Thanks for the Wraparound, Jackass

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Update Oct 6 12:30 PM:

Oh yeah…one more thing I remember about this twerp…

Check out this spectacular mansplaination…! 

    In the getting-to-know-you consultation, he happily expressed (bragged, actually, but I don’t begrudge him that–anyone should be proud of getting a job interview) that he’d just finished a B.S. in Mathematics and interviewed for a job interview at a bank.

     He obviously wanted to talk about it, so I asked: “What’s the position?  Calculating algorithms for market predictions, or what?”

      Still smiling, he put his hand on my knee, and said (and I swear I am not making this up): “No.  You see, in Mathematics we design things called models that use statistics and software programs.” 

      What a clown. 

      It’s okay.  The money I took from him was twice as expensive as his suit. 

                      *                              *                   *    

   I had a sub session with a jerk who tried to bully me with money and play a game of chicken with me insofar as the pain was concerned.  

       “I’m going to go harder,” he said.  “You can either safe out and ask me to stop, or ask me for more money.  I’ll keep tipping you if you can take it.”

       Nice way to try to make me “earn it,” fucktard.  You couldn’t just come to me like a man, negotiating in good faith, and tell me how hard you wanted to cruise.  

       Well, color me unimpressed.  Put your money where your mouth is.  

        Never mind.  Beat you to it.  

        Three times.

        Most of the marks will be gone by tomorrow.  Your incompetency with the cane left a few welts from the wrap-around, but that’s all right with me.  A small price to pay for dashing your conception of yourself as a Big Scary Sadist.  Thought I’d safe out, didn’t you…?

       You’re a freshly minted B.A., or so you claim.  I believe it.  In town for a job interview as a financial services creature.  I believe that, too.  

        Pro-tip: $50 at a decent tailor’s shop will make a cheap suit look and fit much better (take it from an adjunct slave college professor).  You look like you were going to shoot an episode of Judge Judy.  If you were not such a misogynist douchebag, I’d take you out for ice cream and teach you all sorts of things. Starting with proper caning technique.

         Whatevs.  I still got your $400, jerk.  And guess what else: I photocopied your ID when I processed your credit card payment (and a curse on you for paying with a card.  I won’t see that money for weeks!).  If you try to reverse the charges, you are going to be a very unhappy young man. 

Thanks for the wraparound, jackass.


The English Headmaster II

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      The other day I went to the Studio after class, which I’m trying not to do because it necessitates lying and messes with my mind.  

      I went in order to keep an appointment with the English Headmaster, who wanted to see me one more time before he returned to his homeland.  I felt a little conflicted on whether or not I should see him again, because I knew what it would do to my already black-and-blue hide.  

      The pain was no hindrance and the condition of my skin was no hindrance.  What concerned me was that the Mathematician would see the marks and wonder if there was something wrong with me. You know…in the head. 

     But I ain’t gonna lie: in the end, the money was just too good to pass up.  $500 for an hour of my labor (I did tip the manager for hooking me up…but even still…$460)?  Are you kidding me?  And the Headmaster is a total gent, a very friendly person, not a psycho or a pain in the ass (no pun intended, hardy har har) to be around.  I didn’t feel emotionally drained at the end of the session at all.  

      This time, the Headmaster brought a new prop: A PIPE!  A pipe, to match his tweed jacket!  HILARIOUS! 

      It wasn’t an American pipe, like my father used to smoke.  It was a Sherlock Holmes pipe!  It looked like this:

     Yes, I got the cane.  I got it worse than last time, because it didn’t break right away.  I took it over my bluejeans (while babbling: “I’m sorry!  I’ll never cheat on my exams again!”), but I have welts.  

owie owie owie owie WATCH THE WRAPAROUND, JESUS!

      The Headmaster said that I was one of the best masochists he’d ever met, and he gave me a box of Godiva chocolates.  

      What a sweetheart, and a class act.  Three cheers for you, affable English Headmaster!  If I could drink, I’d share a Guinness with you.  Or sherry.  Port? Whatever it is that English Headmasters at all-girl boarding schools drink.  

