Sleazy Covert Nazi Fetishist Lied to Me!

       I just had a session with a Nazi fetishist, and now I feel gross.

       Of course, he didn’t say that he was a Nazi fetishist.  He said that he was a military fetishist, which immediately got my wind up, because at least half the time the guys who want a “military fetish session” eventually spring the Nazi bullshit on me halfway through, which is exactly what happened this afternoon.

       They lie about what they want because they’re embarrassed and they know that it’s a politically loaded fetish to have.  I understand why they’re embarrassed.  Maybe they should be embarrassed about it.  Readers of this blog will know that I’m just about the most non-judgmental person, when it comes to kink, that you can find. I don’t enjoy shaming people.  Really, I don’t.  But there are a few fetishes that I do, in fact, find personally offensive, and Nazi roleplay is one of them, and that is why I don’t do it.

        These “military fetish” guys come in, and of course they all gravitate towards me because I’m tall and look like Heidi the Milkmaid, and I look at them slant-eyed from the get-go because I know where this is probably going to go.  

         “Military, huh?  What kind of military are we talking about here?”

           Because nobody ever wants to be dominated by a member of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade or some fucking member of the UN Peacekeeping Force.  Like, if you want an asshole military commando, can I at least be, I dunno, US Military in Granada?  I could fake that without hating myself.  But noooooooo, a small percentage want me to pretend to be some sort of Fascist, and the majority of them the #1 genocidal retards of the 20th Century.

       (If memory serves, the first time I ever reprimanded a client in consultation was when he pulled out a Swastika armband and asked me if I’d wear it.  I just stared at him and then said:

        “I’m not going to wear that shit on my arm.”)

         I know you can make the argument that it’s just pretend (thank God), and I’ve pretended to be Stasi before (once) and they were not exactly champions of democracy and human rights, so what’s the big deal?  But I just can’t do it, dude.  It makes my skin crawl. 

       “Let’s be clear.  This isn’t going to have anything to do with concentration campus or She-Wolf Ilse, is it?” I ask.

         No, no, the “military fetishist” says, and then, halfway through the session, I get a bait-and-switch and this vile talk starts coming out of his mouth and I start feeling sick to my stomach.  You know what it makes me feel like?  It makes me feel like a disgrace and I hate feeling like I’m prostituting the most shameful part of my cultural heritage in this stupid dungeon for, what, $90?  Yeah, keeping it classy, Mistress Margo.

        And then I also think–which NEVER happens at my secret job, NEVER–what if my family saw me doing this?  

        (I know that it sounds like I’m talking about me me me and alllll myyyyy feeeeeeelz about why I find this offensive, but FWIW, believe me, I’m getting lots of flashbacks to black-and-white photographs of corpse piles at the same time.  I started studying the history at age 12.  My father made me.)

         And it’s all the stupid client’s fault, because he lied to get me to do it. This blog post is horribly disorganized and probably not worthy of publication, but I’m going to post it because THAT IS THE MORAL OF THE STORY, CLIENTS: DON’T LIE ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT.

Selected

    She was a good student, but vulnerable, and that was the most important thing.  That was why the teacher picked her.

    Separating her from her classmates was not particularly difficult, because she’d already done that of her own accord: she did not have many close friendships, or any close friendships, as far as he could tell (and you better believe that he looked very carefully).  She spent a lot of her free time reading or drawing in a notebook with colored pencils.  Her concentration was fine during class and he seldom caught her attention wandering–she had a lot of discipline for a girl her age, actually–but in Church, she seemed to daydream a lot.  People would call her name and she wouldn’t hear them right away.

      So, it was very easy for the teacher to become her friend. Especially since he actually enjoyed her: he told himself that they had a lot in common and that he reminded him of his younger self, which might or might not have been true.  It was easy to talk with her about what she was reading in the library, or when the students sat in the Churchyard garden during lunchtime.  And it was especially easy to talk to her because it never would have occurred to her to rebuff the conversation of a teacher: if an adult authority figure wanted to talk with her, she talked, and that was all there was to it.  He’d met both of her parents–had sat down for coffee with them, even.  The mother was stern, concerned primarily with her daughter’s grades, and worked 60 hours a week.  The father was borderline rude and, curiously, jealous of any other adult’s affect on his daughter’s intellectual development. The important thing was that the daughter seemed afraid of him, which was optimal, as far as the teacher was concerned. 

