 

     
    I had a pink dress the same color as my poodle’s fur.  I would wear the pink dress when I took the poodle out for a walk.  I saw other women wearing similar dresses and also walking died poodles—blue, green, purple.  Poodles of all different colors.  Their dresses matched the colors of their poodles.

     My died poodle gave men an excuse to come up and talk to me.  They would want to ask me why I died my poodle pink.  Then I would tell them the nature of my labor, and decided whether or not to take them to my apartment.

     One day I received a package in the mail.  I opened the package and found the dried, shriveled corpse of my Parrot inside. She was shrunken; just skin and bones and her feathers. Around the bird’s neck was a tag with a telephone number on it. 
   
   I called the telephone number.  Someone on the other end of the phone picked up, but they didn’t speak.

      Suddenly, I heard someone knocking on my front door.
      
      I went to go answer the door.  I was suddenly full of fear.

     It was my murderer, there to kill me.  The one who sent me the package with my dead Parrot. 

      The killer looked like a man, but I think it was really a woman.  It killed me with a knife. 

I Haz $$$???

      Sorry I haven’t been blogging…

      …..I was too busy making money! 

        BWHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  Bet you never thought you’d hear me say something like that!

        Seriously, though, I’ve been hustling my ass off, and I’m sick of working so hard with nothing to show for it.  Academia’s not paying, so I’m hiring a career counselor who specializes in helping career academics find work in other fields.  I’m going to have to quit at the Studio before I make the leap…but I’m only there one or two shifts a week now anyway.  The money is in independent work.

        This is what I’ve made so far this month at my Secret Job.  Don’t get too excited; most of it has already been sucked up by the IRS and my student loans.  But at least my fuckin phone isn’t blowing up from 1-800 and 1-866 numbers now.  Assholes.  It really does take a certain type of wretched human being to be a bill collector and harass someone over a $68 debt, you know (Empire Fitness Gym.  DO NOT patronize them)?  And you can go suck it too, Capital One! I’m done with you! 

        Client names are, of course, aliases.

Golf player: $360
Fred Flintstone: $400
Fred Flintstone: $400
Equestrian Bill: $60
Tuscany Hotel Dude: $400
SuperStudio Session: $105
SuperStudioSessionThursday: $545
SuperstudioSessionNight:$330
Diabetic UES Guy: $500
Fred Flintstone: $400
GermanSadistFromFrankfurt: $280
European in a Sweater: $85
Sad Divorced Dad: $600

      Yes, my friends, after approximately three years of working off and on in this business, I am finally, finally, FINALLY making money.  What boggles my mind is that I could make this without stripping or being an escort. 

     I have a big date with Fortinbras around the corner, too.  That’s a whole other blog entry I’m still working on.  What a rigmarole that was.  Thanks to all the readers who wrote it–I’ll quote you in my blog post.  

    God, did I ever dodge a bullet with Fortinbras.  You’d think, after the Mathematician, I’d know better (I still hate him every day, btw).  This Daddy complex I have is the bane of my fuckin existence.  I don’t know how I’m going to find a decent partner till I get over it.

Father’s Day 2013

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    Long time, no blog.

    I’d like to reiterate my thanks to the people who gave me advice about how to handle Fortinbras.  I feel in control of the situation and I have a plan now.  I intend to write about that in greater detail soon.

    Today is Father’s Day, which is always a difficult holiday for me. I do not speak to my father, but I presume he is alive because the government has not notified me of his death.  I am his next of kin, so I expect that they would contact me if he died.  I have an elder half-sister in Germany whom I have never met.  I almost never think of her, but I do wonder, from time to time, whether we look alike, and what path she has taken in her life. My father says that he went back to see her when she was a few years old (this was before I was born), and she was cold and hostile to him.  Good for you, Gretel. Would that I had that luxury and willfulness when I was so young. 

    I envy her because she was spared our father’s control.  That is not to say that I assume she had a healthful upbringing–even the best parents fail somehow, and something had to be wrong with Gretel’s mother if she seriously entertained Franz Adler as a partner and voluntarily bore his child.  

     (I do hope that you are healthy and happy in some beautiful German town, Gretel, and I hope that your mother found a kind and responsible man who became a loving and proper father to you.)

