Overstimulated

      Long time, no blog–for me, at least.  

      I’ve been listless, and the last week has been very weird.  I’ve been working hard.  It’s the end of the semester, so of course my students want to see me.  Two shifts a week at the Studio.  Five independent appointments. 

       After I got back from Thanksgiving, I was telling myself that I needed to hustle.  Two weeks’ lost wages from the Hurricane, then part of a week with the family for Thanksgiving, and the cost of the plane tickets…it was time to get back to business.  I’ve been very aggressive about it.  As I’ve written on this blog recently, if I’m going to do this, I ought to Go Big.  Why fuck around?  I’ve cultivated an impressive skill set and I still have most of my looks. 

      It’s been lucrative.  But also very weird.  Not necessarily bad, though there have been moments of distinct unease…but weird.  

      Let’s take a moment to quote from Hunter S. Thompson:

“No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride…and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well…maybe chalk it off to forced conscious expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.”

         (We all know what happened to Hunter Thompson.)
      
       I knew the stress was getting to me when I started forgetting what day it was…(that reminds me of how it was sometimes when I was drinking).  Another afternoon I was in the library at Stevens Tech working with a student, and this needy demanding secret job guy blows up my Batphone, all agitated and wanting my attention.  I muted the phone and soldiered on, but let me tell you, it is stressful when compartmentalization fails and people break into parts of my life where I do not want them and they do not belong.  

      Needy demanding agitated client is a psychologist, by the way.  I find this blackly ironical.  Perhaps you will, too, gentle reader.  I am cutting this guy loose this week.  Sayonara, buddy!  

     The hunger hasn’t been good for my mood, either.  I may as well say it–it’s been 1000 kcal and the gym every day.  Not the most sober behavior.  I tell myself that it’s not quite disordered behavior, it’s more like a crash diet.  The results have been satisfying, but the hunger is difficult to cope with.  It’s very intrusive.  

      I need a plan.  That’s what I need–a plan.  

      On that note, I’m going to jump in the shower and start the beauty rituals.  Appointment with Mr. Wolf in a few hours.   

FRANKENSTORM and Notes on Mr. Wolf’s Party

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   1:30 PM.  The rain is sprinkling, but nothing hard.  The wind has been building since 9 AM, though.

    I am going to write this and then try to take a nap.  I was up waaaay too late last night.  And you know me–unless I have insomnia, I am definitely an early bird!  

     WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

     Mr. Wolf is most fun guy I have ever met on (cheesy tacky internet kinky site redacted).  By far.  By God, I knew slogging though all those awful contact emails would pay off eventually!  

    I don’t know how someone can be this hedonistic and still be normal.  He’s probably not.  He’s probably some sort of sex maniac or something.  

     That’s okay.  I am, too.  

      (Sez Mr. Wolf, nibbling seafood civeche on toast: “You seem very bookish and proper, but there is something dangerous about you.  I’m intrigued!”)

      Oh man.  That was quite a party.  

Coffee table in the waiting room in heaven

      Guy was not shy at all.  He had empathy and social skills–I could see him checking in with me to get cues as to how to act–but he really put himself out there.  It to me a long time to learn how to assert myself on others like that.  It really is a skill–nobody wants a Top with confidence issues.  

      It might have helped that I rolled over like a friendly, docile Golden Retriever the instant he told me to do something.  I don’t understand SAMs, I really don’t.  You are never going to get what you want if you make it too difficult for someone to give it to you. If you want to be controlled, the only thing you have to do is obey.  Don’t resist.  And if you want to have some say in it: cooperate.   I’ve only had one personal in my life so far, but those were his first three rules.

ROAWR!!!  Bar, I hardly knew ye!

     
     The evening was way too busy to recount in detail (and I’m sleepy, and the rain is really kicking up outside), but I’ll tell you one of the BEST PARTS..


      ARRRRGH!  SQUIRMING IN JOY!!!

      Mr. Wolf bought brand new motorcycle boots and I got to kneel on the floor and take his old ones off and take the new ones out of the box and put them on!  Then I got to worship them and play with them and he pressed me all over the nice wooden floor with them.  

     Arrrrghhh I am demented!  Why do I like that so much?  I don’t know, but I do!  I do!  

     When he was in the restroom, I put on his awesome leather motocross jacket and rolled around in it.  Then I put it back before he came out.  

     In retrospect, I should have just asked him if I could wear it.  He probably would have let me frolic around in it all night.  

     FUUUUUN FUN FUN FUN

     And he gave me four episodes of Breaking Bad on a flashdrive to watch while I’m holed up today.  He says it’s really good.  

     So I am going to take a nap (if I can calm down now that I’m all worked up) and watch Breaking Bad and play with Parrot while Frankenstorm pounds on my door.  

     

FRANKENSTORM PARTY AT MR. WOLF’S!

     Mr. Wolf invited me over to his place tonight to celebrate our imminent doom in style.  

     “Want to have dinner in my neighborhood first, Little Red Ridinghood?” he asked.

      I peeked out my window.  “Are places still open in your neighborhood?  It’s getting awfully quiet around here.  And don’t you have to be at work early tomorrow?”