      So, the teacher started talking to her outside of class.  It started with books, goings-on about town, and things that were happening on the news, but in time, as the weeks passed, the conversation shifted to other things. He talked to her as nobody had ever talked to her before: he asked her the right questions, the questions someone would ask if they really cared.  He would listen to her answers carefully, and look for insights to her character and personality.  He treated her with more respect than she had ever known.  He would bring special foods to give to her at lunch, none of which she had ever eaten before.

     In no time at all, the teacher had become very special to her.  In fact, one could say that he became one of the most important parts of her daily life. She cared about him and wanted to impress him.  She did, in fact, flourish under all of the attention, which was, after all, not dissimilar to real love.  It is probable that the teacher told himself this often as a justification for the actualization of his true desires, which were rather less altruistic. 

      Perhaps other people noticed how much time the two of them were spending together outside of class, but nobody ever said anything about it…except for one older boy, who’d displayed a romantic interest in her the previous year (and been rejected).  He cornered her after gym class one day and asked:

       “Hey.  What’s going on with you and Mr. Teacher?”

       “What do you mean?” she asked, honestly confused.

       “There’s nothing going on with you and Mr. Teacher?”

       “I don’t understand what you mean,” she said.

       She thought about it later that night and decided that the boy was just jealous because the teacher liked her more.

       Then the day came when the teacher asked her to stay after class.  She was confused, because he seemed tense, and she hadn’t done anything wrong that she could think of.

         He told her to go stand in the corner, and when she did, he pressed up behind her and put his hand underneath her skirt.  She could feel his erection through his pants.  She’d never seen an adult man’s penis before, but she knew what an erection was.

       She was terrified and bolted for the door.  She shouted after her, but didn’t chase her.

       She went home and didn’t tell anybody what happened.

       And just like that, everything changed.

      From then on, he ignored her completely.  All of the affection and attention he’d lavished on her previously was totally revoked. He did not make eye contact with her, he did not call on her in class, and her essays and homework assignments were returned to her with the minimum amount of grading possible. 

      She was, of course, devastated, and very confused.  She wanted him to not be angry with her anymore.  One time, she tried to return a book to him and talk about it, like they used to do, and all he said was, “I don’t have time for you right now.”  

     She thought about what happened all the time. She kept wondering if she had misinterpreted something, or if what happened hadn’t actually happened as she remembered.  And, naturally, she came to wonder if it was her fault. 

       One day, she went to his office when the others were in Church.  She heard him typing on his word processor.  He looked up when she came into the room.

       “Yes?  What do you want?”

      “I want it to be like it was before!  I’m sorry!” she said, wondering if she was going to cry.

      He leaned back in his chair and put one of his ankles up on his knee, and asked the question that sealed her fate:

     “Well, what are you going to do to make this up to me?”

My Birth

   It’s almost my birthday.

     I was born prematurely.  Very prematurely.  My heart was not fully formed and I could not breath properly.  I was purple and wrinkled, only slightly larger than a can of Coke.  The doctors said that I probably had brain damage.  My heart stopped and I had to be put on a ventilator.  A priest came to baptize me and give me last rights. When it was time to insert an IV, the nurse couldn’t find a large, viable vein in which to place the needle, so it went into my scalp.  I still have the scar. 

      My heart required surgery, but at that time there were no physicians in town qualified to perform it.  I needed to see a specialist trained to operate on babies.  There was a highly esteemed public university with a medical school and affiliated hospital a hundred miles away.  I was sent there.

