Mommy Issues

     I spent four hours moving furniture out from the walls, trying to find exactly where the mice are coming from.  My apartment is very small, but this was a chore because of my ceiling-tall bookcases.  Books are heavy.  I had to remove them first. The aquarium didn’t make it easy, either.


     I think I found it: a crack in the baseboard, where the floor meets the wall, behind my tallest bookcase.  I stuffed it with steel wool.  Party’s over, you little bastards.  

     Then I mopped the floors and scoured the grout in the bathroom.  This reminded me of my mom.  When I lived in her house, every time we took a bath we had to clean the tub with bleach and dry the chrome so that it was shiny and the water wouldn’t make spots.  The towels had to be hanged in a precise fashion.  I did not realize this was crazy until I was an adult. 

       The Surgeon is that way.  He is similar to my mother in many ways.  He even has similar coloring, which I didn’t notice until he pointed it out while looking at her photograph on my bedroom wall. 

      “She’s a professional,” he said.  “I respect that.”  

       I feel weird about what he did and I still can’t decide what to make of it.  I guess he didn’t get the memo (or else he got it but doesn’t give a fuck, which is even worse, but is pretty typical for him), because he sent me a cheerful card.  

       I have a nagging sense self-blame about it, too.  I encouraged him to be violent with me in our relationship.  Hell, more than that: I taught him how to do it.  Part of me wants to believe that he thought he was giving me what I wanted…but I saw his face and remember what he said, and I know he knows that what he did was wrong. 

       I can see the expression on his face when he thinks about it now: small smile because he feels he got away with something, but in the back of his mind, anxiety.  He’ll cut a check to his religious organization or go to the sink and wash his hands.  He washes his hands every time he gets off the telephone with his mother, and doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.  I noticed that right away.  It’s because he feels guilty about hating her.  

       Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sure she deserves it.  

       One of the best things I ever did for him was liberating him from some of that guilt and telling him that it was perfectly healthy to feel and express his rage towards her.  Nobody had ever told him that before (probably because they are scared of him).  It took him about a year for us to work through it together, but it changed his boundaries with his mother much healthier.  I don’t know how he could reach his age and not know better, but the Surgeon is not exactly big on personal reflection.  

       I had compassion for him on this issue.  He is an atrocious person, but really, a very dutiful and obedient son.  If he was as good a partner as he was a child, I’d still be with him, but the resentment and rage he feels towards her is expressed towards female loved ones as abuse. 

      And he’s just plain spoiled. 

      Speaking of people with issues, you would not believe the session I had today.  My Mistress Batphone blew up after 4 hours of furniture-moving and mousehole-searching, when I was disheveled and sweaty and gross, natch.  I was still glad to get the call, because my school job isn’t going to pay me for another 3 weeks and I’m stone broke.

        The manager told me that I had a two-hour session with an Englishman named…”Edwin.”  

         I thought for certain that it was my favorite cross-dressing Limey from “A Tale of Two Sissies.”  I love that dude; he’s lots of fun, so I jumped in the shower and hailed a cab.  I spackled on the whoreface en route.  Pro-tip: do not attempt to apply mascara in a moving automobile!  Especially one driven by an enraged Nigerian!  Not good!  

        Well, it wasn’t my Edwin after all, which is pretty amazing (how many could there be, visiting dungeons and asking for me specifically?).  This was a different Edwin, and oh boy, what a weird session.  

      It wasn’t wacky or crazy, like client “Ants-in-His-Pants.”  It wasn’t quiiiiiite haunted-house disturbing, either.  But it was still fucking weird, and I had a few moments of distinct unease, which is probably why it’s almost 6 AM and I only got three hours of sleep last night.  

      He said that he was in town because he had the day off from teaching.
     I brightened right up.  A colleague!  Something we have in common.  Makes breaking the ice a little easier.

      “I teach too!” I said.

      He asked me what I taught.  I gave him my fake discipline. 

      “You are much brighter than me, Miss.  I teach “X” and I am not even a full professor,” he said.

      Well, I was slow on the uptake, so I patted his arm and said, “That’s okay!  I don’t have tenure, either!  It’s hard to get in this town!  Nothing to feel badly about.” 

       He stared at me, like what sort of dominatrix are you?

       Then the little lightbulb went on above my head.

       “But then,” I continued, adjusting my posture and lowering my voice, “I’m much younger than you. I’d hope that by the time I was your age I would have made more of myself.  Teaching without tenure at your age is rather lame.  Pathetic, actually.”  

       He visibly relaxed.  Knew he was in the hands of a professional.  

       FYI: I believe he’s an academic because, along with soldiers and cops, I can usually spot them on sight.  My people.  I do not for a second believe that he’s an associate or adjunct slave holding office hours in a timeshared cubicle with a dying spider plant like myself.  He was way too bright and his fantasy was way too weird and creative.  He is probably at Columbia or one of those expensive private toy liberal arts colleges around here.  

       The session consisted almost entirely of him sharing his story, or fantasies, with me, while I sat across from him in a chair (I sat in the higher chair, of course) and listened.  

       His speech and delivery was absolutely flawless, by the way.  His diction, likewise.  It just flowed out of him like a string.  There was no interruption in his speech; he didn’t pause and search for words.  Perhaps he’s just gifted like that…or maybe he’s rehearsed and delivered the same fantasies a million times over the years.

      I don’t know how much I can share here without violating his confidence, not that he swore me to secrecy…

      He told me that a long time ago he was teaching in Munich (and I believe that part; his German was excellent) when he was seduced by one of his students, a beautiful young lady aged 20 years.  I suppose that part is possible.  From what I understand, there was a lot more screwing around on campuses before sexual harassment became illegal; these days it’s professional suicide. 

