NIGHTMARE

I dreamed that I was swimming in the ocean.  In real life, I don’t like to swim in the ocean unless it’s crystal-clear, like the Caribbean or the Florida Keys.  I’m neurotically afraid of sharks (which I know are crucially important for the ecosystem and almost never hurt anyone) and I don’t like it when something brushes my leg.  I’m also worried that I am going to cut my foot on a sharp rock or some sort of debris.

I dreamed I was swimming in the ocean and felt something brush against my lower leg.

I am a very strong swimmer, but I am not a good diver.  I think I can do about 12 feet..?

I dove down to see what touched me.

There were bodies of women, suspended in the water.  They all looked like me.  There was grass coming out of the sand and women’s bodies above it.

In the murky distance was a monster.  I couldn’t see him, but he had a yellow eye.  I saw that.  He was saving the bodies to eat for later.

I came to the surface and tried hard to swim to shore, but I couldn’t get any closer.  I kept swimming and swimming.  I was scared the monster was coming for me.

Punching the Collector in His Eye (Part III)

When he finished his work, he considerately asked if I wanted to put on a little makeup, because he knows that I don’t like to leave the house with at least some mascara and cover-up for any skin imperfections.  Without it I feel ugly and exposed.  Contrary to what most men seem to think, makeup is a mask.

“What about the puzzle?” I asked.  It is challenging, but I’d figured out one of the borders.  I’d hate to dump it back into the box.

“Leave it there.  You can work on it tomorrow,” he said.

I went to my bathroom to put on the 5-minute version of my face and asked him what I ought to change into, clothes-wise.

“You look perfect as you are.”

“Collector, it’s cold outside, and anyway I can’t wear this–” I gestured at my blue cotton gingham dress with a bow, reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland–“out in public.”

He went to the coat closet and took out his long quilted parka.  Everyone in the Tri-State area has a puffy coat for the hard winter weather.  It’s basically a sleeping bag with arms.

“Put on socks and your boots and wear this.  Nobody will see.”

So I bundled up and put my boots on.  While I was doing it, I noticed that my arrows were gone from underneath my bed, where I store them.  My bow was there, but the arrows were gone.

I didn’t say anything about that.

We took the elevator down and walked through the lobby and out onto the street.  The parka kept me warm, though I’d get a cold draft from underneath up my bare legs.  I still felt exposed, like everyone had Superman’s x-ray vision.

We got a cab and went to the zoo in Central Park, specifically the Tisch Children’s Zoo, which is a petting zoo full of nubian goats and sheep.  It even has an alpaca!

Who wouldn’t want to pet cute goats…?  You can touch their horns and weird feet!  I love goats!  I wish I could have goats!

He knew it would make me happy.  He knows how much I love animals.

He gave me quarters to buy food from the dispensers to feed the animals.  I didn’t have my purse, so I didn’t have any money.  In fact, he told me “don’t worry about your handbag” because he would “take care of everything” before we left the house.

He took a bunch of photos of me with his cell phone.

There were all of these little children running around the petting zoo and it made me happy, but it also hurt my heart.   Because I don’t get that, and the older I get, the more unlikely it is that it will ever happen.  How is it possible to be happy and sad at the same time?

Then we walked to The Strand bookstore, and he told me that I could pick out whatever I wanted.

He’s an avid bookworm (we all love the Kindle, but let’s be frank: nothing compares to a physical book), but he didn’t leave me alone so that he could browse by himself.  He was with me the entire time.  What did he think I would do…?  Run for it?

I feel so much pressure whenever he asks me to pick something for myself because he has such a demanding sense of aesthetics. I feel like I’m being judged on my taste.

I picked out a charming Berlitz “German for Travelers” phrase book from 1954 (when “Mein Herr” was still the default polite way to address a strange man) and a Tim O’Brien fiction book, In The Lake Of The Woods.  O’Brien can turn a phrase.  I also picked a hardbound book about pirates.

Then the Collector took me to the children’s section and said, “Pick out a book for your future daughter.”

And what, o what, am I to make of that…?

Before we went home, we stopped in a Duane Reade close to his place.  He went to the makeup section where all the nail polishes are.

“Are all of these the same?  Or is one brand better superior to the other?” he asked me.

“I dunno.  I guess Essie and OPI are the best,” I said.

He picked out a sky blue one, because it matched my dress.  No man has ever bought a cosmetic for me before.

An hour later, he was painting my toenails.  No man has ever done that for me, either. Not even a client.