       I went in an ambulance, with my mother and father following behind.  It was a bad winter that year and there was still snow on the roads going over the mountains.  My mother said that it took forever to get there, and they were driving at night.  She’d just had a C-section, so I can only imagine the physical pain she was in, to say nothing of the psychological stress.  

      We arrived at the University hospital and the special pediatric surgeon and team went to work.

      He had to go in through my back.  I was too small and fragile to open up my chest. 

      This is what I picture: four or five adults in hospital scrubs, with face masks on, bent over a tiny, naked purple infant laying on its stomach, the legs and arms bent like frog’s legs, with an IV needle in its scalp, under the harsh, bright lights of the operating room. 

      I was an animal. Couldn’t talk. No identity.  No personality.  Not even viable.  Less than a monkey, really. 

      The doctor cut open my back and reached down to my heart.  How big was it…?  The size of a grape..?  A walnut…?

       He fixed the valves, and sewed me back up.

       I stayed in the hospital for a long time.  I was on a ventilator, then an incubator.  Eventually, though, I was strong enough to go home.

        They told my mother that I might be retarded, but my intellect turned out just fine.  I was very quiet, though, and it took me a long time to speak.  I think it’s because I was in the incubator for so long, and didn’t get much human touch, but that is just my armchair speculation. 

       The medical bills cost over $100,000.  My mother had just started a new job, and the health insurance didn’t kick in for another three weeks.  Yes, she missed it by three weeks.  If I’d been born on time, everything would have been fine…but she was uninsured when she went into labor.  

        She paid the medical bills every month for twenty years.  I was in college by the time she paid it off. 

        When I was 26, I looked up the name of the surgeon who operated on my heart.  I wanted to send him a thank-you card.  I wanted to tell him that he saved my life, and now I am a healthy young woman.  I wanted to send him a picture of the scar on my back from where he went inside. 

      I would have liked to send a thank-you card to all of them–the people in the ambulance who drove me over the mountains, the nurses in the OR…even the priest who baptized me, and you know how I feel about clergy.   But I couldn’t find them.

       I’m not a fan of mankind.  In many ways, I have divorced myself from humanity–that’s the alcoholism.  But when I consider the truly heroic effort that went into saving my life, I feel humbled.

       That’s all.  There’s nothing else.

Would You Take a Used Liberator?

    This has nothing to do with Easter Sunday, but it was so weird that I had to give it a quick blog post…

     Not one hour ago, I was walking to the drug store on the corner when I saw a Liberator sitting on top of an overflowing trash can.

      If you’re not in the know, a Liberator is sex furniture manufactured for yuppies.  You can read all about it if you can endure reading their cheesy website, but essentially, it is a wedge-shaped piece of foam ostensibly used for comfort and support during sex.  I don’t have one myself–the humble pillow has always worked for me–but I know what they are because Rolling Stone magazine has run Liberator ads for years.

      So there it was, in a New York City trashcan: someone’s used Liberator.  It was definitely used.  Looked a little ratty.  Well, I hope it brought someone(s) lots of happiness.

“Bedroom Adventure Gear,” puh-LEEZE!  AMATEURS

       I almost took a photo of it with my cell phone, because I thought it was funny.  I really wish I would have.


       I walked on, did my shopping, and then made for home.  On the way, I decided that I’d take a picture of the trashed Liberator after all.  I thought it would make an amusing Tweet.

       But guess what…?  GUESS WHAT HAPPENED?

        WHILE I WAS IN  THE STORE, SOMEBODY TOOK THAT USED, RATTY LIBERATOR!  It wasn’t in the trash can anymore!

       Now, I’m no germophobe–I’m really not–but that is just GROSS.  I wouldn’t use it even if I had it professionally cleaned!  

       I am praying, praying, that the person who took that Liberator was its original owner, who decided that he just couldn’t bear to part with it.  

       The alternative is too gruesome to think about. 

       I don’t care about celebrities, aside, perhaps, from my boyfriend Liam Neeson, but this cracked me up, so I’m posting it.  I can’t decide whether Twitter is great, or the biggest waste of time ever.  I definitely think it’s fun, though. 