      He became her slave, and he had many stories to tell.

      Oh, my friends, what a Freudian shitshow this was!  Some of it was completely mundane and typical (“She had a friend, Sophie, who was also a Domina, and who would sit in the front row of my class.” “I had to wear a ladies’ dress in the house.” “We went shopping for a dress and the women in the department store laughed at me.”).  

      But some of it was scary shit that came right out of his childhood, I have no doubt.  No doubt, because you can’t make this stuff up.  This was not wack-off material concocted in his randy, feverish brain.  I recognized the true parts because my Spidey Sense went off and all the hair on my arms stood up, like with Mel.  

    Such as: “I had to take 15 with the cane and after each stroke, I had to recite my lesson.  Such as: ‘I’m stupid and I shouldn’t have an opinion.’ ” 

     And: “It was wrong to steal the jam.” 

    Yes indeedy.  Just another day at the office.

      He also had these elaborate fantasies about his Mistress’s sexual relationships with other men.  That sounds like standard-issue cuckolding stuff, but these were weird, and some of them involved common male misperceptions of female sexuality.  I think that his “Mistress” was actually the person he wanted to be.  I think this guy has serious transexual leanings, even though he presented himself as quite masculine.  Which is fine.  It just makes him pretty unusual, in my experience. 

     The only thing that disturbed me, a little bit, was that his concept of love and human relationship was kinda warped (like I’m one to talk, ha ha!).  

     “It defined who I am,” he said.  “Once you’ve been a slave, you can never be anything else, really, can you…?”

      He meant it as a rhetorical question.  

      Food for thought, boys and girls.  Food for thought. 

      Remember what I said in the last post, about children being slaves?

      “She only beat me for my own good.  She did it to teach me lessons and improve me.  So I’d be better,” he said.

       I’m sure that’s what his mother told him.  And when you’re a child, you want to believe it, because accepting that your parent hates you is unacceptable.  

      He didn’t tip, which is sort of rude for a 2-hour session, but since I did almost zero labor (aside from the emotional labor, of course…but he did 80% of the talking), I have nothing to complain about.  And it was a fascinating session.  Not entirely pleasant, but fascinating.  

       He likes me and wants to see me again.

      “Do you think I’m very normal, Mistress?” he asked me at the end.  

        The question threw me.  I couldn’t tell whether he was asking for more humiliation…or validation and comfort.  

        I picked the safest option.  This was not a decision you’d want to make the wrong choice with.

         “You seem quite all right to me, sweetling,” I said.

        When he came back to normal and was putting on his jacket to leave, he said that he was going to stop by the Disney store and get something for his little kid.

        “I love playing make-believe and games with my kid!” he said, lighting up inside.  It was actually quite charming and touching to see.  “I really try to be a good father.  I could play games with my kid all day.  My wife says that I’m like a kid!”

        Emotionally, in some ways, he is.  He’s stuck.  

        Defined.  

       I would never, ever hit a child.  But that’s no guarantee.  My parents almost never hit me, and I grew up to crave terrible violence.  

       Finally: After the session, I was changing my clothes to go home.  I was wearing the shorts I’ve been mousehole-searching in.  One of the other dommes saw the welt marks.

       “Holy shit!  How’d you get those?  Why?”

       “Because she likes it,” leered the manager.

        I told her about the twerp.

        “Do you like it? I hope you got a good tip!”

        “I didn’t like it from that guy, but I liked putting him in his place and the $400,” I said.

          “Girl, you are crazy,” she said.

           Maybe.  

      Insomnia strikes again.  Let’s cheer ourselves up!  I love these videos.  If you’re an academic, click on the link College Misery and share the joy. 

A rubber band?  Really?

I did catch a student using the water bottle, though.

And “America,” by Jon Stewart and the Daily Show team IS NOT A TEXTBOOK!

Flakes for “Snowflakes,” or special snowflakes.  “I focus on the grade..the only thing that’s real.”  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I love how this prof is drinking and googling his students’ papers.  “Joyce Carol Oates uses an allegorical figure…”. HAAAHAHAHHAHA


4 thoughts on “Mommy Issues”

    1. Wow.

      Actually, the findings are commensurate with my personal experience: they plagiarize because they’ve been lazy and now it’s deadline time and they are desperate (another one did it because, as I discovered in my office, he was functionally illiterate and literally could not read the material). When they are busted, they are humiliated and start to cry, even the guys, and they apologize and don’t grouse about getting the F.

      Then we have the “Fuck you!” cheaters. When busted, they tell me to go fuck myself. OR they say that they are trying to get into grad school/play football and an F for cheating is unacceptable.

      One guy rolled his eyes and said, “You made me come to your office for this? You couldn’t just tell me over email?” Well, you know, I had to give him some formal paperwork…

      Thanks for the paper. I am printing it and keeping it for my records.

    2. Wow.

      Actually, the findings are commensurate with my personal experience: they plagiarize because they’ve been lazy and now it’s deadline time and they are desperate (another one did it because, as I discovered in my office, he was functionally illiterate and literally could not read the material). When they are busted, they are humiliated and start to cry, even the guys, and they apologize and don’t grouse about getting the F.

      Then we have the “Fuck you!” cheaters. When busted, they tell me to go fuck myself. OR they say that they are trying to get into grad school/play football and an F for cheating is unacceptable.

      One guy rolled his eyes and said, “You made me come to your office for this? You couldn’t just tell me over email?” Well, you know, I had to give him some formal paperwork…

      Thanks for the paper. I am printing it and keeping it for my records.

  1. i can’t find the original link for it but i will email you a pdf of the study that was done years later by that same grad student when he moved from toronto to vancouver. seems like all of the really good psychopath research is coming out of british columbia.

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