The English Headmaster

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      Uh-oh….this is problematical….

          I just took a good hard look at the marks on my ass…

          I have a serious bruise from yesterday.  With cane marks over it.  Serious.  A serious fucking BLACK hematoma.

          I’ve had much worse.  I’m not complaining.  But jeez, this does not look like it came from a little playful smacky-smacky with the girls.  

        What am I going to tell the Mathematician?  He’s naive about this S&M stuff but he’s not an idiot.  He is a very intelligent man.  What am I supposed to do, look this man in the eyes and say, “Oh, Mistress Denise did this to me when she was trying out a leather paddle?” or “Oh, I fell down the stairs with my backpack on…you know how clumsy I am!”

      If he thinks I’m lying to him, he will can my ass.  First he’ll shut down emotionally, and then he’ll leave.  

         Fuck me, man!  I needed the $500, but this is a serious problem! 

Cruisin for a Bruisin 


                    *                     *                                  *                                     *
Well, I did it.  And I must admit: the session, silly as it was, turned out to be pretty entertaining.  And the guy loved me! 

        I have to ask: exactly what the hell did they do to English children of the post-war generation?  Really?  What did they do?  Put them in burlap sacks and beat them after class?  Before class?  During class? Because I’ve met a lot of Englishmen of a certain age with complexes pertaining to corporal punishment in education.  The English has a reputation for being reserved and self-effacing, but I think that has to be bullshit–I’ve read too much George Orwell (“Such, Such Were the Joys”–read it and weep) and Charles Dickens.  Oliver Twist–one of the most hair-raising stories of child abuse ever put on paper?  Are you kidding me?  Beating the snot out of kids for their own good was like a national pastime.  I am not surprised those bastards took over the world and ran it for so long!  

       They have a weird sense of humor about it, too.  Try talking to an Englishman about being beaten up at school.  He’ll start laughing about it.  They think it’s funny. One friend of mine, an Indian who was educated in an English boarding school, would talk about wearing two pairs of uniform shorts when he reported to the headmaster to receive his disciplinary beatings.

       “Two pairs of shorts!  So it didn’t hurt so much!” then he’d laugh so hard that his eyes teared up.  “What a hoot!”


        (I am just picking on the English.  They’re not so bad.  You have to admit that the scenario is ripe with comedic potential.)

        So anyway…yesterday this Englishman comes into the Studio.  He was quite a character.  A short guy, tremendously friendly…I mean positively radiating good cheer.  At first I actually wondered if he might be a little drunk.  It was awesome.  I love it when clients are there to have fun.

         He was a barrister, which I guess is some kind of lawyer.  He had a very specific scenario in mind: he was going to be the headmaster of an all-girl boarding school at which I was a student.  He would call me into his office to tell me that I’d been caught plagiarizing work in my final exams.  He was revoking my scholarship and expelling me from school.

       He lectured me at length about why I was morally corrupted because of the permissive attitudes about child-rearing found in society today.  I was spoiled!  When he was a boy, young ladies and gentlemen had sound judgement and better character because they were disciplined!  When he was a boy, he knew better than to cheat on exams!  Look at how all this spoiling has ruined you, Miss Margo Adler!   

      (but wait!  There’s more!)

       “Look at you, running about in those tight blue jeans!  That is not a proper costume for a young lady at this academy!”

       “Please don’t throw me out!” I wailed.  “I’ll never do it again!  I promise!  I’ll do anything to stay at this school!”  

        Yeah, you can guess where this is going, haahahahaha.

        “Then you must take a correction, Miss Adler!” he roared.

          Too.  Much.  Fun.  Yes, I know it’s corny, but it was fun.  Fun!  When is the last time you had that much fun at work? 

          First he waled on me with a “slipper.”  A “slipper” is just what it sounds like–a shoe.  That was a first for me.  I’ve been beaten with a lot of different things before, but never with a shoe.