“Margo,” he said, bent over my feet while I laid on the sofa with my legs in his lap, “I want you to allow me at least the opportunity to make you happy.  Didn’t we have fun today?”

What could I say to that?

Punching the Collector in His Eye (Part II)

So I fell on the ground and screamed (because I was scared): “You can’t hurt me!  This is not okay!  This is not playtime!  If you touch me, it’s assault!  I’ll call the police! I’m covered in bruises! I’ll show them!

I realize this is hypocritical, given that I just punched the man in the eye (for the record, if he’d called the cops on me, I would have immediately admitted it and taken The Police Cruiser Ride of Shame to the 10th Precinct), but he wasn’t in danger of me fucking killing him.

I was afraid! He could do anything he wanted to me!  I’m naked on the floor!  Without my guns, how could I stop him?

We stared at each other, me on the floor with my arm in front of my face, and him panting.  His eye was tearing and red and his shirt tail had come out of his pants.

I saw the composure drop over his face then, like dropping the blinds.  I did not know whether this meant sanity had been restored, or things had just became even worse.

“The police.”

“Yes!”

He cleared his throat, nodded, and then started to tuck in his shirt.  When he spoke again he was out of breath but his voice was otherwise low and calm, like normal.

“Margo, look at me…and then look at yourself.  You know, Margo…you are a troubled young woman with a documented history of eating disorders and alcoholism.  You have been on medication. Sometimes, when young women are troubled, they do things to themselves.  They mutilate themselves.”

I lay there on the floor, my panic suddenly evaporated.  I could not believe what I was hearing.

He continued: “I’ve seen you do it myself.  I sent you to three therapists in the last year because I am concerned for you, Margo.  I did it because I care, and I am worried.  I sent you to rehab for the same reason.”

Shit is now occurring to me, readers, and it’s not pretty.

All I could do was whisper: “I’m not crazy.”

He shrugged.  “You’re a S&M prostitute.  I don’t hold this against you, of course, but many people might.  They might think you were crazy to do it.  And all I am is a gullible older man with a midlife crisis, who took this unstable, opportunistic girl in off the street into my beautiful home.  I’m a sucker.”

I just lay there, completely gobsmacked.  What blew my mind was that there was nothing factually inaccurate with anything he said (except about him being gullible, hardy har-har, like anyone is going to snooker the Collector…the idea of me taking advantage of him is preposterous.  Nobody takes advantage of his man).  He wasn’t lying.  It was just…the way he would twist it around to make it seem like I am a nutso basket case.  For what, out for what–to get his cash?  Even his own sons don’t worry about that, because, I’m telling you, there is no woman on earth seductive enough to persuade this guy into giving her any money he doesn’t want to!  And I don’t even do that anyway!  I’ve never done it, in my life!  I’ve always supported myself and paid my own bills!  And he knows it!  He knows what sort of person I am!

The dawning realization that this is how he would portray me to other people if we parted on bad terms…and that people would probably believe him!  I felt betrayed.  Like I was sold out, and it hadn’t even happened yet.

And then I thought: This conniving fuck has thought of everything.

He knocked me out.  Knocked…me…out.

I started sobbing, which is extremely rare for me.  I am not a crier.  I don’t even cry in therapy.  It felt like all the strength and fortitude ran out of me like water.

“You don’t care about me!  You’re a liar!”

“I love you, Margo…but do not EVER threaten me.”

He let me cry for a few minutes and then came back with a blanket to cover my nakedness.  He was perfectly calm now.  Why wouldn’t he be?  I’d capitulated and he’d regained control of the situation.

He helped me up and gave me a hug and stroked my hair.  Then he led me to the sink in my bathroom and gently told me to wash my face while he picked out some clothes for me to wear.  While I got dressed, he took out his cell phone.

“I need to call the office.  I’m going to work from home today.  I think we should spend some time together.  We are going to have a good day.”

A good day.  Whatever the hell that could mean in this situation.

“Don’t hurt me,” I sniffled.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Margo.”

Too late for that,  I thought

He called his office.  Then he said that he absolutely had to get some writing done because he was working under a deadline, but it would only take a few hours and then we could spend the rest of the day doing something fun.

He left the room and came back with a bag.

“I bought you something while you were gone!”

It was a puzzle of The Unicorn in Captivity,  (South Netherlandish, ca. 1495–1505)..  He’d bought it for me at the gift shop at The Met.

Am I the only one who sees the irony in this?