      

         Now I am going to run to the Frick.  Fortinbras is sending me on another art scavenger hunt.  I am hoping to go out to dinner with Heinrich when he gets off work.  I haven’t seen him in a while and I’d like to catch up, and it would be kinda sad to spend Easter Sunday alone and watching House.  

        (Actually, I wouldn’t watch House.  Errol Morris just made a documentary about Donald Rumsfeld, and you can stream in on Amazon.  Morris’s film on Robert McNamara, The Fog of War, is one of my favorite movies.  I watch it once a year.  

      

      I have two more weeks of rehab, and then I’m going to visit my mother if I can afford plane tickets.  

When the Wife Came Home Early

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      A client’s wife walked in on us in the middle of an outcall session.

      Maybe it’ll be funny in a little while after the shock wears off (in, say, five years), but I’m not laughing right now.

       I had the guy tied to his bed and I’d just attached two long zippers of clothespins to his chest, when I heard the very distinctive sound of a deadbolt pulling back from a lock.  I froze and my ears perked up.

       Then there was the sound of the door opening–and crashing against the end of the security chain.

       My client had the good sense to chain the door. 

       Then, a woman’s voice: “Daaaaan!  COME TAKE THE CHAIN OFF THE DOOR!  WHY’D YOU CHAIN THE DOOR?  I had to come back to get more documents for our accountant!  He needs hard copies!”

         I almost had a heart attack.

        “Oh my god,” my client, “Dan,” whispered (for the record, I have never seen anyone lose an erection so quickly).

       I looked down at him.  “What do I do?  What do I do?”

       “DAN!  I’M LOCKED OUT!  YOU NEED TO COME TAKE THE CHAIN OFF THE DOOR!”

        I scrambled to free him from the restraints.  Thank god it was just leather cuffs and not any elaborate rope bondage, but it was bad enough because my panic made me clumsy.  I got one of his hands free and he reached down and started working on the cuffs around his ankles.  

       I ran to my street clothes and put my t-shirt on over my metal bra.  Then I changed my mind and decided it was more important to get all of my expensive toys and domme gear packed in case I had to run out–without my tools, I can’t work.

        “DAAAAN!  HE’S WAITING BUT HE HAS ANOTHER APPOINTMENT AT THE END OF THE HOUR!”  Then she starts banging impatiently on the door.  

        Dan freed himself and got off the bed and then started to untie the cuffs themselves from the bedframe.  He shouted at her that he was coming!  He was in the bathroom!

        (Maybe the wisest thing to do would have been to keep quiet and wait for her to go away…but she knew he was there.  How could anyone get the chain on the door from the outside?)

        “Where do I hide?  Where do I hide?” I hissed.  

        Then I looked at him and realized we had…an additional problem on our hands.

         The zippers were still attached.

          If you don’t know what a zipper is, I’ll explain: it’s a row of clothespins affixed to the skin.  A piece of string runs through the clothespins.  Pulling the string allows me to pull off all the clothespins at once.  Fun times, right?  Here’s a picture:


       We had to get the zippers off of Dan.

       But wait…there’s more.

       Because the zippers were so long, and our session was only supposed to last an hour (HA!), I’d gotten a little rushed as I’d attached the zipper and put the string underneath the pinchy-part at the end…instead of through the wire spring.

      Meaning that when I pulled off the zipper, the clothespins were going to explode and go flying all over the room.

       “Fuck!  Fuck!” I moaned, and just started pulling them off his body with my hands.

       “That’s going to take too long!  Just pull them off with the string!” begged Dan, whose penis was now the size of a walnut.

       “The clothepins will fly everywhere!”

        “Just do it! I have to get out there!”

        “DAN!” screams the wife.

        “Don’t make noise,” I said, and pulled.

        I have to give Dan credit: He took it like a champ.  Didn’t make a peep.  

        Some of the clothespins did, indeed, go flying.  Instead of picking them up, I just thought fuck it, and started kicking them underneath the bed, where they’d be out of sight.