        It wasn’t that bad.  

       When it was over, I composed myself, smoothing my hair and pretending to wipe the snot off my face and dry my eyes.  Then it was time for Act 2: The incourrigible tart, Miss Adler, thinks that she dodged a bullet and tries to seduce the Headmaster! 

       Well, he was having none of that!  He was an upstanding fellow and a married man!  When he figured out what I was trying to do, he blew his stack.  

       Now it was time to really teach me a lesson.  
       I got the cane (what else?).  And I had to count (of course).  After it broke after stroke number 11, he switched to the tawse (naturally!).  

         Check this out…this is where the guy really took the cake…oh my God…

         At the end, he took out a wooden paddle and said, “This is out of respect for your American traditions!” 

        BWAAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAA!  Hilarious!  I love it! 

        When it was over, he was so happy!  He gave me a hug and I brought him a beer.  We sat on the couch and chatted.  He really liked me, he said.  We had a great time.

     And he paid me $500 for that!  For something I would have probably done for free.  God, when the Biz is good, it’s very, very good. 

        But yeah, I definitely have bruises on my ass now.  A little welting from the cane, but it’s not bad.  The paddle was the worst.

      Still, though–the beating wasn’t that bad.  I’ve taken much, much harder.  Mel was routinely more violent.  And the Surgeon…well, we know how he was.  

        The Mathematician is going to see the marks tomorrow.  There’s no way I can cover them up.

          I really don’t want to lie to him…but I don’t know how he’s going to handle it.  I don’t want him to freak out.  How is a normal man going to respond to that.

        I’m going to tell him that we were training novice dommes at the Studio, and I was the demo bottom.  They were practicing spanking on me.

       It will be easier for him to take if he pictures other women doing it to me in a playful setting.  I’ll try to make it sound like it was innocent or maybe a little sexy.  Not a big deal (which it wasn’t!).

       Not a man.  I don’t want him picturing that.

      Is it bad to lie about that?  I don’t decide.  Do you think it’s wrong?

Knocked Out II: The Strange Case of Mel (or, Wait Until Your Father Comes Home)

        Let me start by saying that I like Mel.  He’s a very likable guy. I don’t know him in his outside life, but I bet that he’s a pretty good egg.

        I want to respect his privacy, so I’m changing some of the details about his life to protect him.  

       Mel is a middle aged professional white guy.  He’s smart and in a position of authority at a job that is practical and important for society…kinda like civil engineering.  He must be good at it, because it’s not a job where you can mess up and stay employed–there is no room for mediocrity.  He isn’t particularly handsome, but I’ve always been a little attracted to him, even though he’s really hairy and absurdly masculine.  He has a warm personality, but there’s something hard underneath it.  It’s hard to describe.  Let’s put it this way: he’s never been anything but friendly and generous with me, but I’d hate to be working for this man and mess something up.  And I certainly wouldn’t challenge him.  

       Mel’s a top.  His scenes always involve a domestic role-play scenario and corporal punishment.  

       Heavy corporal punishment.  

       Of the women at the Studio who work as switches or subs, almost none of them can take it–either the pain is intolerable or the bruising is unacceptable.  They session with him once or twice and then decline, despite the fact that he tips very well and aside from, you know, unbearable pain, he’s a great client.  

       Needless to say, little Margo hit it off with Mel right away.  I’ve been seeing Mel a couple times a month for….gosh, a long time now.  The only time I turn him down is when I have a date or plan to see the Surgeon in the immediate future and can’t have marks on my skin.  

        (Interestingly, though, I don’t bruise like the others do, despite the fact that I have such fair skin and he’s hitting me as hard, or harder, and he always does.  Why is that?  Is it because I’m experienced?  Does anyone know?  Some of my friends look like they were hit by a truck after an hour with Mel, whereas my marks are pretty superficial.)  

