Heinrich Dominates Margo

It was the second night of my tour to San Francisco, and after thirteen sessions I was emotionally drained and exhausted.  Thirteen sessions is a LOT of BDSM.  Some of the sessions were very physical, and I was spotted with bruises even though I hadn’t been subbing (domination and fetish only).  I was still fucked up emotionally from Therapist Jung, and I’d just completed a session that involved publicly humiliating a client in the bar of the W Hotel in Union Square.

I was begging Heinrich to dominate me.  Usually I don’t feel sexual after a long day’s work at all–so much of my energy goes to my clients, and coping with their eroticism–but now, this moment, I needed something.  I felt afraid and out of control.  I felt all alone.  I felt like my clients were making me crazy.  I kept wondering if Therapist Jung was right, and my sexuality made me a sick person.  Thinking about my sexuality made me feel sexual.  I felt like I was going to act out–get on Craigslist and find a date, or go hunting at the hotel bar.

Heinrich to the rescue.  He talked me through it.  He did it in the middle of the night, too, and he had to be at work early in the morning.

His English isn’t perfect, but he knows all the right words.

“You are a weak, docile, small female animal!  Weak little prey for any man who walks along.  I should take you back out to the country.  You can serve me and my friends after we have been walking in the fields all day.”

I was kneeling in front of my computer in my black cocktail dress, still decked out from my session at the W Hotel bar.  He had me on the floor.  Heinrich doesn’t usually let his subs use the furniture.

“You are good for that.  Tending to us and meet-ink the needs.  You really are an obedient child and a well-trained servant.”

The wave of emotion that came upon me was overwhelming.  Maybe it was just catharsis after two hard days of sessioning out of a hotel suite.  Maybe it was all the second-guessing of myself I’d been doing for Therapist Jung.

Maybe it was just feeling like I was seen.   Seen and recognized and accepted for what I am.

(I really was an obedient, submissive daughter.  I did everything that was asked of me, and I was calm, and never resisted.  I worked hard, was responsible and dutiful. I don’t understand why my obedience never earned me the love of my parents.)

I started to cry, right there on Skype, on the floor of my hotel suite, in front of my computer screen.  Great hitching breaths, tears running down my face.

“I’m sorry!” I apologized.

“Nein!  You are a beautiful submissive woman, and what you have, for the offering, is very rare.  Your future husband should be keeping you in a closet, and beat you every day.  You need leading.  Like” he flapped his hand, trying to think of the word, “anchor.”

I was sobbing, yes, just sobbing on the Skype.  And, readers, you know I never cry.  Honestly, I cry maybe 6 times a year.  Ten times at most.

“You need some pain to focus you.  I am sorry, that I cannot do it myself.  Do you have the wood paddle?”

I sniffled: “Yes.”

“Bring it, please.”

I went to get my nice heavy wooden paddle.   I showed it to him on Skype.

“You need to take the pain where you have no wish.  Hit on the tits.  Five is good.”

Heinrich knows that I hate to be hurt on my breasts.  It’s a big deal for me.  Usually, I don’t even let men touch me there, even boyfriends, and I definitely don’t let men touch my nipples.  The Surgeon could, but he’s about it.

Well, I smacked my breasts five times, with the paddle, for Heinrich.  And it hurt, and I have mild bruising.

“Sehr gut!  Wonderbar!” 

And that was the session.  I don’t know how to end this blog post.

 

The Dinner Party

CONTENT WARNING!  CONTENT WARNING!

I keep everything on this blog Rated R.  I think I have only written two sexually explicit posts.  Well, this one’s the third.  It’s not exactly lurid, but it is very graphic by my standards.  It contains descriptions of sex and sadomasochism.  If you don’t want to read that, you should avoid this post.  Thank you.

*                                     *                                      *

I knew it something sexual was going to happen, but I didn’t know when.  Heinrich had it planned out in advance, but, naturally, he didn’t share his plans with me.   It was a surprise.

We’d just finished a light supper at his friends’ apartment in Brooklyn.  There were four of us seated at the table–Heinrich, myself, and our hosts, who were a couple.  What can I say about them that won’t compromise their privacy…?  The man was tall and dark-haired and worked in the arts.  The woman was a redhead, a true redhead, with long springy hair and freckles on her arms.

I’d just met them both for the first time.  I went with Heinrich to their apartment.  Heinrich carried a bottle of wine, and I bought a bouquet of flowers.

I felt an affinity with them when I stepped into their home: it was full of books and musical instruments.  The woman helped us with our coats and hanged them in the closet.  I felt a little nervous, because I knew something was going to happen that evening.  Also, they were Heinrich’s age–10-15 years older than I, and obviously well-off.  Their apartment was spacious by New York standards and they had nice things. Internally, I geared myself up to practice some class drag: I can pass as bourgeois if I need to, at least superficially.

