Thanksgiving 2013

 Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen

     In Catholic school we all prayed this together before we ate at lunchtime.  

       I am no longer a Christian, but, if I am mindful, I still stop and say a prayer (or think a prayer):  I give thanks to the animal whose life was taken so that I could eat it.  I acknowledge the animal’s suffering and sacrifice.

      One time, when I was shopping at the grocery store, I found a whole chicken laying on the shelf in the toiletries isle.  Someone had taken a chicken out of the freezer, put it in their cart, and then decided, whilst shopping for shampoo or razor blades, that they didn’t want the chicken any longer.  

      Instead of taking two minutes to return it to the freezer, they just left it in the isle.  

       The chicken was laying in a pool of water.  It was defrosted.  The store couldn’t put it back in the freezer; couldn’t sell it.  I knew that chicken would have to be thrown out.

      I felt so sad and angry.  Maybe I’m a hypocrite because I eat meat raised on factory farms, but how could this person be so disrespectful?  That chicken had a horrible life and someone could not even respect its body, which was intended for our food.  

       I know there is no heaven, but if there was, that poor chicken should be there.

      I also hate it when I see people bowling with frozen turkeys.  Really?  Really?  Have some fucking respect! 

                       *                            *                        * 

      Several years ago I was feeling very sad all the time, and I went to see a psychiatrist.  This was the year I moved across the country to attend my grad program.  I was also still with John, my restraining-order Ex.  He was killing me.

      I still can’t write about him on this blog.  I don’t like to revisit that time of my life. 

      Anyway, I went to the psychiatrist and he said that I was suffering from a major depressive episode.  He wrote me a script for antidepressants.  

      I went to the drug store to have it filled.  When I returned to the pharmacy to collect it, I was billed $120.  

     This was for paxil.  Generic paxil.  It was the lowest possible dose, too–I think 10 or 20 mg. 

     I’ll never forget the surprise I felt when the pharmacist rang me up at the counter, or the humiliation when I told her that I was sorry, but I couldn’t pay.  I literally did not have the money. It was the beginning of the month and I had just paid all my bills. 

    I apologized for wasting her time.  I tried to be stoical about it, but inside I felt ashamed, and I the deja vu memories of what it was like to shop at the store when my family was on welfare.  This was before the discreet EBT cards–it was still food stamps. The things people would say, my God, how could you say that to a parent in front of their children…? 

     The pharmacist looked at me.  I remember her face.  She was some sort of East Indian–maybe from Indonesia?  Young woman, maybe 30.  She was wearing a headscarf and a long dress under her white pharmacist coat.  Had to be Muslim. 

     “Wait just a minute,” she said, and went over to a computer.  I saw her typing on it and assumed that she was shopping around, trying to find a way to charge me a lower price for the medication, or maybe just cancelling the order so that she could give me the Rx script back.

     After about five minutes, she came back with a plastic card with the drug store’s logo on it and a magnetic strip on the back. She said that it was an employee card or a membership card, something like that.  

      “I will only let you use it for this medication.  No narcotics,” she said.

       Then she swiped it through the reader and charged me $10 for the paxil.

      My mind was blown.  There was no reason to do that, except for the goodness of her own heart.  She was breaking the rules to give me that discount card.  She could get in trouble for doing it.  And she didn’t even know me–she’d never laid eyes on me till that day.  

     I thanked her and said how much I appreciated what she did for me.  I almost cried but didn’t, because I will not cry in public. 

      I did cry when I got home.  It was a gratitude-cry.

      That card has long since expired, but I carry it with me in my wallet.  It is a memento.  

     I gave the pharmacist a Thank-You card and filled my Rx there for 9 months.  I don’t think that the paxil helped my depression, although the side-effect of gnarly super-vivid dreams was quite interesting (truly–I have not dreamed with that intensity since I was a child). 

     That pharmacist gave me mercy.  I don’t know what else to call it.  And she did it completely of her own volition. 