     The scenario is always the same: I’m his step-daughter or someone he’s responsible for, and I do something bad–lie about something, show up to dinner late, trash the car, whatever.  After my error is exposed and a full confession made, I get a spanking or a strapping–all for my own good, of course.  Then he forgives me and is warm, loving daddy again.  

       Nothing to it!  Some days I don’t feel up to it, but most of the time, I kinda think it’s fun.  It’s a challenge.  


       Except some of the other women at the Studio know all about Mel…a few of them, who have been there for a long time, have a history with him.  A few of them saw him regularly, like me, until they couldn’t anymore.  Nobody’s had a run with him as long as I have.  They look at me like I’m crazy.  

       “You’re still seeing him?  Still?” Asked the English one, Betsy, recently.  She used to see Mel regularly a few years ago.

         “Sure.  Why wouldn’t I?  Nice guy.  The money’s great and the pain’s not a huge problem for me.  Why did you stop seeing him?”

          Betsy looked me straight in the eyes:  “He’s a sick, sick man, Margo.  That’s why.”

          Huh…?  I looked at her, honestly confused.  I had no idea what she was talking about. “What do you mean?  Sick?  Him?  Compared to some of the wackadoos that come in here?”

          Another woman with a history of seeing him told me, “I don’t know how you can handle being with him.  It got to the point with me where I’d go home and keep thinking about the things he said.  I had to stop.”

          “What?  Things he said?”  I asked her.  

           “He hasn’t talked with you about his Dad?”

           “Yes, I know about his Dad.  It doesn’t freak me out.”  

           As Mel and I grew more comfortable with each other, we started to talk more.  I expressed curiosity about how he’d come to be interested in the activities we engaged in.  

         Mel’s father was a violent man.  

          This didn’t disturb me–I had no clue why the other girls were creeped out.  Lots of people eroticize traumatic things that happened to them.  Shit, look at me–do you think it’s a coincidence that I ended up with this strange sexuality?  Who am I to judge Mel?  And as I see it, Mel is dealing with this in a respectable, acceptable way.  

        Time goes on, and I learned more and more about Mel’s formative years.  

         Mel’s father was a very violent man.  What Mel does to me is a little tiptoe through the tulips compared to what Mel’s dad did to him.  Bad stuff, gentle reader–just take my word for it.  Today, if a child was beaten that way, CPS would take him out of the home. 

        Mel didn’t look upset when he told me these stories.  He was calm.  Maybe he sounded a little nostalgic, believe it or not.  

       One time, he told me about getting strapped for the awful crime of getting water-soluble marker on the kitchen linolium floor.  Six years old.

        “Well, I’m really sorry that happened to you,” I said.

        Mel shrugged.  “It was a different time, then.  Different era.  People thought differently.” 

         “Yes, I know.  My father got the stuffing knocked out of him too.  But it’s never okay to hit a child.”  

           “Well, I know that he loved me.  He thought that it was for the best.”   Mel tilted his head to the side, considering, and then said the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard come out of a client’s mouth:  “It’s not like it screwed me up or anything.”  

         I almost started laughing–it was clearly a joke.  I waited for him to laugh, but he didn’t.  

         He wasn’t kidding.

         Yeah, that was an instant classic.  I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want to offend him, but I wanted to ask, Buddy, do you SEE WHERE YOU ARE?  You are compulsive enough to act out the same scenario, over and over again, at the expense of many thousands of dollars, for your entire adult life.  

         That’s when I got my first inkling of what the other women were talking about when they said that something was really, really wrong with Mel.  

         Just an inkling.  It passed very quickly, and I forgot.

        Because Mel isn’t the only person in the room with issues.  Readers of my little blog will know that I have a blind spot for a certain type of dysfunctional man.  For a certain type of dysfunctional man, his dysfunctions fail to frighten or repulse me, the way they do 99% of other people who get a good look at them.  Remember the Attorney?  He was a kook!  A kook!  Didn’t bother me at all.  

           So, this brings us up to the panic attack I had at the Studio the other day.  