They were charming and gracious hosts.  The woman brought us drinks (I had tea) and propelled the timeline: first, drinks and a tour of the apartment (a custom that I’ve never understood–why show guests your entire house?), then conversation in the living room, where the man answered questions about his musical instrument.  We talked about music for a while.  Then the woman seated us for dinner, which was delicious but seemed catered.   There were several candles on the table of various heights.  Heinrich moved one closer to me to emphasize my décolletage. 

Now the plates were cleared and the others were drinking port, and I was wondering when it was going to happen.

Heinrich turned to me and told me to stand up, please.

“Pardon?” (for a fleeting moment, I thought that perhaps I was being asked to help with the dishes)

“Stand up, please.  From the chair.”

I did.

He stood up beside me and put his hands on both my shoulders.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

Here it is.  It’s time, I thought.

I nodded.  After Abduction Weekend, how could I not?  I knew he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.  But, still, the anticipation.

He slid the straps of my white dress over my shoulders and it fell in a puddle to my feet, chiffon and sequins.  Then I was standing there in my underwear and my stockings (I hadn’t worn a bra because of the cut of the dress, and my breasts are small).

The couple put down their glasses and clapped their hands a few times.  They were smiling.

I have no hangups at all about nudity, but suddenly I couldn’t face them.  I focused on a painting on the wall instead, behind the table.

“She is beautiful, yes…?”  Heinrich asked his friends.

“Oh, yes! Just wonderful!” said the man.

Heinrich grabbed my upper arm.  There was pressure in it this time.  He leaned in and nuzzled my neck.  I felt his breath on my skin.

“Recite, my dear,” he whispered.

My brain froze.  I stood still as a statue.  Then I remembered…from Abduction Weekend.

“Schön war ich auch, und das war mein Verderben,” I said, and I was so relieved that I remembered my line.

(“Fair I was also, and that was my ruin.” Faust, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe )

Heinrich led me away from the table by my arm, halfway across the dining room.

“Move onto the floor.  Onto the floor!” he said, pulling my arm down.

I dropped to my knees and went to place my hands behind my head, as I’ve been trained, but he told me to go all the way.  Hands and knees.

The couple had pulled their chairs away from the table.  They were staring at us, still smiling.  The guy in particular.  Heinrich put his shoe on my back, like a huntsman posing with a trophy.

“Crawl to him,” he said, and then he gave me a hard kick in the ass.

I started crawling…and then I heard the unmistakable sound of a belt being pulled out of a pair of trousers.  I’ve heard that sound many, many times in my life.  Oh, the belts I have known!

I knew it was coming before it actually hit me: Heinrich belted me.  It hurt and made a loud snap.  I yelped.

“Crawl to him!  Make it sexy!  Make it good!” he roared.

I focused on my movements and dropped lower to the floor.  Now, I was looking at the couple’s shoes.  I focused on his.  They were black loafers.

I crawled all the way across the room, with Heinrich beating my ass every step of the way.  The sound of the belt was the loudest thing in the room, much louder than the Mozart in the background.  After the first hit, I didn’t yell, though I exhaled hard.

When I got in between his knees, I cautiously looked up at him.  Ah, yes, the familiar pose.  I’ve spent a lot of my sex life on my knees, looking up at a man.

At least I knew where this was going.

“Do you like her?” Heinrich asked his friends, the man specifically.  The couple were looking down at me and holding hands.

“She’s perfect,” he said.

“Ask him for it!  Beg him!”  Heinrich said, and belted me again. “Beg him!  Grovel!”

(Heinrich’s English isn’t perfect, but he knows all the words pertinent to his sexual proclivities.  I mean, how many Germans would know the word grovel?)

I asked the man if I could suck his cock.  Please.  I made eye contact.  It was humiliating.

“Beg more!” Heinrich roared behind me.

Dignity has its charms, but this was neither the time nor the place: I started to beg.  Just like Oliver Twist, asking for more.  Please please please, may I blow you, Sir?

“Go ahead,” he said, and my hands flew to the button of his trousers.   I unzipped his fly and then exposed his penis.  He was hard as a rock.

I went to work.

Heinrich finally came out from behind me and stood by my side.  He leaned over and kissed the woman.  I saw it out of my peripheral vision.

“Remember, I don’t do pain like her,” I heard her say (referring, obviously, to me).

“For you, I will be gentle, very gentle,” I heard Heinrich say.  They kissed again.

She got up from her chair, and he picked her up off the ground, holding her in his arms. He carried her to a sofa in the adjoining room.  It was within eyesight.

I was wondering about this moment–how I’d feel inside, knowing he was making love to someone else.  I am not a jealous person at all, but I’d wondered if it would still hurt me somehow.  Sometimes you can’t control if you feel hurt or jealous, even though you know it’s not rational.