P.S.  I expect this story probably sounds trivial, but if you’ve ever been poor and desperate, you know how humiliating it is to ask for help from someone whom you know doesn’t want to give it. 

     The depression stopped when I finally got rid of John.  I quit the paxil shortly thereafter. 

Circe

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     In Greek mythology, Circe was a goddess who lived in a beautiful mansion on an enchanted island.  She had the power to turn men into animals.  All around her manor were docile lions and wolves and owls and boars–all of them her former lovers.  She had changed them into animals to enslave them and keep them with her forever.

      In Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus and his crew stop to rest on her island.  Circe invited them into her mansion prepared a feast for them.  She cast a spell over the food, and after the men ate of it, they were transformed into pigs!  

      Only one man escaped.  He ran back to the boat to tell Odysseus (who had stayed behind) what had happened.  

       The hero-king set out to rescue his men.  His protector, the goddess Athena, sent the messenger god Hermes to help him.  Hermes gave Odysseus a special herb to protect him from Circe’s witchcraft.  Odysseus went to Circe’s house and threatened her, drawing his sword.  

     Circe was enamored and took him to bed (Odysseus got laid a lot).  Then she changed his crew back into their human forms.  

      She made Odysseus and his men stay with her on her island for a year.  She was in love with him and didn’t want him to leave, but eventually she released him and sent him away with instructions on how to travel to the Underworld. 

        My other favorite mythological goddess is Artemis, goddess of the moon and the wilderness and protector of young girls.  She caught a creep spying on her while she bathed in a lake and she did what every poor woman who’s ever been spied on by a masturbating asshole would like to do: she turned him into a deer, and he was devoured by his own hounds.  I think that’s awesome.  I think I will be Artemis next Halloween.

“Come in and stay for a spell!” HA! lame joke

love the owls, but I don’t get it.  Is she teaching them to read or something?

my favorite


Snake in the Stacks

     I woke up early to clean my room.  It looks like a library exploded in here!  I’ve been doing some professional writing, and my desk and floor are covered with papers and open books…

      …and that reminds me of a funny story!

      One of the professors in my Department was rather eccentric (aren’t we all..?), and he inhabited a cavernous office space full of ancient books and journals.  At one time, many years before I was born, he had a fine view of the quad, but the stacks of books had overtaken the windows and blocked out the sunlight.  

       It was a common prank in the Department to take new graduate students into this office, hand them a garbage bag, and say that their job (for their fellowship stipend) was to “clean it up and organize it.”  They played this prank on me my second day in.  I remember cautiously picking up a large hunk of petrified wood off the floor and asking, “Does this go in the trash?”

       “No!  I bought that the day I got tenure.  I said to myself, ‘I’m officially dead wood!  Hahahahahahaha!’ ” 

       This professor (of whom I was very fond) would also smoke in his office and after 9 PM he was usually drunk, and eventually the rest of the faculty became concerned enough to intervene because they were worried he would nod off with a lit cigarette in the trashcan and burn the entire building down.  Someone called in an anonymous tip to the Fire Inspector, who came in and declared the professor’s office to be a fire hazard.  

       It had to be cleaned.  For real. 

       And you know who got the job: the lowly research galley slaves.  Three of us, including your humble correspondent. 

        This dude was dug in like one of those Japanese soldier holdouts on a little island in the South Pacific after World War II.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  I found eight-track tapes in there and a “McGovern for President 1972” campaign button.

      We mailed approximately 8 tonnes of books and scholarly journals to Books for Africa.  

       And know what else we found…?  This is the kicker!

       We found a snake that had escaped from its cage three months ago.  A professor from the Biology Department was waiting for an office in the Bio building, but in the meantime they had him set up shop in the floor above ours.  He kept a great big snake in his office (why, I am not sure). 

