Guest Message from the Surgeon

      Guest Message from the Surgeon:

       Hey!  I’m not sure what you assholes think is going on here, but I am going to explain what is happening for you.  

        I am going to win this thing, because I must win at EVERYTHING!  Even a “Biggest Jerk” contest! I am not going to lose a ‘Biggest Jerk’ contest to some bush-league philanderer MATH GEEK who wears L.L. Bean and tasseled loafers.  

      His first wife ran off and left him.  How pathetic is that?  If a woman did that to me, she wouldn’t make it out the door–because she’d be dead!  NOBODY dumps me!  I always dump her!  Preferably in a painful and devastating fashion.  I do it because I hate my mother.  Revenge.  It’s all about revenge.  

      Anyway…you losers need to change your votes.  I am not losing this contest to the math geek.  As a gesture of my appreciation for your support, I will give you $0.50 off any surgical procedure.  No, I don’t take Medicare or Medicaid.  Are you out of your fucking mind?  What’s next?  Are we going to eat lunch at McDonald’s?  With the Math Geek?  

      What, do I need to persuade you?  Do you know who you’re dealing with?  Okay, fine: one time, in Miami, Miss Margo watched me get a valet driver fired from his job on the spot because he irritated me.  He cried.  It made me feel happy inside.  Triumphant! And the car wasn’t even mine, lol.  It was a rental. 

       When Miss Margo weighed 110 lbs and stopped menstruating, I thought that she looked great!  I encouraged her to get skinnier!  And you know that what I say goes! She was on a whiskey-and-pineapple diet for 2 years while she was in a Ph.D. program.  She’d pass out at school.  She looked beautiful and the sex was fantastic. 

        One time, I had her seduce my enemy at the major annual conference of my profession.  This made me feel very powerful.  I also humiliated my enemy’s protege when I was reviewing his research as a panel discussant. I savaged him mercilessly in front of two hundred people.  It took three people to mop up the blood when I was done. 

        Change your votes, people!  I am not going to lose to the Math Geek!  What is it going to take to get this done?  Money?  Do you need to hear from my lawyer?  What?  $0.50 off any major surgical procedure! 

        …..I will concede, however, that borrowing the cockatoo to bring over to Margo’s apartment was an idea so slimy and shameless that not even I could have come up with it.  So kudos on that one, Pythagoras.    

       Did I ever tell you that when I got tired of him, I dumped my Amazon parrot at the pound? 

        Change your vote.  I must win.  What, do I need to make you cry?

        Best regards,

       The Surgeon

       Miss Margo Note: The above was, of course, penned by me and it is satire.  A big joke.  Might be in bad taste.  I can’t tell.  The Surgeon really would sound like that, though.  I can channel him very well.  

      Me, I’m rooting for the Mathematician.  Or myself.  I am surprised that I haven’t gotten any votes, because I keep picking these assholes.  

       The Surgeon gave me money for tuition and textbooks when I needed it.  He also took me lots of places.  He could be nice.

Nightmare: Paris, Poodles, and Parrot

    Miss Margo Note:  This is a nightmare I had fairly recently…the last time I saw the Mathematician, actually.  Boy oh boy, did my analyst have fun with this one.  

     It’s deeply personal, but also pretty funny, in a grotesque sort of way, so I’m sharing it.  Enjoy.  



   I dreamed that I was a prostitute living in Paris.  I had a small French poodle with its fur styled in the elaborate classic poodle haircut.  I used pink food coloring to dye parts of the poodle’s fur pink. 

     
    I had a pink dress the same color as my poodle’s fur.  I would wear the pink dress when I took the poodle out for a walk.  I saw other women wearing similar dresses and also walking died poodles—blue, green, purple.  Poodles of all different colors.  Their dresses matched the colors of their poodles.

     My died poodle gave men an excuse to come up and talk to me.  They would want to ask me why I died my poodle pink.  Then I would tell them the nature of my labor, and decided whether or not to take them to my apartment.

     One day I received a package in the mail.  I opened the package and found the dried, shriveled corpse of my Parrot inside. She was shrunken; just skin and bones and her feathers. Around the bird’s neck was a tag with a telephone number on it. 
   
   I called the telephone number.  Someone on the other end of the phone picked up, but they didn’t speak.

      Suddenly, I heard someone knocking on my front door.
      
      I went to go answer the door.  I was suddenly full of fear.

     It was my murderer, there to kill me.  The one who sent me the package with my dead Parrot. 

      The killer looked like a man, but I think it was really a woman.  It killed me with a knife. 