       Dan rushed to the bathroom and came out in a bathrobe.

      “Where do I hide?  Where do I hide?  Is there a back door in this place?”  I was hopping around like a little kid that needed to go pee.

      “The service door is through the kitchen and the broken treadmill’s in front of it right now!  Hide in the closet!”  Then he ran for the door.

       I opened the closet and it was full.  There were shoes and stuff all over the floor.  I crawled in and tried to get the door shut behind me, but it wouldn’t close.  I abandoned that and dove for the bed.

       Then I remembered by huge black gear bag.  With all my expensive shit in it.

        I threw the gear bag in the closet and then crawled underneath the bed.

       With the clothespins.  Which were now digging into my hands, legs, and belly, as I crawled in like a snake.

       Just a day in the life.  Did I mention that I was only getting $250 for this terrifying experience?

       I heard Dan at the door and heard him take off the security chain.  He was saying that he had been in the bathroom.

       I heard her come in.  She was wearing heels and the apartment has wood floors, so I heard where she was going, and it was to the office, not towards the bedroom.  She was in a hurry and distracted by the documents, so that was good.

      The two of them were in that part of the house for a few minutes, and then I heard them move again.  I thought she was leaving.  I thought I was safe.

      Then I heard her change directions…

      …and, my friends, she walked right into the bedroom.  I could only see her from the shins down, but I saw her, all right.  She was wearing beige hose and low-heeled black leather pumps.  

        I thought I was going to die.

        She started walking straight for the closet.  MY GEAR BAG!

       Then she froze and faced the bed.

       Oh my god oh my god is one of my shoes sticking out?  Does she see me?  Am I all the way underneath?

       “Dan, what’s this?” she asked.  Her voice was cold and deliberate.

          I thought she was referring to me.  I almost gave up the game by crawling out right then and there.  Come out with your hands where I can see them, as they say in the police movies.

        But she wasn’t looking at me.

        Whatever it was, Dan was speechless.

       “Dan you know I hate this shit, I can’t believe you brought it into the house!  What did you think, that I’d changed my mind?  How many more fights are we going to have over this?  How could you do this to me?  Don’t you have any respect?”

         She sounded angry.  And hurt.

         Then she ran over to the bed (her pumps were less than a foot in front of my face) and I suddenly saw my black flogger fall on the floor.  Because she’d picked it up off the bed and thrown it.

          “Ann, I’m sorry,” squeaked Dan.  I’m sure he really was, too.  He sounded miserable. 

          Then she ran out of the room.  He followed.  I heard her screaming at him for a minute in the front room.  From what I could gather, she thought that he’d purchased the flogger for her to use on him, and she was upset because she didn’t like to do kinky stuff and they’d argued about it in the past.

        Now, that’s bad, sure, and I’m sure that Dan’s still in the doghouse, but I can’t help but feel that both Dan and I dodged a bullet here.  Giving your wife an unwanted sex toy is bad, of course, but it certainly beats having your wife find a dominatrix under the bed. 

        She stormed out.  I heard the door slam.

       Dan came back to the bedroom.  When I saw it was just his feet, I started to crawl out, which startled him.  He hadn’t know that I was under there.

       “I had no idea where you were hiding.  I was terrified one of us would see you at any moment.”

        “Unbelievable!  Un-fucking-believable!  At least you put the chain on the door!”

         “I’m really sorry,” he said, and sat down on the bed.  For a crazy moment, I wondered if he was going to ask me how much time we had left in the session.

        “Are you okay?” I asked him.

        “I’m in big trouble.”

        “Yeah, but it could have been worse.  She didn’t see me.”

        “I think you should go,” he said.

        I packed my flogger, got my bag, and left.  I was terrified that i was going to see the wife in the elevator or the lobby–I’ll never get the image of those shoes out of my mind–but I didn’t.

        Dan was a regular I’ve had for at least six months now…but I doubt I’ll be getting any more business from him in the future.  He wrote me a short apology email.  I doubt that he’ll be able to stay away from the prodommes forever–he has needs that must be met–but I think he’s off sessioning for the time being.