      Well, the snake made a break for it and somehow ended up in our professor’s stacks of books.  No idea how, but our theory is that it crawled into the heating ducts and fell out from the ceiling, because there’s no way it could have slithered down the hall and a flight of stairs and then down another hallway and into the office.  It had to be the heating/circulation vent.  There is no other explanation (if you are reading this and have an alternate theory, please share!).  I wasn’t there when they caught the snake, but I heard alllllll about it.

       The snake was returned to its grateful owner none the worse for wear, and the professor’s office was cleaned.

        He was a good professor.  I miss him.

The Soup Spot: Mecca of Soup

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     ZOMG oh boy one of the ladies at the Studio has a chef (a French chef! for realz!) for a boyfriend and he packed her a lunch of delicious home-made chicken soup.

     Well, as she was eating it, the soup smelled delicious, and the rest of us (all nice friendly girls here today, not krazy bitches) launched into a very feminine food-porn discussion.  I am not privy to male discussions about food, but I doubt that men rhapsodize about food the way women can.  I mean, to hear us, you’d think that we were living in a gulag or prison camp or deserted island and hadn’t had a decent meal in ten years.  

        We started discussing our favorite kinds of soup (mine: white clam chowder and country beef stew.  And my momma’s Hirschgulash that she makes when my brother takes a deer in the autumn, nom nom NOM!), and debating whether red clam chowder is better than white clam chowder, and whether or not split pea is disgusting, and what soup is best when you have your period (chicken noodle), and what chinese-food soup is the best: wonton or hot and sour?

        We decided that we needed to have some soup!  And no Campbell’s canned shit, either!  

         Google to the rescue!  We found the NYC Mecca of Soup: The Soup Spot.  Check it out!  They have like 70 soups, from which they serve a rotating variety of 18 daily!  And they deliver! 

          We called and spoke with some European dude who actually sounded like the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld




         We decided to have a soup tasting.  I myself ordered white clam chowder, lobster bisque, and chicken noodle (because I have my period, natch).  

         The Soup Nazis hooked us up: lightening-fast delivery, crackers and crusty French bread, and complementary fresh tasty apples !

        All the soups were superior, but the best of the lot was the lobster bisque.  It was flavorful and had chunks of lobster floating in it and it probably just added five pounds of lard to my fat ass.  Whatever. I could only finish a third of each, but…NOM NOM NOM!  Oh god, was it delicious.  

       The clam chowder was pretty good, too.  

       Now we’re sprawled out in back in happy soup comas.  I need to do my toenails, but I don’t want to move.  

        Here are photos.  They do not accurately convey the deliciousness of the food.  Sorry.  The lighting in the locker room sucks.

Clam chowder, lobster bisque, and chicken noodle

Girl with a Pearl Earring

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     I finally get to see one of my favorite paintings in person!  The Frick is exhibiting Girl with a Pearl Earring and fourteen other excellent paintings from the Royal Picture Gallery Mauritshuis in the Hague! YAAAAY!  I saw the poster for the exhibit this morning when I was walking through Chinatown to get to my optometrist (and don’t you love that fresh-new-contact-lens feeling?). 

      When I was in Amsterdam I went to the Rijksmuseum, and wouldn’t you know it, most of the museum was closed for renovations!  BOOO!  I still got to see a little of it, though.  Then I ate half a bag of hallucinogenic mushrooms and went to the van Gogh museum, which I do not recommend.  The museum was great, but it was way too crowded, which made my trip uncomfortable.  I ended up leaving early and going for a long walk around town.  Amsterdam was very beautiful and the people were very beautiful, and friendly, too!  Everyone looked like a Barbie or Ken doll, and they were very tall.  It was the first time in my life where I was not an unusually tall woman.  

       I learned a few Dutch phrases in order to be polite, but the language was very challenging.  

       I can’t wait to go to this exhibit!  I’ll take photos and post them on the blog.  