It didn’t hurt (thank God).  I had a partial view of them, reflected in one of the mirrors on the wall.

Even when he was bent over her, fucking her, her head with its coils of red hair nestled in his armpit, he was almost completely focused on me.

He stared at me the entire time.  And he looked hungry.

An Education

        Torture is all hierarchy intensified, magnified, brought back to its archetypal and most brutal level, the archaic pairing of master and slave.  Anachronistic, oversimplified, all gradation, nuance, and shade proscribed.  It is to create categories essentially artificial and fraudulent; ahistorical in this time, even if created through the medium of technology, bureaucracy, up-to-the-minute gadgetry.  Not only atavistic and throwback but the product of costumerie.  Cheap dramatization, sordid enaction, posturing; the torturer permitted to release and enact the most ephemeral fantasy, to do the unthinkable.  Things imagined, dreamed of, joked about, acts that exist only in language or fantasy.  All that does not, must not, cannot take place.  The putative world, the shadow place, acts merely contemplated, notions so insubstantial as to be dismissed, pictures that float through the mind, glimpses of rage or evil only guessed at, intuited; the spectral and illusionary.  
    
       Grounded only in the scream of his victim, for whom it is all real.  Only this reaction could convince the one who commits the cruelty that it is actual, does not exist merely in the realm of the anticipated, but is in fact material, is taking place.  And as that unheard-of permission is granted by the state–enjoined in fact, indoctrinated, commissioned–the sensibility of the torturer is unleashed.  Whatever it be, whether subtle or simple viciousness.  Refined, educated, sensual, ascetic, angry, satisfied.  Or gross, ignorant, repressed, vulgar, gleeful or furious.  Nourished by the culture which sends him forth, primed on violence, steeped in hatreds, spurred on by extra pay, further privilege and prerequisites, additional indoctrination, specialized training.  
                                             —from The Politics of Cruelty 
                                                Kate Millett 

      I have read books about the history of torture in jurisprudence, but I have not studied it–torture–otherwise.   I suppose this is an unforgivable oversight, given my vested interest in the subject matter.  Heinrich was taken aback, and promptly set about patching this embarrassing hole in my education.  He has about a hundred and sixty books on the subject, plus a metal file cabinet of journal articles and documents from the academic literature and organizations like Amnesty International and The Red Cross.  

         “Ever had a client ask you what’s up with all the morbid subject matter?”  I asked.  

         “Well, there is a reason I do not store them at eye level, ja?”

(11) Suspension

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         Suspension is a BDSM activity that I expected to love, but didn’t. 

         I thought it would be fun.  I knew it would be challenging…but in a fun way.   It certainly photographs well–I think images of suspended models look amazing.  Suspension seemed like it would be a mind-trip, one of those things that would get you in touch with your body right away, while you went on an interesting tour of painful sensations that changed on a minute-to-minute basis.  I knew that I liked rope bondage fine, and I always felt comfortable with tight, restricting clothing, like corsets.  I was convinced that suspension and I would be made for each other!   Awwww, a perv and her jute rope, happy together at last!  How romantic! 

          I learned very quickly that I couldn’t hang (pun most certainly intended).  Whatever it takes to make a bona fide rope slut, I don’t have it.  

          I was expecting it to hurt.  A lot.  I was also expecting the pain to change, from one sensation to another, according to the pressure on the rope and how I directed my concentration.  I expected my mind to have more control over it.  I expected it to be, I don’t know, interesting.   Why not?  A good beating can be very interesting.  You can learn a lot about yourself, or someone else, over the course of a beating.   Why should suspension be any different?

         Well, it is.  At least it is for me.

         The minute your body weight is supported exclusively by the rope, the countdown starts.  Time is running out.  To the point where the pain is going to become absolutely unbearable.  Breathing in the rope harness feels difficult and there is the illusion of suffocation.  The heartbeat hurts and you can feel the throb in your extremities.  Every place the rope bites in hurts and burns, and it’s impossible to shift and get comfortable.  I’ve found that I can last longer if I imagine that my body is a bean bag and I collapse into the rope without clenching up or resisting, but in the end, it becomes unbearable. Suspension is an endurance test designed by a sadist.   I’ve read online that shibari was developed as a method of torture.  I have no idea if that’s historically accurate, but I certainly believe it’s possible.  Tie someone in the right position and leave them for a few hours, and they’d do or say whatever you wanted.  You wouldn’t have to cut them or smash up their bodies or any of the other messy alternatives.  

            The only thing that can distract from the pain of suspension is different pain.  Pain is the only thing.  Pleasure is out of the question; some people claim to be able to have orgasms in suspension, but I sure as hell can’t.  Nor can I have a thoughtful dialogue.  Getting single-tailed, or a cattle prod on the soles of my feet, well, that takes my mind off the pressure in my chest for a minute (but only for a minute).  