Toil & Trouble

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    Thank you to the readers who sent me birthday greetings!  They meant a lot to me.

    Hectic week.  The semester is almost over and the slackers in my class have suddenly realized that they need to pull a miracle out of their asses in order to pass.  

     Lo, what is that strange apparition yonder, at the end of the hallway…?
  
     Is that….?

     Is that a student coming to my office hours for “help?”

     Teaching has kept me busy, but it will be over with soon, and then I’ll have a little break.

      I’ve also been writing.  A lot.  Not on this blog, obviously, even though I’ve had a plenty of things worth blogging about (I’ll try to get to them this morning).  

       I have been researching and composing a minor work of what I hope will qualify as true-crime journalism.  Nothing operatic–the essential facts of the case, sadly, are already sensational.  It is the story of a family whose beloved canine was stolen, sold, and eventually killed under hideous circumstances.  The perpetrator of this strange and senseless crime is a deeply unlikable young woman with a puzzling constellation of psychological disorders and several dead dogs to her credit. The grief-stricken family’s effort to bring her to justice produces shocking courtroom drama, as well.  Yes, yes, quite a story! My piece will be released on a different blog to which I am an occasional contributor.  If I am proud of it, I’ll publish in here on my little blog, as well.   

      I am trying to utilize my talent for this one.  To make my prose artful and my findings…ahhh…persuasive.  Cause it’s a hit piece. 
Not a drive-by, either.  I am going to get Mossad on this awful person.  Mossad post-Munich, if you catch my drift.

      I need to go back to working on it.

      First, though…to inject a little titillation into this boring-ass blog entry…

    ….C bought me my piece of awesome domme gear for going on the date with Alec! lol lol 

      I wear it with black snakeskin boots with gold buckles.  I really like it.  Yeah, it’s impractical, but sometimes you have to treat yourself, amirite?  Or have someone treat you, as the case may be.

      Now, in a case like this, a thoughtful try-to-be feminist like myself confronts a dilemma: I want to show you my cool metal bra (and, because it fits within the greater narrative of this blog, I don’t think it counts as totally tasteless exhibitionism), but is it more or less objectifying to myself to just show my chest….?  Thoughtful, conflicted pseudo-intellectuals want to know! 

Not responsible for grimy mirror.  That is some other chick’s locker.

I almost have cleavage here.  Huh.  Must be the lighting.

       It’s Spring in New York and the weather is excellent–too bad I’m chained to the desk toiling away.  My carpal tunnel is killing me.

       I hired a personal trainer.  A gift to myself, for my birthday.  To hell with yoga.  I’ve decided that I hate it.  It makes me feel fat and clumsy (which I am).  

     I bought a ton of books from a street vendor around NYC.  My intended recreational summer reading:

All this for less than $30!

books for sale


          The Mathematician came over and I kicked him out of my apartment.  “Get lost!”  I slammed the door on him, ha!

         Coward.  God I hate cowards.  You reading this, coward?  Hope you like it.  Did you tell your wife and marriage counselor that you came by my apartment, coward?

Babe and a Half

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     I found this photo reblogged on some tumblr.  I was so impressed with it that I wanted to repost it. 

   I have no idea who this woman is, but she looks like an awesome badassed bitch!  I really admire her presence. What a babe and a half. If I were a submissive dude, I’d be all over those boots.  She could kick me around all day.



   I have a thing for boots and male footwear.  The Surgeon had some really great shoes.  Actually, most of his wardrobe was fuckin fantastic.  

    …..aaaaand, my sex drive is back.  Friggin FINALLY.   After the Mathematician messed me up, I couldn’t bear the thought of being touched, and the good memories of our funsexytimes made my heart hurt so badly that I cringed to recollect them.  He slept in my bed. In my bed.  

    Well…at least he helped to put the Surgeon behind me.  At least that’s something

     Maybe later this summer, after I heal some more, I’ll be ready to try again.  Mister Right-for-Margo.  Master Right-for-Margo.  

      I’ll love him and we’ll be like this!

  

Crisis Averted by Wonderful Cab Driver

    Last night, Captain Cranium here left about $450 worth of bondage equipment and S&M gear in a briefcase in the back seat of a taxicab.  

    I didn’t even remember it until this morning, when I was tidying up and went to clean it and put it all away. 

    I. Almost. Flipped. My. Shit. 

    I have a separate set of equipment that I use in my personal life, with boyfriends (WHAT boyfriends these days, ha, ha?), but I sure as heck am not going to use that stuff with clients.  Nothing against clients, but I have to have boundaries, or else I’ll lose my mind. 