       The only thing that is sad is that I’ll have to go alone.  Usually I don’t mind going to museums alone–I get the audio tour headphones and let the experts educate me–but this exhibit is special and I wish that I had a boyfriend to go with me.  🙁  

 

Royal Picture Gallery Mauritshuis in The Hague
Royal Picture Gallery Mauritshuis in The Hague
Royal Picture Gallery Mauritshuis in The Hague

Margo Gets a Haircut

      When I was a young girl, my mother wanted to grow my hair long.  I was towheaded as a child and she wanted my hair to reach my lower back.  It was slow going because the hair in our family is fine and exceedingly soft, and even now I can’t grow it past my shoulderblades.

       She loved to play with my hair, putting it in braids and plaits, or curling it with a curling iron.  Sometimes she put it into small braids when it was still wet, and I slept in them overnight.  In the morning, she let out the braids, and my pin-straight hair was full of waves.  

         Hair is very symbolic to women.  It involves significant ritual. 

      One day, when I was 8 years old, my mother and father had a fight.  

       My father took me to the hair salon and had the hairdresser cut off all the hair my mother had so carefully cultivated.  My new haircut was pixie-short, like Audrey Hepburn’s.  I still remember the stylist wincing as she did it, and saying, “Well, she has good bone structure and a long neck; short hair will show it off….”. 

       I remember the pile of hair on the floor underneath the chair before they swept it up.  It was the color of buttered white corn. 

      My father took me home.  

       My mother came to pick me up later that afternoon.  I ran to her when I heard her car pull up outside.

        I’ll never forget the expression on my mother’s face when she saw me; that look of shock and pain.  But she did not cry, because my father was standing in the doorway, smiling at her, and my mother is a proud woman.  

        She waited until she drove us out of the parking lot and down the block, out of his sight, until she stopped the car and burst into tears.

      I’m sorry.  It’s almost Thanksgiving, and I’m feeling maudlin.  

Reader Mailbag: “I’m Obsessed with Sex Workers.”

“I must say I really identify with this man. I am also a creepy deranged loser and have an obsession with sex workers and can’t get enough of your blogs, twitter feeds and the like. I wonder why that is? I’ve had to fight the temptation to follow in his footsteps as I cannot afford to burn bridges and be blackballed by any of you. I want to act out my compulsions in a legitimate context, as in a paid encounter. But is that possible? How would you react if a client revealed that he hated/feared/envied/worshiped you and your kind?
I dream constantly about having some kind of final epic showdown where I finally come out of hiding and allow myself to appear before one of you and then attempt to destroy you emotionally, psychologically, morally and intellectually, only to the be destroyed myself. My defeat is guaranteed, no need for me to throw the fight and take a dive. Do you think I can satiate this need legitimately?”


     Oh wow.  

     Your comment kinda freaked me out, but then I looked you up and found that you were located on the other side of the world, so…

     The good news is that, in my opinion, it is totally normal to be fascinated with sex workers.  Heck, I’m fascinated with sex workers!

     I’m probably fascinated for different reasons than men are, though.  I could be wrong about this, but I think men are fascinated because sex work is a very potent fantasy of theirs: get paid to have unlimited sexual experiences with an endless variety of partners.  If straight men could do that, I think that many of them would…or at least, they would want to. 

      Another part of the fascination for straight men is that they are envious: there is a market for women’s sexuality, but practically no market for heterosexual male sexuality.  Almost all male sex workers service gay men.  Female sexuality is a commodity and, as such, is a source of power.  

     Dudes are also obsessed with sex.  You are.  Obsessed.  So I think that also accounts for part of the curiosity.  I think men also imagine sex work as being much more erotic or sexually gratifying for the woman than it actually is.  I am amazed at how many of my clients assume that I am as aroused as they are in a session, when I almost never get turned on at work–and I am, in fact, a very sexual woman, maybe even hypersexual.  When it’s good, I have a lot of fun at work, but I’m not aroused 95% of the time.  Dudes imagine it is just constant fun sexual stimulation for the woman.  Blows my mind.  I actually snapped at one guy who was being a little too insistent that I have an orgasm (self-administered): “Guy, I am a complicated emotional creature.  Did it ever occur to you that I might be unwilling or unable to achieve personal sexual gratification with a total stranger that I met 20 minutes ago?  Of course it didn’t.  You’re a dude.”  