           I still don’t know why it happened to me then–why there was such a change in my understanding or perception of Mel and the things we did together.  I honestly have no idea.  Was it because I was tired and stressed out?  Too much weirdness the day before, which sapped my emotional resiliency?  Why’d it hit me?  

         The receptionist came in back and said, “Margo–Mel’s coming in for you.  He’ll be here in thirty minutes.”

         I said okay and stood up to walk to my locker.  I unlocked it.  I looked at the clock.  

        Thirty minutes to get ready.  

        Thirty minutes can be a long time.  Pain distorts one’s conception of time…slows it down.

        Thirty minutes can be a long time to wait.  

        Then I thought, I wonder what it felt like to Mel when he was waiting for his father to come home?  

         Then the empathy hit me–this huge, and very unwelcome, hit of empathy.  Welcome to the haunted house. I understood exactly how Mel must have felt, and let me tell you, it was pretty fucking terrible.  

          The adrenaline was released in my brain, and when that happens, it’s all over.  When you get scared like that, it doesn’t matter if you understand intellectually that you’re not in danger, or if you earnestly want to calm down….there’s nothing you can do but ride it out and wait for the chemicals to stop working.  

         My hands started shaking.  I couldn’t open the buttons on my dress.  The strength went out of my legs.  I tried to stay standing and then gave up.  I sat down on the floor.  

           I looked at the clock.  Twenty-eight minutes to go.  

           I can’t go through with it.  

            I waited until the shuddering stopped.  Then I stood up and told the receptionist that I couldn’t keep the appointment and that I needed to go home.  

             I took some time off.  I feel fine now.  Refreshed.

             My relationship with Mel has run its course.  If he inquires after me again–when he inquires–I’ll just let him know that I’m unable to see him again.  He’ll take it graciously.  He won’t ask for an explanation.  

           A part of me does wonder what he would think, though, if he knew the truth.  Would he be pleased?  Upset?  Would it make him uncomfortable with himself?  I mean, the guy clearly isn’t big on self-reflection–at least, not about this.  If he wanted to change this part of himself, he would have tired to by now.  

         That’s all for this evening–I’m going to a meeting, and then out to the movies.  I’ve written a lot and my carpal tunnel is kicking up.  

         I have happy stuff to write about, too.  Next time!

        You know, I almost didn’t write about Mel, but I’m glad that I did.  It feels good to talk about it.  As it were.  Lol.  

Summoned to Boston II

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      Not sure what to make of this.

    The Surgeon likes to go through my stuff.  

      Objectively, I know that it’s creepy…I always just saw it as funny, until I saw the other side of it. 

     This morning, when I woke up and went into the bathroom, I saw that he’d opened and rifled through my cosmetics and toiletries bags:   

3 bags, opened and rifled through

     See that…?  All three bags!  And he took em out of the drawer, too–I didn’t leave them on the counter! Look at that!  He even unwrapped my makeup brushes! 

      I took the photo so that I could inquire about it.  I sent it to him with the text: Surgeon!  Why you go through all my makeup?  What were you looking for? LOL

      He wrote back: I don’t remember doing that.  Sorry? 

      Dude, he had to remember.  He was drinking, but he wasn’t smashed. And besides, he’s done this before.  My wallet, my phone. 

    It’s weird.  It weirds me out and I don’t like to think about it; I try to avoid thinking about it in my mind.  I write it here because there’s nobody else I can tell.  I don’t talk about him with anyone else except my analyst.  

      He is a secret that I keep.
                                 *                                      *                               *                                    *

  Sore and hurting on the train, but content.  I have that stupor; that been well-used affect.  

     The Surgeon is not a good partner, but I have to hand it to him: he knows how to get me fixed.  

      The hotel was awesome!  Experience has taught me: two beds are optimal.  One bed for playing and one for sleeping.  Sure, the King-sized single bed feels decadent and spacious, but you don’t want to sleep in your own blood, do you? (pop quiz: am I kidding?)

