THE SON KNOWS

I guess it was bound to happen eventually, but that doesn’t make it any easier:

The Elder One confronted me about my BDSM relationship with Dad, the Collector.

The Collector and I have been going through a rough patch. I left early and came back to my apartment to work in San Francisco. My regulars all wanted to see me again.

The Collector threw a fit and threatened to buy the house I live in.

“Please don’t make me buy real estate in that town, of all places,” he said on the phone.

“Why the hell would you buy this house? To evict me from my apartment?”  I couldn’t believe it!

“So that I have a legal right to be there.”

I hung up on him.

Well, sure enough, the guy flew across the country and dropped by my apartment unannounced.

And get this: he let himself in. Unbeknownst to me, he’d taken my keys out of my purse and made copies of all of them (except the car key. What would he do with a 20-year-old Toyota Camry?).

Here I am, sitting at the computer in underpants and a camisole, watching Game of Thrones re-runs, and a guy lets himself in without knocking and runs up the stairs.

The last time a man let himself into my home was the Surgeon, paying his final house call, and we all know how that worked out.

I freaked out.  I had to freak out!  What would you do, if you were a woman?  Besides being hostage in a Bosnian rape camp or living in Afghanistan, I think home invasion is every woman’s worst nightmare. A guy breaks into your house, and the best thing that’s going to happen to you is being raped.

Well, I freaked out and pulled my gun on him.  Yeah, I’m not proud of it, but can you blame me?  Legally, I could have killed him and gotten away with it. He’s not on the lease! I have every right to kill a home invader!

Abe was chirping and playing with his bell toys on top of the cage and he froze. Birds are sensitive. They feel the emotion in the room. When the Surgeon made his house call, all the birds froze and huddled together, and they didn’t play or vocalize for days afterward.

In the end, I couldn’t do it.  I like to think I’m tough, but I just couldn’t do it.

“Is this it? Are you going to take my life, Margo?”  I had a gun pointed at his head.  It’s only a .32, but it would do the job.  He averted his face, but otherwise he was completely unruffled.

I’m not going to lie: it was completely surreal. I carry a knife and I have a concealed carry permit.  In sessions at work, I have a sun gun that looks exactly like a cell phone.  I’ve never pulled a weapon on anyone in my life, though there’s a handful of bad apple “clients” who would have deserved it.  I’m a prodomme, but I’m not really a violent person.

I lowered the gun and went to lay it down on the coffee table.

“Do I need to unload this? Are you going to take it away from me and shoot me?”

“Of course not. I love you.  I just want to talk,” he said.

Yeah, I just want to talk is exactly what the Surgeon said when he banged my door down. If you just want to talk, you don’t have to say it.

“How did you get in here? I locked the door.”

“I made copies of your keys.”  He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I started crying.  I am not a crier–I cry maybe 10X/year–but this was just too much stress.

He picked me up and carried me to the bedroom.

“I don’t want to have sex,” I said.  Believe me, I was not in a sexy mood.

“Let’s just lie down.”

I am pleased to report that I did not have sex with him after that egregious boundaries violation. He went to a hotel that night. But, yes, we talked.

A few days later, the Elder One gives me a ring on Skype.

“I hear you pulled a gun on Father! I would have paid money to see that! You should have shot the bastard! Shoot him next time!  I’ll take care of you out of my inheritance!”  He was overjoyed.

“I’m not going to kill your dad,” I said.

“Dump his selfish, abusive ass!  What a loser!”

“Your father is not a loser by any objective standard. He wins at everything he does.”

“Well, he lost my mother, he lost his last wife, he’s losing you, and he’s going to lose me once I finish Law School. That is a loser to me.”

Readers, this is where the shit hit the fan:

This boy actually said, “I know that he hits you, and I don’t like it.  I see the bruises because he makes you wear skimpy clothes.”

I just sat there.  I was completely pole-axed.

What I eventually spit out was, “You don’t need to worry about that. Everything that happens between your father and me is consensual.”

“I am not a coward who hits women! How can it be consensual? How can you consent to being abused?”

What am I going to do, readers? I don’t want to give this kid a “birds and the bees” lecture about sadomasochism. My sex life is none of his business and I don’t want to gross him out! At the same time, how can I set his mind at rest?

He went on.  I really wanted to hang up the Skype and claim the internet went down, but that would be disrespectful. The young man had something to say. Maybe it’s my professional educator, but if they’re speaking from the heart, young people deserve a voice, and the Collector says constantly that we are a family. I can never be his Mom, but I can be his friend.

“I hate talking about this. It is awkward. I have heard people having sex. A lot of sex happens at (my boarding school). The noises that I hear coming from his bedroom do not sound like sex.”

What can I say? He’s not WRONG. If I wasn’t into BDSM, I’d think there was something abusive going on, too.  It still made me feel like a freak, and I was humiliated that I’d made that much noise. The boys stay in bedrooms in a separate hallway, and when they visit I try to keep the vocalizations to squeaks.

“Your father and I are sexually compatible. I’m not abused. You don’t have to worry about that,” is all I could think of to say.

“Everyone is bribed or abused.  Call me any time.  I have classes, but I will call you back.”

“Well, thank you. You know I am happy to proofread any of your papers.”  It was an idiotic statement, given that he has the best education money can buy and he’s completely fluent in English, but I wanted to offer something.