“You can work on it while I write,” he said, peeling off the plastic shrink wrap.

We went to his office space and he retrieved this rolling body-pillow thing he lets me use when he wants me to be on the hardwood floor instead of using the furniture (unless I’m being disciplined or punished, of course–then I just get the cold, hard floor).

“Can I play with Abe while you write?”  Abe likes to ‘help me’ when I do anything craft-y like puzzles or wrapping gifts.

A shadow crossed his face: “I think we should focus on each other.”

Behold, the Collector: The Man Jealous of a Little Parrot. 

“He comforts me, though,” I said.  “If he poops on the floor, I’ll clean it up right away.”

“All right.  Go get him.”

I went to get Abe, but Abe did not want to come out of his cage.  Abe and seen (or at least heard) the fight and my crying, and he was upset and just wanted to hide in his little cloth hidy-hut.  It made me feel guilty.

I worked on the puzzle for a few hours while he worked at his desk.  He’d take 10-minute breaks to refresh himself and work on the puzzle with me.

“It’s lunchtime.  What would you like to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Just hot chocolate for you, then.”

He sounded cheerful and pert.  His eye had stopped watering.  It was red, though.  There was no swelling.

“I’m sorry I hit you in the eye,” I said, which might or might not be true…I honestly can’t say.

“It’s okay.  It looks very macho.  I can tell the people at work that I got into a bar fight!”

The joke was kinda funny.  The Collector in a bar fight!

(Actually, he’d probably do just fine.)

“I’ll finish up in an hour, and then we can go out!  We’ll have some fun.”

Oh God, I thought.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

TO BE CONTINUED

 

 

Punching the Collector in His Eye

I had a fight with the Collector and punched him in the eye, which resulted in an even bigger confrontation.

I have never in my life hit one of my boyfriends (or anyone else for that matter) unless he specifically wanted me to in the context of an erotic encounter.  I have never hit a partner even when I was with a douchebag who deserved it, which was most of them!  I know this sounds weird coming from a professional domme, but I’m not a violent person!  The last time I hit anyone was probably my little brother when I was twelve!

The Collector has been sending me to a hypnotherapist to help me with my concentration, alcoholism, and memory recall.  He did it for several years himself and swears that it helped him.  Perhaps it did, because his ability to recall information and recite entire conversations verbatim is superlative and it really helps him at his job.  Whenever I write anything academic or professionally it looks like a library bomb exploded around my desk; most of the Collector’s citations are memorized.

My Freudian analyst was also a personal fan and I know someone else who swears it helped them stop smoking.  The Collector pays for the therapy sessions, so told myself I should try it.

“Is it going to be like a 90s daytime talk show, where the hypnotist makes you dance around with a mop thinking it’s Frank Sinatra?”  I asked him.

“No, it’s not like that at all!” he laughed.

I didn’t care for it at first.  Hypnosis is A Real Thing, but some people take to it much more easily than others.  After several sessions I did not perceive that it was doing anything for me (although the meditation aspect was relaxing…I never tried to meditate before.  Sounds too much like prayer, which is pointless to me).

“You have to practice at it.  I’ll help you,” he said.

Well, we worked on it.  We certainly did.

I have multiple concerns, but chief among them is that I do not give a shit if I never remember parts of my childhood that I don’t already remember.   If I could get most of it wiped from my brain, like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, I would do so.  Happily.

As we all know, the Collector has what might be euphemistically called boundaries issues when it comes to me.   It’s difficult to talk about because obviously Tops have boundaries issues–it’s what they do.  BDSM is partially about intimacy and (in my BDSM fantasies, at least) doing stuff that would be illegal in any other context.

We did some stuff over Christmas after I got out of rehab that I haven’t posted because I’m too self-conscious and I am pretty sure that he would shit purple twinkies if he knew I was sharing with my 8 readers.

But you know him, he always wants more, more, more!

He wanted me to work on remembering the last meal I shared with my father.

“Tacos with the rest of the family at my favorite Mexican restaurant before I left for Ph.D. school,” I said.

“No.  The last meal you shared together, just the two of you.”

I pulled a blank.

“I don’t particularly want to remember this,” I said.  It was true.  I don’t want to remember this shit.

He kept pressuring me.  A few days later he brought it up again and I was in a bad mood that morning and I snapped.  I raised my voice.

“Look, Collector!  You’re not my shrink, okay?  You don’t get an all-access VIP backstage pass to everything that goes on in my head!  In my life!  I already give you 90% of what you want, sexually!  You’re so invasive!  You’re not my psychologist!”