           Heinrich has an O-ring in his ceiling.  A thing he’s been known to do is tie my chest in a harness, and then tie and lift a leg behind me, much like this (there’s always an additional support above the knee of the tied leg, too):

Thank GOD you have a leg to stand on, huh?!


          The weight is now partially supported by balancing on the ball of the foot.  The only thing that is keeping all that rope from biting in and becoming excruciating, unbearable, is the foot you are using for support.

          It gets better!  Instead of balancing on the floor, like this young lady in the picture, you are standing on a very unstable 3-legged stool.  

         How long can you perch there….?  And what will you endure to hang on…?  To keep that stool under your foot…?

         The answer is: a lot, because almost anything is better than dangling in space by your chest.  

         It gets positively ridiculous, especially in retrospect, because there’s no way to “win.”  You’re just playing little games and enduring different sorts of pain in order to avoid falling off the stool.  Not falling off the stool becomes the sole focus of your life’s ambition.  Things in the world become very simple.  In fact, the world ceases to exist beyond the room.  Sometimes he likes to talk, but pain and endorphins clog your brain, and you can’t follow very well.  Sometimes he has to repeat himself, and that doesn’t work out too well for you either.  

          In the end, you always fall.   The ending was never in doubt.

                                *                                *                          * 

Here are some cool images I found while searching for the one I used in the blog post.   Enjoy em while you can; Blogger is making all its bloggers (including ME!) take down all “adult content” March 23.  I’d call them assholes, but it’s a free platform, and they can do whatever they want.  

     This would be a great image if it wasn’t for the douche on his computer!  I’ve seen wooden frames like that set up in people’s houses and garages.


         This one’s been blogged to hell and back, but it’s never been posted on my blog before.  Great model, great rigging, great photograph.  Very interesting.  I’ve never seen anything like it. 



Photographer: Heiner Weichert
Modell: Mode-Yo

(8) “Margo, Your Baby is Ugly.”

      “Margo, I think your blog needs to be updated,” Heinrich said.

      “But I’m already posting every day!

      “I mean the presentation.  The design.  Ways for your readers to interact with it.”  

        “You don’t like it?”  I felt like someone just me that my baby was unattractive.  “You said you liked my blog!”

        “Aside from the anxiety it causes me to have, and the interesting men you have met from it, I like it fine.  I think it is one of the best blogs on the internet.  The delivery should be better.  It looks amateur.  It looks like you are using MySpace or LiveJournal.”

           “But it is an amateur blog!  I write it for myself!  For free!”  

          “It is your–” he waved his hand, trying to find the word, “–vehicle for self-expression on the internet.  It ought to look as good as possible.  Why the hell did you decide to use blogger?   Why not WordPress?”

           “WordPress was too intimidating.  Blogger is like training wheels for people who are phobic of code.  It’s impossible to fuck it up.”

            “Well, there you are.  Even still, it can be improved.   It does not have to be fancy.  It is better if it looks like a serious project.  Pride in the presentation.  You work on it and show it to the public.  It is not a diary you are hiding underneath the bed.”

           “I don’t know…I think that part of the appeal of my blog is the unaffected intimacy.  I think my 8 readers appreciate that.”

          “Please!  This is like a hipster musician saying that if he uses a better guitar, he will lose his authenticity!  That the inferior quality of the recording gives to it the charm and the credibility!

           Well.  I had no idea what to say to that.   He had a point.

            “If a professional comes to your blog and is interested to read the best of the writing there, where does he see it?  If he wants to interview you, how does he contact you?  You need a contact button.  If I want to share this post, how can I share it?  Am I made to cut-and-paste it into the body of an email?  Too frustrating.  

            It needs the improved and attractive presentation with a user-friendly interface.  It should be as clear as possible.  The organization, is rational, and–” he flapped his hand, “–intuitive.  Better tags.  The tags are not so very helpful.”

           “It’s disorganized because it grew that way.  When I started it, I had no idea where it would go, or for how long.”

          “I understand.  Margo’s internet blog garden, growing wild and free with the nature!”

             He rapped his desk with his knuckles.

             “Impose the order upon it.  Make it better.  Improve it.”  

            “Jesus Christ, Heinrich!  No need to be so intense.  We’re not developing new technology for the Pentagon.”

            Is he right?  Does this place need a makeover and friendlier user interface?  Does it look worse than I think it looks?

(4) Margo Receives Marching Orders

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Used to be his Avitar/profile pic on Fetlife.  He said I could post it.  And it’s gone now–you won’t find it there.

     I received some surprise packages in the mail today.   Heinrich sent them.  I could tell they were books when I picked them up, but I had no idea what they’d be.