   (The last time I lost all my stuff was in a taxicab in Las Vegas in 2009.  At least that time I had the excuse of being drunk.)

    After debating whether it was worth humiliating myself, I called the cab company to inquire about getting my perv gear back.

     The benevolent cab driver had turned my briefcase in to Lost & Found.

      Oh, thank you Jesus.  Or whichever deity you do or do not believe in.

     Benevolent cabbie is getting a thank-you card with a crispy $50 bill inside.  And I am swinging by the garage to retrieve my kinky briefcase this morning after class.  I do not care if it’s embarrassing. Let them laugh.  

    P.S.  The Mathematician got busted for our HIS affair.  I guess he saved some of our sexy flirty text message conversations from January on his cell phone…presumably for wack-off material, but who knows?  Mrs. Mathematician read them.  The Mathematician let me know, in the event that she contacts me to, ahhh, inquire about him.  

    Sucks to be you, you selfish scumbag.  

    I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for THAT confrontation.  I’ve researched his wife.  She is an intelligent and accomplished individual.  I bet she rained down holy hell on him.  

     Actually…no, I don’t think I would have enjoyed witnessing it after all.  

     Because if the Mathematician is not a total idiot–and he’s not–he would lie his ass off about me and about the affair.  

     “She was just a sex worker.  I never spent the night.  I never stayed at her apartment.  I never encouraged her to care about me.  I never BROUGHT OVER A BORROWED BIRD.  She meant nothing to me.”

     Yeah.  That would hurt to hear…

    (Assuming that he’s telling the truth about getting busted by his wife.  My friend–the one who found him for me–thinks that he could be lying.  That it could all be a sympathy ploy.  “Miss Margo, my wife found out about us, she’s leaving me, I want to be with you, can I come over and get into your pants again?”)

     I can’t put anything past him.  Not after learning what I learned.

    I see you reading, scumbag.  Hope you like it. 

     P.P.S.  The Surgeon’s history.  He still pops his head up from time to time–or, more accurately, circles like the JAWS shark–but I think he’s finally history.  

     He had a few screws loose, and he could be abusive.  I remain fascinated by his capacity for cruelty and explosive aggression. Definitely not Boyfriend of the Year.  But he never mislead me.  He wasn’t pathetic.  And he sure as fuck would not stoop so low as to bring over a borrowed cockatoo.   

     At least he respected me more than that.  

     You are lucky, Mathematician, that I did not send him after you.  If I wasn’t worried that he’d pull an OJ on me, I would have. 
   

Time Heals

      Hi Party People…!  

      Don’t worry, I’m fine (well, sort of…I’m okay).  I know I’ve been neglecting the blog, but it’s been intentional.  I’ve been sorting through my feelings and trying to heal.  I just re-read February’s posts…God, the anguish and pain there is enough to make your hair turn white.  

     I feel a lot better, but frankly, I wish that was more complimentary.  I resent the fact that I still think about the Mathematician and what he did to me every day, and I wish that there was some way that I could evict him from my brain.  I resent that he takes up so much real estate in my mind and my heart.  

      I especially dislike that I still have such a diversity of memories and emotions for him.  It kills me that I fell in love with this lying scumbag.  It kills me.  

      It kills me that I still miss him sometimes, even though I don’t want him anymore. 

       It kills me that I sometimes still have really awesome, fun sex dreams about him.  I wake up from them and reality comes rushing back in and I become furious with the wretched perfidy of my own body.  I wish I could somehow pry his presence out me with a crowbar.  

       I try not to obsess, I really do, but on several occasions I have pored over our text message conversations and emails since, say, Thanksgiving…and the things that he said to me in order to foster my misconceptions really burn me up.  So much manipulation…

       I’m also bothered at the fact that I was laboring under the misconception that I was the partner in the relationship who had to prove to be trustworthy and righteous.  I thought that he was wholesome and innocent and sheltered.  I thought…I am poor and younger and not established, I have no property and almost no family, I need to prove to him that I’m a great emotional investment and not some flaky sex worker grifter! 

       Who turned out to be the grifter, hmmm…? 

        Not Miss Margo.  That’s for sure.

        To think that it never occurred to me that I was being manipulated and taken advantage of by an older man who is probably smarter than I am and who could have motives and a history far more sinister than I could ever imagine is unsettling.  Truly unsettling.  