“I’m not your psychologist…?”  He stood there, completely unruffled by my outburst.

No!  And I don’t care how many years you spent on the couch with your analyst in London!”

“I’m not?  All of this time, you thought we were just having conversations…?”

He cocked his head to the side and then did one of his signature moves that I used to think was sexy but now drives me crazy: The Collector’s smug, condescending smirk. 

WHAT!?!?  I thought, letting the implications sink in.

I walked right over to him and punched him in the eyeball.

He didn’t even step back or raise up his hands to defend himself!  I’m sure he never thought in a million years I’d do something like that!  And I did it!  I just clobbered him upside the face! And I did a pretty good job of it, too, for a girl with scrawny bird arms who never hit anyone with a closed fist and never learned how!

And I didn’t apologize!  I didn’t ask to take him to the hospital or anything!

He yelled and put his hand over his face and bent over at the waist.

I just stood there, waiting.  I was waiting too.  As soon as his hand went down, I was going to punch him again in the same place!!!!  YEAH!!!

He finally looked up at me, but didn’t take his hand off his face.  He was breathing hard.

“You should not have done that,” he said.

“Oh, fuck you!!” I yelled.

“Go to your room RIGHT NOW and stay there until I decide what to do with you,” he said.

“I’m not going to my room!”

He took his hand away, and there were tears coming out of his eye and streaming down his face.  I really got him.   His face was all red.  It was real pain.  He was breathing hard.  The way one does.

“Then go lean over the table,” he said, panting.

Now, I know what that means: it means he’s going to beat me or fuck me or both.  I have received many beatings bent over the table, both for maintenance and for punishment.

“Fuck you!  I’m not leaning over your table!”

“DO IT!”

“NO!”

Then shit got bad.  Shit got really bad, my friends.

Then he ran over to me.  I turned my back in an instinctual move to run away from him, and he put his arms around me and lifted me off the floor. 

“Go to your room or go to the table!” He screamed.  I’ve never heard him scream except for the time he broke the door down a long time ago.

The confrontation has just escalated dramatically in a heartbeat and I’m still furious but I’m also scared because I’m vulnerable.  The Collector isn’t a big man, but he’s my height and very strong.   Besides a few bad “clients” being intimidating scary dickheads, the last time I had a man impose himself on me physically was the Surgeon when he made his final house call, and we all know how that turned out.

I started flailing and kicking around and screaming at him to let me go.  I was telling myself that I needed to go for his balls, but I couldn’t figure out how to do that and I was panicking.  We are struggling, like actual struggling, this is not funny.  I was clawing at his hands.

“See now why it suits me that you’re frail?” he screamed in my ear.

Aaaaannnnddddd….another piece of the puzzle clicks into place.

I let go of his hands and starting batting at his head.  I was doing it from behind me, so there wasn’t much leverage.

He let me go and shoved me at the same time and I fell on the floor.

You might be wondering why I didn’t run for the elevator, but what was I going to do?  I was butt-ass naked.  I didn’t have my purse or my wallet or shoes.  What was I going to do?  Run naked into the street?  Like he wouldn’t have caught me before I got to the elevator anyway?  And what was I going to do, leave Abe?

It gets worse.  This is all the writing I can bring myself to do now, but there it is.

Rehap (Part 1)

What can I tell you about rehab…?  I was voluntarily placed into a quasi-medical facility and slept in an all-female dorm.  It wasn’t one of those celebrity California rehabs you see ads for that offer horse therapy and yoga classes (I’d love to see any addict desperate enough for institutionalization who’d be interested in yoga), but it wasn’t Gospel Mission/Salvation Army austere, either.  It reminded me of an extremely clean college dorm that doubled a jail and a sanitarium.

You can trust me that it was clean, because when I wasn’t in six hours of group or individual therapy per day, I was cleaning the facilities myself with bleach-based products, hospital disinfectant, and a shit-ton of Lysol.  Everything in rehab smelled like artificial pine trees.  Apparently, like most rehabs, this one was big on discipline, so we all had chores daily chores.  Being new and relatively young, I got the “worst” ones: cleaning the bathrooms, sweeping and mopping the hardwood, and washing bed linens.