     I looked through photographs of my family today.  I found one of my father as a young boy–maybe 11, 12, 13 years old…?  I don’t know children, so I can’t tell.  He is wearing starched dark farmers’ bluejeans with a crease in them, and a neat button-up check shirt with a stiff collar.  He is carrying a metal lunch pail to bring to school.  He is standing in front of a tiny house with a wrap-around porch, and he is smiling. The blue eyes look colorless in the black-and-white. He looks so happy.  A normal boy. 

      I wish I had a time machine and could go back in time to kill my grandfather for what he did.  I really would do it, you know.  It would be my pleasure. 

      To end this rather depressing post on a happier note, here is a plush toy I purchased from the store.  It is a daddy owl hugging a baby owl!  I love it.  I put it on my bed.


Chess with Fortinbras (or, Don’t Be a Chump)

Update June 12  10 AM:  Many thanks to all who wrote in.  I believe we have agreed upon a sum that I find acceptably lucrative and Fortinbras probably finds either flattering or intriguingly ambiguous.  I’d like to keep him hooked, of course, but even if he never sees me again after this, he’s paying good money for a thrill and a fantasy, and I am going to do my best to give it to him.

Details to follow.

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I have a very tricky situation with a client, and I would very much appreciate anyone’s advice on how to handle it.

     Fortinbras has stayed in contact with me via email.  His letters are clear, concise, and charming–flirtatious, but the tone is appropriate.  

      He wants to have an extended appointment with me which involves a trip to an art gallery and a home-made dinner (he intends to do the cooking).  Eight hours.  Eight hours! He politely inquired about what I would charge for such an event.  

      GOOD QUESTION!  Gosh, I wish the Department of Labor kept stats on wages for my secret job, but it doesn’t.  

       It is common in the business to reduce one’s usual hourly rate for extended appointments–say, if one was charging $200/hour for an hour, it might be $350 for two hours, etc.  But, not everyone does that.  And professionals in other industries sure as hell don’t do that. If I asked my old lawyer for a discounted rate because I was throwing so much work his way, he’d laugh in my face.  When I edit manuscripts freelance I always charge by the page.  My domme friend C. at the Studio probably charges more for additional hours–I can hear her now: “I need to be compensated for having to look at you for so long!”

      I do not have a set policy.  I give clients whose company I truly enjoy a break all the time.  Others, I never do.  The ability to make my own rules is one of the luxuries of being self-employed…but it also means that I am at the mercy of my own business sense.  And when it comes to business, I am epically retarded

       Let’s pretend that my fee is $200/hour.  Now, it does not seem fair to me to charge someone $200/hour to eat dinner with him.  I’ll definitely still be working at dinner, because I’ll be in Professional Charming Company mode.  I won’t be regular Margo.  But to my mind, this labor is not comparable to locking a dude in a cage and covering him in ants for an hour.  It’s just not. 

      On the other hand, it is reasonable to say that my fee is my fee, and the client is hiring me for my time, and he can spend that time as he chooses.  We can watch The Price is Right together or I can wash his mouth out with soap and give him a swirly, whatever.

       (And why am I even asking myself if it matters whether or not my fee is “fair?” This is my academic idiocy at work.  “Is the price fair?” like I was John Rawls or Adam Smith or someone. FFS.  PATHETIC!)

       With this case with Fortinbras, though, I feel like I’m playing chess.  He is attracted to me.  He is going to try to have sex with me.  I need to expect that and be prepared for it.

         I like him a lot (which is extremely inconvenient), but I don’t know him, so it is imperative that I not trust him and keep my boundaries up.  For all I know, this is a big sport to him, like a game.  A conquest and seduction game, where he is thinking: How much can I get her to do?  Can she be taken advantage of?  He gets what he wants, and I never see him again–he’ll move on to the next one.

          I think that I handle men well, but after the Mathematician I no longer have faith that I cannot be manipulated.  That calculating asshole played me like a fiddle. Fortinbras is more intelligent that I am and he’s been running around Spaceship Earth more than twice as long as I have.  I am outgunned and I forget that at my peril. 

         My priority needs to be that I get what I want out of this business relationship. 