        Don’t forget to chain your doors when you get up to fun with your local sex worker, readers!  The life you save could be your own.

Fortinbras Returns

     My favorite client, Fortinbras, is coming back to town, and he wants to book me for an overnight.  I have never done an overnight session before.  I’ve had three serious inquiries, but the clients were such that I just could not bear to be around them for that length of time, even if they were submissive and one of them wanted to sleep all tied up in a sleeping bag underneath my bed.

 (I crashed at Mr. Wolf’s once because it was late and we were both exhausted and, frankly, I was lonely and so was he and he offered and I just felt like doing it.  I like Mr. Wolf, even if he did say something offensive on or last Dinner-and-Kinkfest date: “Usually, I don’t want to spend time with sex workers outside of the session, but I really enjoy spending time with you and talking with you and going places with you.  You’re special.  Most girls on (internet sex worker advertising board) are not like you.”  Well, Mr. Wolf, I know you meant that as a compliment, but fuck you very much for insulting other sex workers and by the way, I hate it when men ‘compliment’ me by comparing me favorably to other women.  It’s offensive!  But whatevs.)

      My relationship with Fortinbras has gone well.  After the confusion and mini-freakout last summer, I have done a good job of maintaining my emotional boundaries with him.  I remain attracted to him and I enjoy him very much, and I can tell that this makes him feel good.  He puts effort into keeping in touch with me as he travels, which is most of the time.  His emails are flirtatious, but he also tries to impress me or show off his intellect a bit (not difficult, given that his IQ is in the stratosphere).  He also seems to enjoy cultivating my taste and introducing me to artistical things.  He takes me out in public with him whenever he’s in town. 

      This is not normal client behavior. 

     Fortinbras is getting some of his emotional needs met by me. Not many–he has a very busy career, a family he adores, tons of shit to do.  But, I make him feel good.  Among other things, he intuits that I would be there for free, had we met in the outside world and not on a sex-worker bullition board.  I think he finds this exciting and flattering. 

      I think that he is going to ask me to be his mistress.  I could be wrong, but I’ve been through this before, and all the signs are there.

      He has a good head on his shoulders–he’s not going to fall in love with me, he’s not going to do anything to jeopardize his career or his family.  He’s not going to get jealous of me, or territorial.  I think that all he wants is complete and consistent sexual access, and he wants to be given priority over the other men (clients) in my life.  He wants me to be available to him when he wants to see me.

       These are the issues: 

       —  There are worse things in life than being the professional girlfriend of a super rich guy I’m sexually attracted to.  But, I’ve done this before, and I know that while it can be fun, it is not exactly fulfilling. I am still working, and still there for him.  It is not a mutual partnership.  

      — I slept much better at night knowing that I enjoyed the protection of a powerful man.  The Surgeon did not regularly give me money or support me once our relationship became personal, but he did save my ass on more than one occasion, and it was a huge comfort to me just to know that at least the money was there if I ever hit a crisis. 

      –Fortinbras does not know that I work in a commercial dungeon.  He is an open-minded dude with a non-judgmental attitude towards sex, but I get the feeling that there is no fucking way he would tolerate that.  In fact, if he knew that I was working at the Studio, it might be an automatic deal-breaker.

         On the other hand, I really need an excuse to quit.
      
       — If I do this, I need to decide exactly what it is that I want to get out of this arrangement.  The energy that I spend on him is energy that will not be spent finding a real relationship, and I’m not getting any younger.  I deserve to be compensated.  Gifts are nice, but my landlord doesn’t take Kiki de Montparnasse.

       The last year was pretty awful for me.  It would be nice to start having some fun again.  Fortinbras is fun.

       But then, to quote one of my AA friends: “You need to stop having fun, and start being happy.”

      If anyone has thoughts or advice please comment or email me privately: piecesofmargo@gmail.com.

      P.S.  Thank God he’s been out of town for a few months–I’ve managed to lose most of the weight I gained when I relapsed and I look much better.  Whew. 