I did just fine with the chores, even though I didn’t enjoy doing them (especially starting at 5:30 AM). I was already doing them at home, unless I can afford to hire a professional cleaner for the week, and rehab was my “home” now, and SOMEBODY’S got to do it, so what is the problem…?  I also grew up in homes with control-freak parents, and my mother and downright obsessive about housekeeping.  The jobs I held in younger years, cleaning restaurants and the bathrooms.  Cleaning up in the dungeons multiple times daily, too…

Most of my roommates also executed their chores well and with a minimum of snark…but about a third of them found having to make their beds along with everyone else and take out the trash and dust the furniture to be some sort of personal insult, especially since they were “paying for it (rehab)” and “not children anymore.”

I bring this up not because I’m bragging about completing simple household chores.  I bring it up because it was one of the most prevalent personality traits I observed about the other patients in rehab: a resentment about being told to do anything and a neurotic worry that cooperation with rules was humiliating or some sort of threat to the image of themselves that they’d built up in their heads.

Another thing I noticed was the ability (or, worse, willingness) to sit still and concentrate.  We spent most of the day planted in desks in group therapy sessions and classes about addiction.  I’m not a professional educator anymore, except for freelance tutoring, but jeez, I couldn’t help but look at it through my teacher’s eye: so many of them (at least half of them were younger than me) couldn’t physically control themselves.   I don’t think they were being intentionally disrespectful…they just couldn’t stop crosstalking or fidgeting.

Many of the patients there were caught up in the court system: DUIs, were attending because they were in custody battles for their children, or were there to be in compliance for some legal evaluation to maintain their employment or parole/probation requirements.  What I would like to say is that I don’t think most of them would have committed their dumbass (mostly) petty crimes–theft, possession, public intoxication–if they hadn’t been under the influence of their drug of choice.

I was the only one who was not a parent.  I thought about this a lot.

The quality of the therapy was variable. I honestly don’t think that one shrink knew what he was doing, which scared me.  Another seemed to know what he was talking about and was trying to do his job.  The others were in between.  I cautiously ascribe this to professional burnout, which every staff member in the building seemed to be experiencing, to some extent or another…from the cafeteria cook to the techs who constantly took our blood pressure and urine samples.

After a week, a new psychiatrist talked to me for a few hours, and he asked me how I felt about psychotropic medication for anxiety or depression.

“Well, I’m not enthusiastic, but I’m not anti-drug at all.  I was on Paxil for a year and a half ten years ago, and I don’t think it did anything for me, one way or another.  The withdrawals when I quit it were awful for a month.  I had vertigo and brain zaps. But, I’d be open to trying something again, if you think it can help me.  If it doesn’t work, I could always just stop taking it after a decent trial run or two or three months, so no harm done.  Please don’t give me anything that will make me a sleepy fatass.  I don’t want any sexual side-effects either, though I’d be willing to put up with them for a little while until my body adjusted.  The Paxil made me inorgasmic for a month, and then I adjusted and everything worked again.”

I talked to the Collector on the phone immediately after I was taken off the several-day “blackout” period, and told him that I was doing well and going back on Naltrexone and trying out a psychotropic SSRI.

He demanded to talk with the physician who prescribed it.

“I don’t think he will, Collector.  I am pretty sure that’s illegal,” I said.

“You can listen in on speakerphone or I can come down there.  You’ll have some legal paperwork.  I can look at it.  I need to know what is going on!”

Other calls were made.  It was like the Inquisition in there.

I’m giving Citalopram a three-month shot.  Thus far, I feel nothing that I can discern.  If that doesn’t help, they recommend Wellbutrin.  If that doesn’t work, well, who knows.

More about Rehab–and the Holidays–later today or tomorrow, I hope

Backpage Shutdown

Howdy, 8 readers.  Thanks for your patience.  I spent two weeks in rehab, where I was analyzed by various shrinks who specialize in addiction medicine, and another week isolated with the Collector out in the boondocks in Colorado.  If he reads this, I am going to  be fucked, but I don’t think that he is because he would definitely tell me.

Before I get down to the personal stuff, I’d like to draw your attention to this: Backpage has delisted all of its adult services ads due to government pressure.  It just happened last night, while I was asleep!  Do you realize what a disaster this is for sex workers?  They even stopped ads for legal services, like BDSM/fetish and exotic dancing!  Apparently, we’re promoting sex slavery by advertising sales of smelly gym socks and spanking Stanford MBAs. What a crock!

I get 50% of my new clientele from Backpage, and I’m going back to work this week and I’m freaking out! I can only hope that most of my clients saved my email, phone number, and website address–but I know that since approximately 80% of them are MARRIED and their wives have no idea about their kinky pervy fetishes, they delete everything to keep themselves safe!