        1) I want to maintain his respect for me–or, at minimum, make him feel that he can’t take advantage of me.

        2) I want to keep him around as a client.  He’s good business.

       That means keeping him interested.

        And finally, if I blow it or this 8-hour appointment goes wrong and ends up being a one-shot deal and I never see him again, I want to get the most out of it that I can.  This is a huge business deal for me.  Like, “earn enough money to pay off the last of your student debt” huge. 

         If I don’t handle this guy right and screw myself over, C will fucking break my hand with a hammer.  “You let him do what, Red?  You only charged him what?  Do you know what you could have gotten?  Do you think he didn’t know that?  YOU CHUMP!!!”

         Any advice?  Ideas?  You can leave them in comments or email me at piecesofmargo@gmail.com.

        Help me not be a chump.  I can’t grade papers with a broken hand. 

Abduction Weekend Continued

    Sorry, Party People.  Heinrich put the hatchet in most of my Abduction Weekend updates.  He says he wouldn’t mind if I was writing exclusively about himself, but there were three other gentlemen involved in addition to the people whose house and property he utilized for the event.  

      I can share a concise overview of the festivities….just not the gory details.  So it is with great pleasure that I write what I can about the weekend of debauchery, mayhem, and a million blowjobs.

       They took me out of the closet and stood around the room while Heinrich conducted an intake interview.  He was in fine form–when I tried to get chummy with him, he acted like he didn’t even know me.  As if we were not friends and had no history together.

       I was made to immerse myself up to my neck in a large stainless steel sink filled with cold water.  They threw in a bucket of ice after a few minutes.  It was very difficult to concentrate on my answers with my nose running and ice cubes bouncing merrily upon the surface of the water.  Heinrich asked me mindfuck questions, such as “How obedient do you think you are?”

       I was given rules.  One rule was no swearing.  Another rule was no flinching. 

       Overall, I did quite well on the first rule.  My compliance with the second rule was mediocre, I regret to report.  It did improve markedly over time, however.

       I was affixed with a heavy metal shackle on my left ankle.  I have no idea where he procured it, but let me tell you, he wasn’t fooling around.  It was heavy, it closed with a masterlock, and there was twelve feet of chain attached to it.  It looked a bit like this:

        Real, heavy chain.  Not the crap you buy at the hardware store to hang your potted plants.  It weighed several pounds and was smooth-plated so that it didn’t scratch the floors or furniture.  I wore the shackle and the chain every second I was there.  It was either held by a man or affixed to something heavy and/or permanent the entire time.  I was also charged with keeping it clean, so that the links didn’t drag dirt inside when I was eventually let into the main house were the real human beings were.  Yeah, I was constantly washing that chain and clanking around in it like Marley’s ghost.  It made a sore by the end of the weekend.

       I was also made to wear a length of chain around my neck, which was also locked with a padlock.  This was very uncomfortable and I had to sleep in it the first night I was there.  My hair would get caught in it and it would pinch my skin.  Dudebro said that I could get out of the collar if I found the key to the lock, which he hid somewhere in the studio I was being kept.  Heinrich took out his stopwatch and timed my frantic search for the key.  They watched it indoors on the security camera.  I hear that they found it very amusing.  It took me eighty-eight minutes to find that key.  And you know that meant I had to endure eighty-eight of something.   Oh Heinrich, you are truly the Frederick Taylor of pain and suffering. 

     Incidentally, the shackle/chain/collar combo were the only things I was allowed to wear all weekend, except for the sneakers I was permitted for the execution of hard manual labor.  I was made to dig a great big hole in which I became convinced that I was going to be buried alive in a crate.  They did not bury me alive, but they did make me fill in the hole after I digged it.  I will add that I was humiliated and terrorized with the garden hose throughout the weekend.  

       I was also made to drag a bunch of sheet rock out of the bottom of an empty swimming pool.  Heinrich timed that, too. My puny-ness and ineptitude was a constant source of speculation and entertainment.  I mean, they watched me like they’d never seen a girl dig a hole before.  Probably because they hadn’t.  Ha, ha. 

     Dudebro harassed me constantly and the other men got a kick out of basically tormenting me.  Some of it was on the level of kids playing keep-away with the nerd’s hat or snapping the girl’s brastrap, which sounds harmless enough except that it became exhausting and frustrating after a while.  