Do you think he’s trying to tell me something?


         (He did not give me the daddy owl and owlet.  Owls were mine.  The heart-shaped box had something interesting inside of it, too, but I need to ask before sharing with the class.)

         The 30 blog posts can be about anything.  For this assignment, he doesn’t care what I write as long as I write it on time.  

         Following this, he wants me to submit two pieces of writing for (possible) publication weekly, or bi-weekly if the pieces are especially lengthy or require significant research.  One of those must be professional, i.e. for money.  

         If the attempts at publication are unsuccessful (rejected), there is no penalty.   Failure to submit work for publication will be penalized, however.*  In other words, Heinrich will give me an A for effort as long as I produce content on a regular basis and try to get it out there.  

        I wrote academic content on demand for many years.  Surely copywriting can’t be more difficult?

       Writing is my only significant talent.  I’ve never tried to do it for money.   I could at least try.   I am not going to be a professor.  I could still be a writer, though.   

        So.  Time to try.  NEW PROJECT!

       More daily blog posts first, though.  I’ve already received questions via email and comments!   Thanks!  Feel free to send more!
    
        *I have no idea what the penalty would be.  Should I ask?

(1) 30 Blog Posts in 30 Days

     ….everything was going so well.  

      I being a little tornado of industry: 40 hours a week editing emails and working my spreadsheet magic at the Office Monkey job, teaching my teenaged scholars two nights a week, and doing 10 hours of miscellaneous work for a local attorney whose regular paralegal is out on maternity leave.  My decision to quit academia inspired me to teach the fuck out of the material: I got two new positive reviews on ratemyprofessors.com.  Group therapy for recovering addicts twice a week, AA two mornings more, almost daily discussions with people (including, to my happiness, my old professors, who have not branded me a traitor for jumping ship) about changing careers…I got the car…yeah, things were going okay.

        Then the Italian office supply company was purchased by some assholes who restructured HR.  

       I was laid off with 48 hours’ notice.  Then they changed their minds and asked me back for a day.

       Then….gone.

       I know it was a temporary job, and nothing that I wanted to keep anyway, but…a week’s notice would have been nice.   I feel bad for complaining, though, because three other people got sacked along with me, and they are older than I am with families to support.

       I didn’t take it very well.   I started acting out almost immediately.  

       The first thing I did was check into a hotel for 3 days.  The good news is that it hardly cost me anything, because all of that professional and recreational whoring around in New York earned me about 13 billion Expedia points.  

        “I’m thinking about going back to sex work,” I told my counselor.  “Just for a little while.  Until I find something else.”

         “You know, one of my co-workers was an escort.  She got arrested and the board suspended her license.  She had to petition to get it back and attend all these hearings and stuff.  It took almost two years.  I can give you her card if you want to talk to her about it.  I think you just need to take it easy, apply to two jobs a day, watch a lot of Netflix, and not make any big decisions right now.  And get out of that hotel room.  It’s not a safe place for you.”

           “I’ll go to San Francisco.  I have a car now.  It’ll be safer there.  Nobody knows me!”

             Later that evening:

             “You vant to do VAT?!”   Heinrich groaned into the webcam, holding one hand over his eye, like he had a terrible headache.  “Margo, you vill NOT run away to San Francisco and become a prostitute!”

               “Hey!  Not full-service!  Fetish work!  I do fetish work!  There’s a market in the Bay Area!  I’ve lost 15 lbs!  I look great!  I could go on the weekends and be back in class on Tuesdays!”

              “Vat about your Plan?”

             “I can’t have a Plan if I’m unemployed!”

             “You are not unemployed!  You lost a job from an employment agency, vat, 3 days ago?”

              I went to the gym, lifted weights until muscle failure, and then went back to sleep at my mother’s house.  

              Then next morning, since I still had the room till noon, I went back to the hotel and sent Heinrich an email.  It was a personal email, so I won’t reproduce it here, but the crux of it was:  Take the keys, I’m drunk. 

               (Note: not actually drunk.  I’m still totally dry and taking my Antabuse medicine every morning.)

                He texted me a response almost immediately, before he went home to write an email:  Yes, of course.  I thought you would never ask. 

               (Another note: the man’s been batting 1000 since the Holidays, and I’m paranoid enough to wonder about it.) 

              He put me on a schedule.  Blogging is part of it, so here it is: 30 blog posts in 30 days.  

              We’ll see how it goes.

Visiting Heinrich: Argument, Snarking, Theatrics & Questionable Manhandling

   This is the continuation of my visit to see Heinrich.  I’d just shown up at his house with a potted plant and then hid in the bathroom to avoid awkwardness. 

    
   I was talking–probably more like jabbering, as I was nervous and self-conscious and he was standing there with an intense, morose look on his face–when he suddenly leaned in, grabbed my upper arms, and kissed me.