In my experience, almost nobody wants to session with exploited “trafficked” teenagers, either because they’re afraid of the legal ramifications or because they find the notion morally abhorrent.  I’ve met some truly awful “clients” in this Biz, but the majority don’t want to hurt anyone.  The idea that Backpage is a hotbed of predators seeking to exploit unwilling, pimped-out teens (the justification used for this political witch-hunt) is preposterous.

What a shitshow.

 

Happy Holidays

Hi, 8 readers.  I wish that this would take a long time to write, because I love to write, but I know it won’t.

I had a relapse and I got caught.  It was a small one (I’m not making excuses, because it was still indefensible, but it was only a few hours and I remained pretty coherent), but the Collector is shipping me off to a 14-day lockdown and then taking me away somewhere for the Holidays.

I’m sneaking this in from my own separate place so that I know it’s private.

It makes me angry because he gave me booze and pills in the past and he also has a big wine closet.  The wine closet doesn’t bother me much because it’s under the stairs and I never have to see it or think about it. The bar upstairs always stresses me out because it’s always there and I have to pass by it.

To his credit, he took all the liquor out of the bar and put it in a locked room so I don’t have to see it again unless he’s entertaining guests.  I hate to be a jerk, because my addiction is not his problem, but he should have done that all along.

I’m not going anywhere.  This blog is my connection with the outside world.  But I am going to be incommunicado for the next few weeks.

For anyone who hangs in there: thanks for your patience.

And happy holidays.

 

My Concession Speech

I have nothing to say that isn’t completely predictable, except that Thanksgiving might be called off this year unless I am tranquilized, and I don’t think “I gotta sit with my Republican brother” is going to make any doctor give me Xanax.

I would throw piss on the New York Times building next time I’m in town for their misleading predictions that said, day in and day out, that Trump had a 5%-10% chance of winning.  They were all full of shit and they all deserve a blindfold and a final cigarette.  The only reason they do not get piss on the front doors or a turd on the floor is because I know some poor janitor would have to clean it up, and the janitor doesn’t deserve that.

Paul Krugman can also eat a bag of dicks.  I really liked him in the early 2000s.  What happened?

The Collector can’t vote because he’s not a US national, but he called me to say, “Brexit was the canary in the coal mine.”

I’m not going to belabor this, because there’s no point in doing so on this platform.

I hope that Trump is as good a president as his supporters hope for, and a better president than I expect.

Otherwise, reap your fucking whirlwind.

A Bad Bad Thing

I thought a lot about whether to post this.  I think a lot before posting anything these days, because I’m not sure if he’s reading it.  I still think the blog’s a secret, and I tell myself that it wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t because I’m not doing anything wrong and there is no identifying information in it.  Yeah, I mentioned his kids, which is sort of bad, but there are about a zillion men in New York with teenage boys, right?  I’m just paranoid.  Paranoid as fuck.  I’ve always been paranoid–probably because of the double-life thing–but it’s been especially bad these days.

I did something Very Wrong.  Something I wish I could discuss with a shrink, but I don’t have one right now.

So, I’ll tell you, instead.

Please allow me to justify myself rationalize

preface this story: I know that one of the worst things you can do in a relationship is throw someone’s secrets and vulnerabilities back in their face when you’re angry.  You know–the traumatic things in their background, bad relationships, awful things parents did to them, humiliations they suffered in the course of their career.  Besides the fact that it’s a complete violation of trust, I’ve had men do it to me on multiple occasions, and I know that it hurts like hell.

I’ve done it exactly once before, during a fight with the Surgeon, and you KNOW how that guy fights–he was dragging me through the mud, but that’s still no excuse.  What I said was: “You’ll never break up with me.  I’ve changed you permanently.  What are you going to do, go back to getting blowjobs in the dark from women you secretly despise?”   Yeah, not my proudest moment (but, for the record, I was correct: I had to peel that stalker off like gum from my shoe.  They’re all stalkers.  All the men in my life have been stalkers!  What is wrong with me?).

Well, I did it again, and I feel really really badly about it, and that’s why I’m writing this post.

When I went back, the cattle prod and the dog crate were gone (or maybe he just hid them somewhere, who knows?  He did send me a photo of the cattle prod sticking out of a garbage can on the sidewalk, like it was humorous, which really pissed me off).  I was still in an angry mood because I didn’t think he’d acknowledged how frightening and degrading that situation was to me.  The anger sort of came out of left field because I thought I was over it.