       Yes, I cried.  My tears were met with indifference or ridicule. 

       One of the men, Mr. White, was pretty soft.  I guess he was the Good Cop in the routine.  He would feed me. 

        Oh yeah–the first day I was there, I had to drink out of a bucket.  Without using my hands.  That was fun. *sarcasm*

         The owners of the house owned a huge male weimerainer dog that I was made to shampoo and groom after it had been running in the fields all day.  Heinrich was big on not tracking dirt in the house.  Usually I would be delighted to interact with a beautiful dog like that, but the men stood around and observed me silently the entire time.  This had the effect of making me very paranoid (which I’m sure was the point).  I suddenly became fearful that they might ask me to mess with the dog.  Relax, of course they didn’t, and I would not have done it if they did, but I was still worried.  I did not know any of the men except for Heinrich.  They could have been complete pervs, for all I knew.  

         The dog could do tricks.  Roll over, beg, speak, turn in a circle. Mr. White thought it would be fun to make me do tricks.  I had to compete with the dog to do the tricks faster.  It goes without saying that I always lost, because I am clumsy and the dog was not.

       They made me eat a piece of bacon that I thought was a dog treat.  I did not want to eat it, but I did.  It was, in fact, human food.

       Heinrich was the only sadist in the bunch. The others just were not very interested in causing me pain–they were more into playing mean jokes on me, entertainment, and sex.  Heinrich made me suffer.  He told me he would, and he did.  

         I have to hand it to him.  He followed through.  No mercy.  The only time he gave me a pass on anything is when I brought him his beer in the bottle instead of pouring it into a glass first. When he said I earned eighty-eight, he administered eighty-eight.  He was hard on me, and did sick shit like make me choose between options that I both thoroughly despised.  For example, I absolutely cannot stand nipple clamps, and the only man I ever let hurt my breasts was the Surgeon.  I just can’t cope with that sensation.  

          Well, it was seven minutes of the clover clamps, or else I had to sleep in the closet.  Sitting up in the closet.   While he watched me on the security camera (did I mention that I had no privacy the entire weekend?  NONE!).  

           I hated the options and I hated being made to participate in my own oppression, but what could I do?  I took the clamps and it absolutely killed me.  I do not lie when I tell you that I would rather take bastinado than clover clamps.  I normally won’t even let men touch me there, even boyfriends. 

             I actually screamed when he took them off.  He was standing behind me with his arm wrapped around me, sort of like a headlock, and his voice was in my ear.  I could see his face in the mirror, and he was smiling.  I’ll never forget it.  I could feel his hard on through his pants.  I was crying and he counted slowly in German backwards from ten and then took the clamps off and I thought the pain was going to kill me.  Stars, boy, I saw stars.

            Then he put me on top of the desk.  The desk can a mechanical clamp attached to it, like this:

         He put my hair in the clamp so that I couldn’t move my head or get up.  

           Then he fucked my brains out while I was crying and blowing snot bubbles and generally being pathetic.  Nobody’s done that to me since the Surgeon, either.  

           It was one of the hottest experiences of my life. 

           He didn’t even take off his pants.  He just shrugged off his suspenders and opened his pants.  He was wearing his boots, man, and he looked fucking beautiful.  Then he put his hand in my mouth and laughed at me.

            My mind was so blown that I forgot to ask permission to climax.  Can you believe that?  I never forget.  And you better believe I was punished for that, too.

            I need a cigarette and a cold shower just writing that.  God, I try not to get pornographic on my blog and keep everything rated “R”, but I just couldn’t resist the description.

           When he finished with me (we were alone), he threw me to the wolves.  

          It was a long night.

          And oh yeah–on the last night we were there, the guys played cards and it was my job to serve drinks and empty ashtrays.  I spent a lot of time serving them when I was finally let inside the house.  And before we left, I had to clean the house and change the linens so that the house was perfect for when the owners came home.   

         After three days, they dropped me off at my apartment in one piece.  I waddled up the stairs and collapsed.  I couldn’t wear jeans or tight pants for a week, but it was totally worth it.