      Now, I don’t know the scientific name for this particular dude makeout-tactic, but I’m sure that every woman reading this will know exactly what I’m talking about.  In my mind, I think of it as The Swoop Kiss: you are engaged in dialogue, or watching something nearby, and a guy rushes in and plants one on you.  I think men think it’s dashing or something.  You see it a lot in movies. 

         It irritated me.  It made me a little angry because he was forcing a reaction, and, well, what am I supposed to do with this…?  If I kiss him back, it’s going to be interpreted as approval or encouragement of the behavior.  If I stop him, it’s taken as a rejection.  Why should I be put on the spot like this, and worry about hurting his feelings when he’s the one antagonizing the situation?

        And here’s something else: I hate it when men interrupt me or talk over me.  It’s a pet peeve of mine…a sore spot, actually.  It got to the point where I started calling men on it in seminar.  

       I pulled my head back.  My arms were held stiffly at my sides.

      “Heinrich, come on,” I said. 

      He stopped and looked down at me.  I didn’t have my shoes on, so he was taller than I was.  He was still holding my upper arms.

      “What…?   What, hmm?”  he asked, but apparently it was a rhetorical question, because he didn’t wait for me to answer.  Instead, he kissed me again.

       I did something I’ve never done before: I bit his mouth.  I did it without thinking, and I did it fast.  I gave him quite a nip. I was surprised at myself.

        He stepped back and raised one of his hands to his mouth.  His forehead was all bunched up, surprised.  “Margo!  What was that?”

        “You know better than that.  What’s the matter with you?”

      “Ah! So you do not like for me to kiss you.  Yes?  You do not like me, when I am gentle to you.  You only like it when I hurt you.  That is what I am useful for, yes?”

         Oh, well, call the poor man a WHAAAMBULANCE!  I thought.

         “Of course!  Of course!  What else are you good for, Heinrich?”  I yelled at him.  

          …and, in doing so, I made an error.  His grasp of English is very good, and while he understands the spoken word quite well, he doesn’t always “get” sarcasm.  He doesn’t recognize it.

          So, I guess he took me seriously.  

          There was a little snarky back-and-forth.  I pointed out that his lip was red and slightly swollen where I bit him.  I said that it looked really butch and he ought to tell all the people at work that he got in a fight with a geriatric Jewish French professor.  He shot back that that if I’d traveled all this way to enjoy his sexual expertise I’d done myself a disservice by not telling him that and giving him the time to think up something really special.  

            Oh, I know, I know all about it, I am a professional, after all, I said in a jeering tone of voice, yeah, not my proudest moment, I cringe remembering it now, so unbecoming of me: I don’t know how many times I had to explain to clients who rolled in off the street that there was no way I could execute some 3-ring circus of a session if I only had five minutes to plan it out and get ready! 

             I was actually hurt, but I didn’t want to show it, and I was angry, too, and upset and surprised that things had gotten ugly.  I’d never seen Heinrich in a temper before is when he had the Friend-Zone Meltdown on Skype, so this was a new experience.  I know that friends have fights sometimes, but I’d never had one with him before.  

         I should have called time out, and sat down in another room.  I should have said, we are getting off to a bad start here, let’s start over.  But I didn’t, and he didn’t either.  I wonder why?

       “Well, Margo, if that is what you want of me, I will do my best,” he said.  He was smiling, but it was a bitter smile, like the smile you have when you tell your neighbor that OF COURSE you don’t mind if their son practices the drums in the garage every Sunday morning. 

           “I have no doubt of it!  When did you have in mind?  I have to say, when I got here, you didn’t seem too keen on dinner,” I said.

         And with that, he grabbed me, turned me around, and threw me over his desk.

         Now, I have had sex, and been beaten, on a few desks in my day.  Very handy pieces of furniture, desks.  I’m a fan.

          However, I had never been treated to the full, operatic surface-clearing gesture that always accompanies these scenes in cinema.  You know, where the papers flutter and the books fall off the edge and the guy shoves the phone off the desk to make room.

          Heinrich swiped over a pile of catalogs and a jar full of pens, which went flying, and knocked over the desk lamp.  I tried to catch it, but by the time I saw it start to fall, it was too late: it went right over the edge.  I heard something break (that shit looked expensive, too.  Isn’t it amazing how expensive lamps are?), and then the light binked a few times and went out.

         “Oh shit!” I said.

           And then I laughed. 

          You never, ever want to laugh at a man in a tense sexual situation.  Men don’t take it well, as the ghosts of many murdered girlfriends and sex workers could easily tell you.  I was laughing at  the murdered lamp, but he didn’t know that.  He thought that I could have been laughing at anything

            He grabbed my hair in his fist and got between my knees and gave my head a little shake.  “Is this better for you?  You like this, yes?”