I was trying to suppress it and be civil.  In the kitchen, he has a big magnetic strip on the wall where he keeps his knives.  I felt myself lingering on it.  I do that a lot.

I wasn’t snapping at him (oh HELL NO), but I was shut down and tense.

He went to his suitcase and came back with some pills.  It was ambien and valium.  And, yes, I took them.

Then it was bath time.  Unless he’s working late hours, every night is bath time with me.  Besides food, he has a weird fixation on water.

He was finishing his Scotch and left the bathroom to go get a new drink.

The thought occurred to me, and I just did it.  I didn’t think about it.  I just did it.  It was impulsive.

It was bad.

I let half the air out of my lungs so that my body would sink in the water, and I kept my eyes and mouth open.  There was no soap in the water yet, so it stung my eyes, but not too badly.

He came back into the bathroom and saw me.

He dropped his glass and it exploded.  He screamed something in his own language.  I don’t know what it was because my head was under water and I don’t speak his language anyway.

He grabbed me under my armpits and pulled me out of the tub.

He put his fingers in my mouth and I couldn’t play dead anymore.  I swatted his hand away and smiled.

“How does it feel?” I asked.

He belted me upside the face.  Hard.  And he got my ear while he was at it, which started ringing.

Then he crushed me to him so hard I couldn’t move.

“Don’t EVER do that again!” he yelled.

I lay there, limp, with my face swelling up, feeling the drugs start to work and thinking what a stupid idea this was.  He wasn’t crying, but this was the first time I’d ever seen him distressed.  I’d seen him agitated before, and angry, but never distressed. The Collector generally has perfect, unruffled composure.

Well, it was a shitty, psychological low blow, and it took a lot out of him: he just wanted to go lay down in bed, in the dark room.  Immediately.  My hair was still dripping.  He didn’t care.

He was like an octopus with his arms and legs, holding me so tightly that I had to ask him to loosen up because I couldn’t breath right.

“You hit me in the face,” I said.  Hitting someone in the face without their permission is a big deal.  I know what I did was wrong, so maybe I deserved it…?

“I’ll never do it again,” he said.  Well, that’s what they all say.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned about men on the awful toll-road of life, it’s that if they will do it once, they’ll do it again.

He moved on top of me, like he was a blanket.

“You can’t ever leave me.  I need you too much.  People like us need each other.  We complete a circle.”

The drugs were kicking in, and I don’t remember anything after that.  Ambien really knocks out the short-term memory.

The next morning, my face was swollen.  I’m lucky he didn’t get my orbital bone–I would have had a shiner for sure.  It was just my cheek, and the inside of my cheek that cut on my teeth.  It was swollen, but no bruising.

“What are we going to tell people about this?” I asked.  I normally don’t give a shit if people see my bruises and marks, except when I have to work and cover them up with stage makeup or hosiery.  Are boxers and martial artists ashamed of their marks?  Construction workers?  Furthermore, if it’s something like, say, cane marks…the average person has no clue what they are or how I got them.  It’s the last thing they would expect.

But, in this case, it looked exactly like what it was: it looked like I’d gotten belted upside the head.  That side of my face looked like a chipmunk’s.

We brainstormed on it a little bit and decided that if anyone asked, I’d tell people I had dental work done.  When I’d had my wisdom teeth removed, it caused my face to swell up in exactly the same way.

Another consequence: now I’m covering up for the man.

Well, if there’s one thing I know how to do in this life, it’s how to keep secrets for men.  Been doing it all my life.

Cattle Prod

UPDATE:  I’m not getting too many comments on this one, but I have received a few emails from readers.  The consensus is unanimous: He’s crazy. Dump him.

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This is going to be a GREAT BIG VENT!  I am dumping the Collector until he gets rid of the cattle prod and apologizes for real, and if he reads this, I don’t care!

A while ago, he bought a cattle prod (presumably from Amazon, as there are not many ranch-supply stores in Manhattan).  It’s very similar to this one.  I recognized it because we had one at my old dungeon, although we seldom used it.

 

 

 

livestock-prod
FUCK this thing

The thing is, he didn’t introduce me to it until I was tied up and blindfolded.  I could intuit his presence leave the room, and then he came back a minute later and he turned the fucking thing on close to my ear.  They make a very sinister low-pitched humming noise.  It’s not loud, but it sounds like…well, electricity.

Oh boy, I thought.  I really hope that’s not what I think it is.