The Fourth Owlet

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  I dreamed that I went to visit him in his home in the countryside.  While I was there, he asked me if I would like to see the owls in his barn.  They recently had owlets, and we could get right up close to them because the parents would be out hunting. 

    Naturally I was delighted at the prospect of seeing the owls, so I followed him to the barn.  The barn was identical to the ranchers’ barns found in the rural areas of my homeland: it was very tall, and had a loft space at the top.

     He told me that the owlets were nested there, in the loft space, which was accessible only by ladder.  We had to climb the ladder one at a time.  He went first and waited at the top, stabilizing the ladder with his hands.  I am afraid to climb ladders, but I scaled it.

      The loft was sunny, with a low peaked roof, and it had a little glassless window that looked out onto grassy fields.  The barn looked like it came from my homeland, but the view out the window did not look familiar at all.  It looked like this painting by van Gogh (I always make a point to see this whenever I visit the Met):

      The loft was surprisingly clean and tidy for a barn.  He said that the barn was where he kept his secret things.

      Then I saw the owlets!  There were three of them, hopping around the floor, as bold as you please.  They were so cute!  The owlets were not afraid of him at all.  They ran to him.

      We observed the owls and played with them for a while, and then it was time to go back to the house.  

        He went down the ladder first.  I watched him descend, clutching the ladder in my hands.

        When his shoes reached the floor, he pulled the ladder away and leaned it against the far corner of the barn!  I asked him what he was doing, and he explained, calmly, that it was his intention to keep me in the loft indefinitely.

      Then he walked out.

      I was panicking, but there was nothing I could do.  I could not get down without the ladder. The loft was at least two stories off the floor of the bare floor of the barn.  It was too high to risk a jump.  Like an owlet, I could not fly.

        I began to explore the loft, seeing it with fresh eyes.  It had obviously been prepared in advance.  There was a wrought-iron bedframe bolted to the floor, a mattress, and o-ring anchor points drilled into the beams on the ceiling. 

         There was a picnic basket with food and water.  

         (Eventually, there would be books and writing materials, but I had to earn those.)

           It was just the owlets and me.  In time, I became the fourth owlet.  

        He would come to visit me and fuck me almost every day, which was nice. 

         As he went around town on his business, his friends and neighbors would often ask about how he had passed the time that day.  Smiling, he would tell them that he spent the morning observing his barn owl.

      He smiled because it was a private joke.  Nobody had any idea that his barn owl was actually a girl. 

Crybaby Learns to Swim

     The funniest thing ever just happened!



      I heard a scurring, rustling noise.  At first, I thought it was my birds, playing and hopping around in their newspaper shreddings, as they are wont to do in the morning…



      …but as I listened more carefully, I realized that it was coming from my room!



       Had to be a mouse.  Had to be.  These little fuckers, I just can’t seem to get rid of them.  They go away and then they come back.  For the life of me, I cannot find where they are coming in.  I’ve put steel wool in ever baseboard crack and mousehole that I see!



      Anyway, I got up and tried to roust the little bastard.  I pulled the bed out from the wall to scare him out.



      The tiny little mouse exploded out from underneath my bed.  It was flying.  If I was a Martian and had never seen a mouse before, I would have thought it was gifted with flight somehow.  It was off the ground and moving so fast that it was a blur.



      It flew right into the radiator…which was on full blast, because it is still fucking freezing here in New York.



       It started screaming its little head off. 



       I started to laugh.  So hard.  You might think I’m an awful person, to laugh at the suffering of an animal, but really, this had to be seen to be believed.  It was like something out of a cartoon.  



      After a few seconds, the mouse darted away from beneath the radiator.  I was still hooting, so I didn’t chance it.  It went underneath my bedroom door and escaped.  It was ambulatory, and its fur was not smoking, so I guess it is okay.  He lives to fight another day.



      Also, I have decided that this seal is my new totem animal.  Remember when you were a kid and trying to get the courage to jump from a high height into the river…?



      Jump!  Jump!