        His face was up close to mine.  I was a bit taller than him, because I was sitting (mostly) on the desk.  

        “Do not bite me again,” he said, and pulled my hair back.  He had an impressive handful.  It hurt.  I didn’t care at all. 

        “Go ahead and try it.  Try it and see!”

         It was pretty interesting, watching Heinrich do the calculus in his head for that decision.  I’m not sure what I would have done it his position.  Quite a risk, there, either way.  He almost went for it.  His face came in, and I’m sure it wasn’t a feint…but then he thought better of it, and pulled back.

        “Think I’d bite your mouth off?”
         He swore under his breath, reached across his body with his left hand, grabbed my arm, and and flipped me over.  I fell off the desk a little and got my feet on the floor.  I’d have bruises on the backs and front of my thighs the next day, from where the edge of the desk dug into my flesh.  He didn’t let go of my hair.

         “What should I do with that mouth?  Should I put a cage on it, like an angry dog?”

           “There’s nothing to bite facing this direction,” I told him.  

           The situation was fucked up and ridiculous, and the interesting thing was that I was not afraid, even though everything had the potential to be dangerous for me…dangerous for both of us, really.  We were pushing each other instead of communicating, I had no idea what he was thinking, whatever the hell was happening could not even be called a spontaneous BDSM scene.  It was the sort of situation where people could do and say things they don’t mean and really regret later.  

           …and I wasn’t scared.  I’d felt considerably more anxious when I was hiding in his bathroom. 

           CONCLUSION TOMORROW.  I want to be sure he’s comfortable with it.
      

Mystery Assignment!

         SQUEEEEEEEEEE!!!

        Heinrich gave me an assignment…!

        A MYSTERY assignment!

        I have a paper of writing.  I have to copy it down in my handwriting and mail it back to him.  I don’t know what it is that I’m writing because it’s in his language.  I recognize some words, but I can’t read most of the sentences.  I can’t use my old textbooks or the Google translator.  I can’t ask my old German professor, either (“Trust me.  You do not want your professor to read this,” said Heinrich).  

       I’m going to copy it down right now.  I wonder what will come of it!  Heinrich has something planned.  He’s quite a planner, this one.

       EEEEEEEEE!

Visiting Heinrich (Margo Brings a Poinsettia & Hides in Bathroom)

      I was at the hotel in time for check-in.   The hotel was notable because it is the only 4-star hotel in Manhattan in which I have not had professional BDSM sessions, crazy dates, or marathons of violent sex with my ex, the Surgeon.  I love hotels, absolutely love them, but for me, the hotels of New York are haunted with emotional memories and the ghosts of sessions past.  I could tile my bathroom floor with the hotel keys I’ve collected over the years.  If there is a hell, and it’s like the one in Dante’s Inferno, I’ll be lugging a clanking 25-lb bag of BDSM gear through endless hotel corridors in a pair of skyscraper stilettos.

       Checking in was a different experience because it was the first time in a LONG time that I didn’t feel like I had a blinking neon sign above my head saying SEX WORKER or HOME-WRECKING WHORE (protip to any sex worker or sleazy adulterer reading this: after a modest and conservative business suit, the best thing to wear when checking in is a pair of hospital scrubs.
Mention you want an isolated room because you’re working on call or on rotation.  Wear a pair of crocs if you got em.  Hotel staff will give you a credibility pass.).  

           Anyway…where was I?  I checked in.  The room was large by NYC standards.  It had a couch and a table (the furniture was beautiful but not conducive to BDSM rigging…it’s The London in Manhattan if you want to look it up).  I would be able to have friends visit me there if my time with Heinrich didn’t go well. 

        I texted Heinrich to let him know I was in the room.  I took a photo of the view out the window and sent it to him.  He called me back and we agreed to meet at his place at 6 pm.  He sounded pleasant and calm on the telephone.  He did not sound nervous.  I was nervous, but tried not to show it.  He said that if I was hungry from the long flight, we could go get something to eat. 

        Dinner in public sounded fine to me.  Neutral ground.  People usually mind their manners in public. Lack of privacy forbids certain topics of discussion. If the meeting goes bad, you know that an end is in sight with the check.  If you’re a girl, you can escape to the bathroom to cry or text your girlfriends or throw up your dinner or just run out the back door, all of which I have done many, many times in my life.  

          I took a bath in the big bathtub.  I washed my hair and shaved and then put on lotion.  I did not know what to wear.  What do you wear?  It wasn’t a date.  Was it?  This is a problem.  If you wear the lacy thong underwear, you are admitting that you expect to get laid. Or at least that you expect someone to see it.  But if the date is bad and nothing happens, then you will feel like a chump when you take it off later that night, alone, all alone! 