        Memories to last a lifetime.  Gawd I’m lucky. 

Defeated

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    Well, I did something I’m not proud of last night.

     I got into it with the Surgeon.  

     It was stupid.  I knew there was no point to it.  I guess I just did it because I was lonely and angry.  Two out of four in HALT and yes I admit I was thinking of martinis.  

     See, he sent flowers to my apartment.  A bunch of lilies, which are my favorite.  No scalpel in the bouquet this time.   Just a nice card saying that he hopes I’m doing well.  

      I should have gone to a meeting or called one of my friends or taken Parrot out to play with her or cleaned my fish tank or something, but instead I just on my bed staring up at the ceiling and feeling upset and angry.  It came out of nowhere.

       I knew that he’d reach out to me in inquire about the flowers.  I mean, it’s natural to be curious about how a person receives a gift you’ve given them, but the surgeon always checks up.  That’s one thing about this man–he does something nice and he basically expects a parade for it.  You know those people who make anonymous donations to charities or otherwise ask that their names not be published?  That’s not him

       Sure enough, he sends me a text message:  Did you get the flowers?  I was thinking about you.  You are a very special person to me.

       Well, I don’t know what it was, but I totally flipped my shit.  This almost never happens to me.  I’m definitely not a crier and I almost never lose my temper.  I just almost never get pissed off.  I don’t know if it’s my personality or the way that I was raised in a strict household where displays of rage or grief by children were considered unacceptable and not tolerated.  My father, especially, reserved the luxury of rage exclusively for himself. 

       Whatever it was, those flowers and that text message set me off.  I know it doesn’t seem to make sense.  Why get mad over a card and flower?

        I wrote back: “‘Special’ like the kids on the short bus, or what? What do you want, a parade?  You do something nice for me once and you think it makes up for all the bad things you put me through?”

        I’m sure that shocked him.  I’ve been rude or mean to him a handful of times over the years we were together, and each time, I remember, he acted surprised.  Stunned, even. That’s how out of character it is for me.  And also, because he is a bully, he’s used to people walking on eggshells around him.

       But, you don’t want to fight with this guy.  He goes for the throat, and if you don’t lose the fight, he’ll eventually make sure that you wish you had.  There were a couple times where he had to acknowledge that I was right because he didn’t have a leg to stand on, and boy, did he punish me for it later.  

        After a minute, he asks: How are you supporting yourself over the summer?  Your old dungeon closed.  Want me to throw a little work your way?

        The Surgeon never completely got over the fact that he met me at a dungeon.  I’m not totally sure why.  I know it’s rank hypocrisy, given that he was there too, and he turned out to be more sexually strange than me–I won’t disclose his kinks, but trust me, he’s not Dr. Normal Normal.  

        I think that what bothered him the most about it was the idea of me with other men.  This, too, was hypocrisy, because we were never monogamous.  Nevertheless, he was a jealous man.  I think one of the reasons he used to bite and beat me so hard was that he was being territorial. 

        I wrote back: Wow, that was fast with the old familiar cruelty. Please, keep it coming.  It reminds me of why I had to dump your crazy abusive ass. 

        Him: You’re right, the sarcasm wasn’t nice, but I would never hurt you the way that you hurt me in these last several months since you cut off contact.  You are a cruel ice queen.  The way you have treated me is unconscionable. 

        Me: Breaking up with you was unconscionable?  You’re a self-centered rageaholic and an obsessive philanderer who ignored most of my emotional needs when you weren’t using me for sex!  How could I improve on that, right? Sorry that I needed a man capable of loving me in my life.

       Him: How can you say that about me? I know I have my issues, it’s true, but I have been the only person in your entire life that you could depend on.  When you had nobody else to turn to, I was always there.  What, did you want a child?  I would have given you that.

       I had to acknowledge that that part is true.  He’s right about that.  It doesn’t make him Boyfriend of the Year and it doesn’t ameliorate the bad things he did or the contempt with which he would treat me.  But I have to hand it to him: he went to bat for me on more than one occasion.  He always came through in a pinch.  

        Here it is, the Awful Truth: I have had no experiences in my life which would lead me to believe that I could depend on a man. You may think that is hyperbole, but it’s not.  With the exception of my brother, every man in my family tree has been a junkie, a user, a taker, a criminal, or a violent abuser and rapist of women and children.  