     “My office was evacuated!  I have the day off!  See you at ten.  And wear the same heels you wore last time!  I like them.”  

     Well, only if you twist my arm…!

     Getting paid to be dominated by a sexy hedonist in his luxury apartment.  There are worse ways to spend a Sunday evening. And the Surgeon’s out of town, so I’m safe.  

     Calling my Sponsor to reinforce my sobriety.  Then it’s time for big hair and fake eyelashes.  WHEEEEEEEEEEE!  

Fortune Favors the Bold II: The Wolf

        I met him in a crowded bar down the street from his apartment.   

         I was expecting a man in a suit, perhaps with a steroidal necktie knot and a real gold college alumni ring.  

      What I got (and he found me before I saw him, even though he’d never seen a picture of my face) was a guy with a buzzcut and a heavy gray-black motocross jacket.  It looked functional, too–this wasn’t some luxury imitation shit from Neiman Marcus.  

      “Hi.  Are you Margo?” he asked, as I stood searching the crowd.

      I said yes.

      “Nice to meet you!  How are you?  That pretty red coat–I like it.  Little Red Riding Hood!”  I was wearing my nice scarlet woolen pea coat. 

      Miss Margo’s blog Christens thee: The Wolf. 

      We went to be seated at a table in the back of the establishment, where we could talk.  

                   *                   *                       *                     * 

        We carried on for almost an hour.  He was warm, less restrained than myself.  An outgoing personality.  Seductive, but I didn’t detect predatory intent.  The topic turned to motorcycles.  

       “I’ll show you mine.  We’ll pass it on the way to my place.  Do you ride?” 

        “I learned how to, but no.  They’re a lot of fun, but I’m way too risk-adverse.”

        ” ‘Risk-adverse,’ eh?  You’re not so risk-adverse.”

        “What do you mean?”

        “If you were risk-adverse, you wouldn’t be here.  Shall we go?”

                *                             *                      *                   * 
   
          The Wolf had a damn impressive apartment.  It had real art in it (the joke around Margo Manor is that it is “full of worthless reproductions of priceless works of art,” hardy har har) and floor-to-ceiling windows.  I parted the blinds to check out the view while he regaled me with tales of his bizarre rich-person lifestyle (“When I was scuba diving, an octopus swam up and tried to take my camera!  Want to see the photos?”).

        Then it was time.  

        I ran an internal diagnostic of myself.  Everything was fine.  Nothing about this man alarmed me.  He seemed stable and transparent.  

       “How would you like to begin?”  I asked.

       “Take off your dress and serve me a drink.”

                      *                         *                          *                 * 
       
        J.T.’s Stockroom must send this man thank-you cards–actually, make that thank-you gift baskets–because he had cases and cases full of arcane, quality equipment.  Like electrical stuff with all these awesome attachments (I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I love playing with electricity.  It’s wild.  Nothing like it.).  He kept going to his bedroom closet (or wherever he was going when he left the room) and bringing out more fun tools. It was like Christmas morning, even though none of it was mine and I didn’t get to keep it.  

       He was definitely a Top, but he didn’t hurt me badly at all.  I was manhandled and thrown around then and there, but the next morning there were no signs of injury besides a swollen knot on the back of my scalp where he yanked my hair hard (at least, I think that’s where the swelling came from) and a small bruise on my back.  And a bruise on the knob of the protruding bone on my wrist–not sure how I got that–I think I might have knocked it against his coffee table.  

       This one is a different experience for me.  His demeanor, his personality, is different.  I can’t quantify it yet.  He’s emotional, or at least more emotional than me, which isn’t saying a whole hell of a lot. He’s creative, fluid.
         He was a hedonist.  I did not perceive that he was a sadistic wackadoodle.  And I say that as an unapologetic sadomasochistic wackadoodle.  He took control from the moment I said we could start, and the aura of authority was drool-inducing, but there was no oppression. 

     I’ll end this blog post now–I’m tired.  I didn’t know what to write.  This is such a strange topic and I don’t trust my feelings.    

Fortune Favors the Bold

    Update: 2:45 AM

     I’m home safe and sound.

      I will see this man again.

                   *                       *                   *                        *  

    Tonight I have an appointment with a fellow who wanted to hire a masochist.  I’ve never met him before.  I’m not sure exactly what he’s into, but he claims to be experienced and he agreed to my conditions, so I’m going to try it.  

      I’m always nervous about going to visit them on their home turf, which is why I seldom do it.  It’s a little funny that if I met this guy in a bar back when I was drinking and liked him, I’d go to his apartment without a second thought (not too bright, I know.  Remember Kiwi Bull Terrier?).

      We’re meeting at a restaurant close to his place first so we can assess mutual compatibility.  I’ll size him up.  If he seems shady or gives me bad vibes, I’ll call it off.  

       I typed his address into Google in order to get directions.  Holy shit!  Expensive building.  Really expensive.  

       I reread his email.  It’ll take me a while to get back uptown from Wall Street, it said.

       Patrick Bateman!  Patrick Bateman!  My mind screamed.

       Here’s to hoping he’s not Patrick Bateman.

       Fortune favors the bold.  Literally.