      I am very partial to hosiery…have I ever told you that?  I love stockings, garters, hosiery with patterns, backseams, fully fashioned Cuban Heel stuff.  YUM.  Very sexy!  I wear hosiery whenever it’s not too hot outside. 

       My leg last night, after I dressed for dinner.  Six-strap garter belt by Rego, purveyors of fantastic authentic vintage lingerie.  Stockings are made by Berkshire–without a doubt, the best quality “affordable” hosiery I’ve ever seen.  They have gorgeous colors and a good fit, and the lace at the tops looks expensive.  They’re usually less than $10 per pair.  The Surgeon always expresses approval when I wear them, which, given his proclivity for criticism, is quite a compliment.    

   Here is a photo of myself when I walked into the room, before I got dressed–I love this Lisa Simpson t-shirt!  I wish I’d bought 5 of them!  I can’t find it anywhere and it’s getting old and I’ll have to retire it soon.  BOOO! But anyway, it says: “Miss Smarty-Pants” with an image of Lisa carrying a stack of school books.  

     And yeah, I know I’m still…not right.  Too heavy.  But getting there.  Progress. 

    HUGE BATHTUB!  YAAAAAY!  I like to take baths and splash around in big tubs!  I like to play around in water.  This tub was so deep–have you seen those suction-cup bondage cuffs?  Google it!  They are fun!  I also like to be tied up with rope and submerged.  It’s scary.  YEAH! 

     Pulling in to Penn Station–I have to go.  Bye for now! 

Good Girls Give Gifts

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    The title of this blog post is a takeoff from one of my very early posts, Good Girls Get Gifts. 

     I presented the Surgeon with gifts to express my appreciation that he’d saved my ass from the landlord last month, basically.  He gave me a lot of cash.   Yeah, the motives are questionable, but he didn’t have to do it.

       I am a polite individual–the type who sends Thank-You cards for dinner parties and holiday gifts.  And I hate to shop, but I like to shop for gifts quite a lot.  The handful of people who know me best will tell you that I am a good gift-giver.  I select items only after much deliberation and consideration.

        I bought the Surgeon three gifts: a practical gift, a romantic gift, and a secret gift.

        This is the practical gift–heavy marble coasters purchased from the Evolution Store in SoHo.  I thought they were appropriate because he is a physician: 

        This is the romantic gift–a whittled conch shell.  It’s called the “heart” of the conch.  It is pink and beautiful and slippery smooth.  The Surgeon likes things from the ocean:

        He was given a secret gift, too.  I have to keep that one private.

       When he came to see me again, he brought a gift for me.  It was his own–first he strapped me with it, and then he bequeathed it to me.  I’m having it re-sized to fit me now, so that I can wear it myself:

         Ostrich skin is so supple and beautiful. It feels so soft –you’d have to handle it to understand.  I can’t keep my hands off of it.  The buckle is real silver, too.  Heavy.  I felt it.  He bought it at a conference out West.

         The Surgeon likes to wear the hides of unusual, strange creatures.  Ostrich, alligator, snakeskin, eel, crocodile.

           Perhaps that is why he still desires me.


     A few years ago, I had a relationship with Steven, a veterinarian.    I’d met him when I brought my birds in for checkups.  We were together for about six or eight months. 

    We were with some of his friends in East Hampton on day when he asked me: “Have you ever been in love?” 

     The question startled me. It seemed bizarre.  

      “Yes, of course I have.  Why do you ask?” 

      “Well, you don’t seem like the type,” he said. 

       I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.  It made me really confused.  Who doesn’t fall in love..?  Everyone falls in love! 

        I came home and told my Canadian friend what Steven had asked me.

        “It’s true,” said my Canadian friend.  “You don’t seem like you need to be loved.  It’s really weird.  Especially for a woman.” 

       Still perplexed, I went to my expensive analyst. 

       “Of course you need to be loved,” she said.  “Love is a basic human need.  You just don’t expect to get it, because you have never been loved properly.” 