         Think about that.  You can bet your ass that I have. 

         I had to acknowledge that in my personal relationships with men–both intimate and familial–the Surgeon  was the best of the lot.  THE SURGEON!  THE FUCKING SURGEON!  Do you know what he did to me?  The things that would come out of his mouth?  It would turn your hair white!  And even still, the best of the lot!  Hell, compared to that pathetic lying manipulative cheating mathematician, the Surgeon was solid fucking gold!  He never mislead me about who or what he was.  

         Him: If you acknowledge that, then how can you question my commitment to you? I tried everything I could to keep you with me because I care about you.  I still care.  That is why I sent you flowers.

        A rare moment of grace for him.  I couldn’t tell if he was really trying, or just being manipulative.  I mean, yes, he wanted to keep me…but that doesn’t mean that he treated me well or that the relationship was good for me.  He was sexually obsessed with me. It doesn’t mean that he loved me.  I mean, he loved me a little bit, I always knew that.  

       But the Surgeon is not an emotionally evolved man.  His capacity for the higher emotions is very limited.  He doesn’t have a broad spectrum.  It’s difficult for me to explain.   He cares about me, and thinks that he cares about me, but he does not experience the loving, nurturing care that healthy people do.  

       And when you get right down to it, there is no escaping the simple truth that the Surgeon is just not a very good person.  He’s just not.  I say that as someone who truly loved him anyway.  He is rude, vain, shockingly insensitive, controlling, vindictive, and he goes out of his way to be cruel to people.  He can be nice when he feels like it, or when he wants something.  He can be very charming in fact–he’s a huge charmer; and he’s a smooth talker, he turns it off and on like a lightswitch.  He can be a lot of fun, but he’s a prick.  A colossal prick who thinks that he’s God. 

        He sort of is like God.  He goes into people’s bodies and slices them with knives and puts machines in them.  He changes their bodies.  It is not a coincidence.  

        He wanted me to have his kid, you know.  Incredible.  I thought about it.  The kid would have some good genes.  It would be smart.  It would probably be good-looking.  The Surgeon has money to give the kid a good start in life.

       But the Awful Truth is that there is simply no way in hell I could let that man be around my child.  He’s too dangerous.  He would damage a child.  Especially a girl.  He would be a better dad than my father was to me, but given that my father got a big fat “F-“ in Parenting 101, that is not exactly complimentary. 

       Not good enough for my child…but for years, I thought that he was good enough for me. 

       Anyway, that was pretty much the end of the argument.  There was a little more back-and-forth in which he told me how cruel I was for ignoring him.  But what else could I do?  We had to break up.  How the hell do you end a relationship if you keep interacting with the other person?  And how is no contact “cruel”?  Is it?  

          Him: I went to that strip club on Long Island looking for you!  I went to your old dungeon looking for you!  Do you have any idea how much anxiety and pain you have caused me?

       Me: Surgeon, that is fucking stalker behavior, it is not indicative of love. 

       Him: What else can I do when you ignore me?

       Me:  You are not entitled to my attention.  

       Him:  After 5 years?!  You are cruel!

      Me: No, cruelty is telling the woman who loves you that your DOG is the only thing in your life that brings you happiness.  That’s cruel!  Remember that?

         After that, the communication deteriorated into immature back-and-forth.  I usually argue in a very respectful fashion but I have to admit that I blasted him a few times last night.  I think the fight in his mind seemed to center around the topic of my alleged cruelty, which I vociferously denied.  Why did I deny it?  Who cares?  It’s not like I’m going to change his mind.  

       I did raise the spectre of OJ Simpson.  Maybe that was cruel.  But how can it be cruel if it’s the truth?  

        Was it wrong to be mad at him after the flowers and he tried to make nice?  

        It was a stupid fight via text message that did nothing but leave me feeling confused and tired.  Was I mean to him in the relationship?  I don’t think that I was.
         

        What a fucking depressing blog entry this is, but I had to write about it.  

        I’m going to take a shower and try to do something fun today.

        Here, let’s end on a happier note.  This medical specialty decision flow chart really cracks me up.