     Sex workers are also outlaws.  It’s a huge industry, but it’s also underground.  It is natural to be curious about the subculture.  

     Men also want to control women’s sexuality as they have throughout history.  That is another aspect of your fascination.  The sex worker is engaging in sexuality, quasi-publicly, outside of a monogamous relationship with a man.  The sex worker is an unowned female. Patriarchy does not like this.  Which is really hypocritical, since if men weren’t buying, women couldn’t sell.  There is also a feminist line of thought that believes sex work is a huge symbol of male oppression and entitlement to sex and women’s bodies.  I can’t decide whether I endorse that line of thought or not…but they definitely have a point.  You’d think all men would love sex workers, prostitutes in particular, as it guarantees them sex whenever they like as long as they have a little money in their hand, but nooooooo.

     I admire sex workers, personally.  Of course any answer that I give about it will be self-serving, but whether they work out of choice or necessity, it takes a lot of courage to do sex work…any sort of sex work.  Society condemns it in the harshest possible terms and a lot of men–and women–hate sex workers.  Politicians try endlessly to control you.  Serial killers target you in order to punish you.  It just goes on and on. 

    I’ve had to fight the temptation to follow in his footsteps as I cannot afford to burn bridges and be blackballed by any of you.

      Please please please do not be a douchebag like my crazy internet stalker and plague some poor woman with constant unwanted attention.  Please.  I’ve been stalked a few times in my life, and even if it’s just over the internet, it still sucks.  

I want to act out my compulsions in a legitimate context, as in a paid encounter. But is that possible? How would you react if a client revealed that he hated/feared/envied/worshiped you and your kind?

     How would I react if a client revealed that to me…?  Well, I certainly wouldn’t be surprised.  I mean, he didn’t hire me by accident, right?  He found me because he deliberately sought me out.  He summoned me, I didn’t approach him.  That means that he’s given it a lot of thought.  He’s also spending a lot of money, and doing something that is socially forbidden and could endanger his private relationships and professional reputation.  Seeing me is a big risk.  A man would have to have very urgent needs to take that risk.  So, it’s safe to assume that most of my clients are already obsessed with sex workers and what we represent.  

    I think that what you need is a fetish worker, a femdomme, who is very eloquent and also a female supremacist.  A woman who finds the idea of a man dominating her or destroying her intellectually to be totally absurd.  Impossible, really.  If you were in New York, I’d recommend a few.  If you would like to be dominated online or via telephone, I’d recommend Princess Sierra at www.bitchybeauty.com.  I’ve been reading her blog off and on for a long time.  I could never do what she does because I have a totally different personality, but she is a beautiful, powerful woman…and she will destroy you if you let her.  She’ll do it for real, so be careful.  She’s also a lesbian and does not maintain friendships with men.  Go to her and tell her what you told me.  Be prepared to pay for it, though, because she doesn’t give any males any free attention.  

      If you want to do it in person, you’re going to have to find a suitable domme in your area.  Your fantasy sounds possible.  Just be sure that she knows what is going to happen going in, because otherwise, when you start getting aggressive with her, it’s going to be abusive on your part and that’s not cool.  

I dream constantly about having some kind of final epic showdown where I finally come out of hiding and allow myself to appear before one of you and then attempt to destroy you emotionally, psychologically, morally and intellectually, only to the be destroyed myself. My defeat is guaranteed, no need for me to throw the fight and take a dive. Do you think I can satiate this need legitimately?

       Oh boy.  I’m going to show this one to my therapist.  What a Freudian field day.  