        It was then that I remembered something the Surgeon had told me about myself:

        We were about seven months into our relationship, and things were starting to get pretty heavy.  It was getting very personal.  I was still working a few shifts a week at the S&M studio he’d met me at–he hadn’t insisted that I quit yet, though he was starting to bring it up. We were staying at the Hotel Wales on the Upper East Side.  We’d been drinking vodka, but I remember the night very well.  I pushed him hard, very hard.  Out with it, out with it.  I knew it was there in him.  

       The suite was as far away from other guests as possible. I’m still surprised, in retrospect, that nobody called the cops.  Hours and hours. People were catcalling from  the sidewalk below.  I found a tangle of my dark gold hair on the bathroom porcelain the morning after. 

        Before he left, he sat next to me on the bed.  I was laying on top of the nice white quilt.  On my stomach, with a smile on my face.  The bruises and welts were already coming up on my back, quick and eager as mushrooms after a Spring rain.  He was icing me down.

        He looked down at me.  Uncharacteristically silent.  Considering.

      “That’s your problem,” he said, more to himself than to me. “You’ve never been loved.”  

       It didn’t register at the time.  I was off in happy la-la land.  Obliterated.  

      I wondered, the next morning: What did he mean by that? 

     As I woke up alone. 

The Kiss

    August 2011

    The Surgeon and I were watching a televised boxing match in my living room.  I like to watch men fight.  It excites me.  I downloaded twenty hours of MMA fights off the internet and watch it late at night sometimes.  I can’t watch boxing in public.  It feels too pornographic. 

    “I want to get punched in the stomach!” I declared.  

    The Surgeon did not look surprised.  I had asked for much stranger things.  

    “That would hurt a lot,” he observed.  

     “Do you know how to do it?” I asked him.

     “Well, I guess.  It’s not hard.”

     “When’s the last time you punched someone other than me?” I asked, happily.  Storytime! 

      “Summer camp.  No, wait–med school.”

      “Really?   So that was, like, 1950, huh?”

      “Smartass.  Keep it up.”  

      “Who’d you fight?  Wow, muy macho!  Did you win?”  

      “It wasn’t really a fight.  I’ll tell you about it sometime.  You know, you are really strange.  A really strange girl.”

      “You know you love it!  I want to get punched in the stomach right now.  I want to know what it feels like.  I heard that if you get knocked in your solar plexus, it’ll make you fall down!”

      “If you get knocked anywhere hard enough, it’ll make you fall down.”

     “Do it to me now!”

      He smiled and put his drink down on the coffee table.  “Well, all right.”

       We stood up.

      “What do I do?” I asked.  I was suddenly nervous.  

      “Close your eyes.”  

      I closed them.  I remembered back to the beginning of our relationship, when I was beginning to open up to him about my sexual proclivities.  He’d said: I would do those things to you, but I could never hit a woman. 

      I’d laughed in his face.  Even then, I’d know that he could.  He was only saying that he couldn’t because that was the socially correct answer. “Oh yes, you could.”

      And I was right.  My intuition about his capacity for violence was always right.  If anything, I underestimated him.  He was more intemperate and savage than I could ever believe.  Sometimes I’d watch him presenting a lecture at a conference and be struck by an unnerving feeling of strangeness.  He passes himself off as a normal person, I’d think. 

      I felt him moving around me, felt his weight shift on the wooden floor.  I was suddenly scared.  Sometimes it’s worse when you can’t see it coming.  He knew it; he was using it.  The Surgeon had a flair for showmanship.  I’d started to sweat and clenched the muscles in my torso in anticipation of the punch.  Wait for it.  When I felt him move again, I flinched.  He laughed. 

       The blow hit my diaphragm and caused me to exhale all my air in a violent whoop.  My legs gave out immediately and I started to collapse backward.

     He caught me in his arms, bent over me, and kissed me deeply.  

     He told me that he loved me. 

     For a while, I even believed it.   

Profiles in Sadism: The Surgeon and the Double Bind

    A reader who writes a blog I follow, Advochasty, recently wrote a post containing the following exchange he had with his Mistress

  “So you’re coming down alone, but you can’t get here until Saturday, do I have that right?”, she inquired sharply.