Now, I don’t mind playing with electricity–either giving or receiving.  I have a pretty powerful TENS unit that I use on myself, another one that I use on clients, and at the dungeon we had a fancy E-Stim and a violent wand (of course) and those gloves that convey electricity.  I’ve even used those anti-barking shock collars for dogs (on clients, not on myself, but I guess if I had a Top who really wanted me to wear one, I could endure it for a while).  I have fried the shit out of some guys like they were Floridian death-row execution victims.

The cattle prod, though, is different.

Besides the psychological terror aspect, it’s mostly harmless and as long as it’s functioning properly, it’s not going to burn you.  That said, livestock hates it for a reason, and a human being is much smaller than a pig or a cow…and without the protective thick hide and fur, either.

He started zapping my feet with it, and I confirmed what it was right away: it makes an evil little sparky noise and the pain, which lasts less than a second, is shocking (ha, ha!) and deeply unpleasant.

I tried to be a good sport and put up with it, and I’m sure my wiggling and toe-curling and teeth-clenching were entertaining to him, but my anxiety was compounded by the fact that he wasn’t communicating anything and I was concerning he was going to start using it on my genitals or my breasts or, God forbid, my head.  I had a blindfold on, so I couldn’t see where it was coming.

I begged him to stop and he did, so I guess it wasn’t quite a safe-out, and I guess it was my fault for putting up with it for so long, but I was a little pissed that he’d sprung such a serious implement on me without discussing it beforehand.

I also made it quite clear, in as non-confrontational a way as I could, that the cattle prod was not something I enjoyed or could even tolerate for more than one or two zaps and that it detracted from my sexy mood.

I didn’t really feel like it anymore, but I went through with the session and it was okay after that.

I thought that the cattle prod would be immediately retired to the Box of “Wish-I-Hadn’t-Wasted-the-Money” tools.

(You can see where this is going now, can’t you?  I’m sure you can.)

Well, the next evening he wanted to put me in the crate while we watched an episode of Frontline PBS he wanted to see.  Okay, that’s fun, I like Frontline (though it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t) and he always gives me water and a snack or a Diet Coke while I’m locked in there.

You remember the crate, don’t you?  I wrote about it here.

Halfway through, he gets up to leave the room (I thought he was just going to use the restroom or something)…and he comes back with the goddamned cattle prod! 

“What do you want that thing for?” I asked, trying to keep calm.  As if I didn’t already know.

He turned it on.

“Collector, this isn’t funny.  You know I don’t like that thing.”

Then he started brandishing it like he was going to zap me with it.  I drew back, as much as I was able, and told him to please knock it off and don’t hit me with it.

Then he ACTUALLY DID IT, and pandemonium broke lose: I went nuts.

I almost never lose my cool and I almost never cry or scream, but I did then.  The cattle prod scared me.  And it was more than that: he was acting in a very strange and threatening way, and I was in a vulnerable position in an enclosed space where I couldn’t get away or even try to protect myself besides covering my head with my arms.

Once I tried to grab it and pull it out of his hands, but I couldn’t get any leverage in the cage because of the bars and the fact that I couldn’t draw my elbows back and couldn’t control it.

“Don’t wiggle around so much.  I wouldn’t want to miss and hit the wrong place,” he laughed like it was a joke.

“FUCK YOUUU!” I screamed, and started kicking the door as hard as I could.  Which wasn’t very, because I couldn’t pull my legs all the way back to really hit it hard.  Frankly, I don’t think it would have mattered.  It’s a heavy piece of furniture.

He stopped zapping me and watched.

“Let me out NOW!” I screamed.  I was flaying around so hard that I knocked over the cage while I was still in it.  I rocked it over onto its side.

Then he finally let me out and I ran to a bedroom with good locks on the door and cried some more.  My bare feet and shins hurt from kicking on the wood and wire.

Emotionally, I was…extremely distressed.

Then, get this: about half an hour later, he came by and rapped softly on the door and asked if he could talk to me.

“Go away!  I don’t want to talk to you!”

Then he started jabbing the cattle prod under the door like he was trying to zap my feet!

I screamed and jumped in the bed.

I stayed in there all night.  He didn’t bother me anymore.  In the morning, before he left for work, he knocked and asked me if I was still pouting and said that he was sorry and he wouldn’t do it again.

I got my stuff and Abe and booked a flight out of there using his Frequent Flyer miles.

Cattle prod needs to go and I am NEVER getting in that cage again.  He ruined it.