      Don’t worry.  I think this sort of fantasy is totally normal.  I have a variation of it myself.  If anything, you’re the healthier person because you’re trying to act it out in a paid encounter with a professional, whereas I live it in relationships with sadistic scumbags.  Do it your way, not mine.

      I’m going to outsource this one.  Readers: what do you think of this guy?  Any advice on how he can get his fantasy done?  Any thoughts or critique on my analysis about why some men are fascinated by sex workers?  

      Thanks for reading.  Please don’t stalk.

I Zapped a Client with a Stun Gun (For Real)

Just when I think I’ve seen it all….

     I had a session early this morning…a new guy.

     “What does he want?  And at 10 AM?” I asked the manager.

      “His email said that he was interested in electricity…something about electricity.” 

       “Great!” I said, cheered significantly.  I enjoy electroplay very much.  I use my TENs unit on myself at home all the time, and at the Studio we have all of these nifty gadgets to use on our clientele.  One of the most intense sessions of my career involved using an electrical sound and catheter on a Ukrainian physician (a urologist, believe it or not…he had this fantasy of being experimented on by a mad female scientist).  

       I met the man in consultation to discuss what we were going to do.

      It wasn’t what I was expecting…but I suppose you could call it electroplay.  

      He wanted me to pretend to be a jogger in the park.  He was going to run up behind me and try to grab me.  Then…

      ….I was going to zap him with a stun gun.

        Zap him with a stun gun. 

       I don’t think that I’ve been so stunned in consultation since the guy who brought in the ants.  

       He took out the stun gun, which was the size of a small television remote control, and showed me how to use it.  It shot blue electricity in between the metal prongs on the top and it crackled and made the air smell like ozone. 

      “Uh…are you sure that’s safe?  What if you have a heart attack?”

       “Oh, that won’t happen.  I’m healthy and I’ve done this before!”

       I was curious about the circumstances–was this in session, or had he really been zapped by a jogger?–but suddenly decided that I didn’t want to know the answer.

      “Well, just to be safe, I’m going to zap you on your thigh and not your torso,” I said.  “Keep the electricity away from your heart.”

       “But that’s not how a real jogger would do it!”

      Oh my god, I thought. 

      “Would you please write a note absolving me of personal responsibility in the event of your injury?”

       “Sure, but it wouldn’t hold up in court.  I went to law school.”

      “Of course you did.”  

       (As an aside…in my experience, the three kinkiest professions are 1) physicians and dentists, by a mile; 2) Wall Street Finance Creatures; and 3) lawyers.  I also get a lot of professors, but I think that is because they recognize me as their own.  I’ve discussed this phenomenon with other dommes at the Studio.  We attract clientele similar to ourselves.  Birds of a feather, and all that).

     I went to the locker room and changed into yoga pants, a hoodie, and sneakers.  I put the stun gun in the pocket of my hoodie.  The hoodie bore the mascot of my undergrad alma mater.  Oh my god, if my professors could see me now…

     We went to the largest room and I started to jog laps.  

     This is so fucking weird, I thought.

       He ran up behind me but didn’t touch me right away.  He followed behind me for five or six laps.  I had my earbuds in (remember, this is theater), but no music on.

      Then he rushed up and grabbed my upper arm.

       “Get away from me!  Leave me alone!” I yelled, turning on him while fishing the stun gun out of my pocket.  

      I zapped him on his side, close to his hip.

     He screamed.  He screamed, dude.   That scared the hell out of me, so I screamed too.  We both screamed together.  

       He fell down and kicked his legs.  It was like a spasm.  It reminded me of the time I saw someone having a seizure. 

      He recovered quickly and we examined his t-shirt.  The stun gun left holes in his t-shirt.  The air smelled briefly like burning hair…like when singe your hair with a blowdryer…but the gun didn’t leave significant marks…just two tiny red dots.

       Start to finish, the session was over with in 20 minutes.  I offered to do another round (I was going to try to get some of my friends to come in and see it), but he couldn’t take any more.  

      He tipped me $40.  All’s well that ends well.