        I wore a blue woolen dress that was tight but didn’t show skin.  That way if things became excruciating, I would not be sitting there with cleavage.  Working in the sex industry (lots of risque clothing and outrageous costumes) and as a figure model has left me very un-selfconscious (sp?) about modesty, but it is never pleasant to be under-dressed in the presence of a hostile heterosexual male.  

       I curled my hair pretty and did my makeup.  I was listening to NPR in the background because I didn’t want any shit that was going to make me emotional.  I charged my phone and cleaned out my handbag, locking most of my stuff in the hotel room safe. 

        Then I left the hotel and took the F train to Brooklyn.   I stopped at a corner grocery along the way and bought Heinrich a poinsettia.  Because it was the Holidays, and because it’s rude to show up without a gift.  

                           *                             *                             * 

           It was dark and fucking freezing when I got to his place.  I was a little anxious, I admit it.  I was thinking that we were going to go to dinner and catch up and act all friendly, and Pretend as if the Infamous Friend-Zone Meltdown Had Never Happened, and it would be weird, but not awful.  Or maybe we could put off Discussing Important Things for a few hours.  Or something.  Worst-case scenario: he makes some grand romantic gesture that turns out to be totally humiliating for both of us….possible, but very unlikely, as we are both too old and wise.  

        (The other worst-case scenario, lurking uneasily in the back of my mind: he has too much to drink, corners me when we’re alone, and lectures me about what a bitch I am for leading him or and/or hurting his feelings.  Almost every woman I know has been dressed down for rejecting a man, even if that rejection was unintentional or happened only in his imagination.  I did not think that Heinrich would do this, because it’s a weak, petulant, and immature behavior, and I don’t know Heinrich to be any of those things.  But I was also telling myself that maybe I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.  Right?)

           So, yeah, I was nervous when I rang the bell.

           He opened the door and I gave a big, cheerful smile and held up the poinsettia:  “Heinrich!  Happy New Year!”

          “Margo.  You are here.  Please come in.”

          Uh-oh, I thought.  Dude does not sound happy. 

        Heinrich is a reserved personality.  It’s not like he’s going to open the door and loud rock music from his stereo is going to come out and he’s going to give you a hug and shove a beer in your hand.  But when he’s in a good mood and entertaining, he projects warmth.  I wasn’t seeing that.  I wasn’t even seeing Nice-Smile-Covering-For-Nerves, which is what I had on.

           I walked inside, and he closed the door behind me. 

          “I brought you a poinsettia!” I said, as if it were not completely obvious.  I felt like an idiot.  At the same time, I thought, oh thank God I bought this plant, now I don’t have to decide whether or not I should touch him. 

           “It’s lovely.  Thank you,” he said, and took it from me without looking at it.  I checked out his clothes.  He was wearing gray slacks and a blue shirt.  He didn’t look like he’d dressed up for me, thank God.  He wasn’t wearing jeans, but then, I don’t think that he owns any.  

          He did not have on shoes.  Uh-oh.  We need shoes to go out.

         He asked if he could take my coat. 

          “Do we have time?  What time is the reservation?” I asked.

         “Eight.”  When I first met him, he was new and had a habit of giving the time in military time, like they do over there.  

          Well, hell.  Two hours away.

           I took off my gloves and put them into my coat pockets and took off my coat and scarf.  Heinrich put the plant down on a table and hung up my coat.  He did not compliment me on my dress.  I did not know what to think of that.  

           “Would you like something to drink?”  He sounded serious.  Oh, yes.  The man had something on his mind.  He sounded almost sad.  It reminded me of when T-Rex came in the room with the sad face to give me bad news.  

           “Water!” I said.  

           Then I ran away and hid in the bathroom.

           I stayed in there as long as I could.  I heard him get water out of the fridge.  He has one of those automatic water-filters.  Then I heard him walk past the hallway where the bathroom was, and into his other room, with his desk and the library.   He did not turn on music or anything.  

         I ran the water to make it sound like I was doing something.

         True story: if his bathroom window was big enough, I think I would have opened it and jumped out.

          Instead, all I could do was sit behind the door with my ear to the crack, wondering where he was.

          “Margo?” he called.  Closer to the door, this time.

         “Yes?  What is it?”

         “Do you need anything?”

          “I had something in my contact lens!  I’ll be right out!” I lied.  Then I flushed the toilet that didn’t need flushing and washed my hands.   Then I took out my Visine and put it in my eye so that it would look like I really was messing around with my eyeball.

            Then it was time to face the music.  As it were.

            I walked down the hall and into the library room, where he was standing against his desk.  He has his hands in his pockets.  And he looked Very Serious.

             “So, did you have fun with your friends on New Year’s?”  I asked, with the smile back on my face. 

           “You were hiding from me.”