“Yes, that’s correct”, I answered on her crisp examination query.

“Well, we aren’t sure we’re going to use you, but would you like to be in the running?”

Priceless! You just can’t teach that, it’s hardwired.

    Now, the first time I read this–the first three or four times, actually–I didn’t get it, and I said as much in the comments section.  Humiliation doesn’t do much for me, though some subs, especially male subs, find it thrilling.

      But I read Advo’s reply and thought about it for a few days, and eventually, I groked it.  

     I bring all this up because I found an exchange of text messages in my old phone with I was cleaning it out (I got an iPhone!  The camera function is awesome, but I’m scared to use the rest of it.  I really don’t like machines.).  

       The exchange, is with my old boyfriend, the Surgeon.  Let me provide some context for you, gentle reader.  

        If you’ve read this blog long enough, you probably have a pretty good grasp of what this guy’s personality is like.  And please keep in mind that I never even wrote about the BAD shit he did on this blog.  I’m not saying that to make him look worse–1) I probably couldn’t (ha, ha) and 2) the man was my main squeeze for years, and I did care about him a lot. And my, wasn’t I attracted to him!  We had a very intense sexual connection.  It was so intense, frankly, that I’d be relieved if I never experienced something like it again.  It made me a vulnerable moron.  

         So anyway, the man in question: a relentlessly competitive land shark and a control freak of the highest order.  Not an emotionally complex human being, he has two modes: charming and hostile.  I personally believed him to be at his best when he was both simultaneously, but I am masochistic like that.  

          The doctor could be shockingly cruel and manipulative.  If you want to be frank, he could be transparently abusive, which is the main reason I had to leave him.  I had to teach him bondage and how to use some of the implements on me, but the sadism was there all along.  I ferreted it out, held it up to the light.  He was a very controlled, repressed individual, and I exposed him.  Or liberated him. Yeah, it was a pretty interesting dance we were engaged in, especially the first year. 

        The double bind was one of the Surgeon’s favorite methods of torture.  For those of you who don’t know, here’s the wiki.  Basically, it’s where you’re set up in a dilemma, and you’re fucked no matter what action you take.  

          The Surgeon liked this because a way for him to affirm his power would be to force me to do something I really, really didn’t want to do.  This is how you know that someone else is obeying your will (read 1984). In order to feel your power, you have to use it from time to time.  It’s not enough, for a sadist, to just know that it is there.   

          Forcing someone to hurt themselves is also psychological terrorism.  It really, really breaks you down. As in, “Now I need three years of therapy.” Ask any pimp or cult leader. 

        So, let’s take a look at this text message exchange.  The scene: I’d been very busy.  The Surgeon had been trying to get ahold of me to plan a date, but I couldn’t take his calls all day and we were playing phone tag.  He wanted to see me tomorrow, but I had a job interview tomorrow afternoon.

       SURGEON: Voicemail AGAIN? Are you kidding?  Answer me!

       ME: Why you upset?  Please don’t!  I just got your message.  You know this phone doesn’t work in the library!  Sorry! Tomorrow I have a job interview from 4-5 pm.  Maybe we could meet on Friday instead?  I miss you! 

       SURGEON: change it!

       ME: I can’t change it!  It’s a job interview!
       SURGEON: ……..

       ME: You are being unreasonable and cruel.  Perhaps this is what accounts for your strange allure.  (note to readers: I was being sarcastic. And he knew it.) 

        SURGEON: I know.  Arrange it.  See you at 4.  
      Now I’m totally fucked.  There is no right answer.  I only get to pick whom I am going to displease.  When you take the skin off this thing, my choices are: screw the Surgeon, or screw myself.  A few times I elected to screw the Surgeon, furious as I was as having been put in that position, and boy oh boy, did he ever make me pay for it.  

      I hope he doesn’t pull this shit with his kids, but I think he does. That’s how he operates.