         A few people I know, including my analyst, are inclined to give the Mathematician the benefit of the doubt–he really did fall in love with me, he got in too deep, he had no idea the relationship would go the way that it did, by the time he knew that he needed to tell me the truth it was too late, he fell in love with the fantasy, that he basically harbored no cruel intentions but he totally fucked it up.

       Unfortunately, I can’t believe that.  Too many red flags in our correspondence and what I found in his background.  If you could read the file in the safety deposit box, maybe it would be more clear…just take my word for it.  

      It’s a horrible feeling to know that you’ve been taken advantage of.  I think it’s one of the worst feelings in the world–right up there with being stolen from. 

                   *                         *                            *                     * 

       What else…?  I’ve been trying to stay busy.  I went to the Suspension fetish party on Sunday with a friend from the Studio and some others.  Suspension is, consistently, the best fetish event I’ve ever been to outside of the big annual balls in a few North American cities.  The venue is comfortable and upscale and the crowd is dressed to impress and authentically kinky.  Very few tourists or male doms in black jeans and fanny packs.  Thank God.  

      I don’t go to many parties, but when I do, I almost always go as a domme.  Single femsubs attract way too much sleazy, unwanted attention.  I’m not talking harmless flirtation here.  

     Because I was attending Suspension with some dominant female bodyguards, however, I thought it was safe to let the my freak flag fly.  
  
       I wanted to write more, but I’m at work and I’ve just been called away…if I can update later, I will.

     Don’t worry, the blog is not going away.  I just needed a breather to try to get my head on straight.  I’m feeling very inspired to write again recently.  

Crocodile Tears

Update 11:45   Am home, safe and sound.

*                                 *                            *                          *      

Well, I’m about to do something that I almost never do:  I’m going to see a client I truly dislike.  

      Not one of my prouder moments. 

      I sessioned with him once about six months ago, and once was enough.  This dude is ugly in every sense of the word.  He visits NYC from the West Coast and had a cold intelligence to him.  Usually the smart ones are delighted when Miss Margo, nerdy bookworm extraordinaire, raps on their door–I think they usually expect some scary tattooed stripper type who smokes in the elevator.  

     Not this guy.  He sized me up in about five minutes.  I could see his mind working, wondering what to do with me.  I could tell that he found my intelligence to be a liability. Usually I can charm them, if I put my mind to it, or ferret out some warmth or playfulness.  

    Not this one.  He’s crocodile all the way.  He wears a wedding ring.  No clue who his wife is, of course, but I suspect she needs xanax and scotch to get to sleep at night.  

   But it’s a short month, and I lost a week of productivity because I was messed up in the head over the Mathematician.  Almost two weeks, actually.  I went to my teaching job, but I was just going through the motions.  It’s a blur.  The only thing that I remember acutely is the grief.  I lost 11 lbs on the pain-and-insomnia diet, and I wasn’t even trying.  

       I still can’t believe he did that to me.  I felt like he threw me out of a goddamn window.  

     Anyway…tonight.  

     I’m usually not a clock-watcher, but tonight I’m setting the timer.  He gets 60 minutes of my time.  And I’m leaving my heavy artillery at home (did I mention it’s a sub session?).  He wants to hit me with something really substantial, he’ll have to produce it himself.  

     The rent’s not going to pay itself. 

      And with that: I’m off.

Sweet as My Revenge Part II

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Coriolanus has grown from man to dragon…
…when he walks, he
moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before
his treading: he is able to pierce a corslet with
his eye; talks like a knell, and his hum is a 
battery…

                  Coriolanus, Act V, Scene 4

INCOMING, MOTHERFUCKER!  Brace for impact!
                    –Miss Margo’s text message to a friend, before entering the Mathematician’s hotel room.

     I agreed to meet the Mathematician in a hotel room for “closure.”  I said okay to the hotel room because neither one of us wanted to have this personal conversation in a public space like a restaurant (and if I couldn’t hold it together, I didn’t want the added humiliation of sobbing at a table in front of other people).  I told him that my home was not an option.  I revoked my hospitality.  

      My girlfriends did not like the idea of meeting him in a hotel room.  Because let’s be honest…we all know how that could work out.  While I was crushed, and also furious with him, I still had loving feelings and memories, too.  You can’t just get over loving someone overnight, I’ve learned…no matter how much you wish you could.  Which meant that I was vulnerable, and in a position to be sucked back in.

       My friend C., from the Studio, summed it up in her typically humorous way when she heard that I was in a hotel room with him: “This is C!  You better not be doing what I think you’re doing!  RESIST THE SELF HATRED!!!!”

        But none of my friends knew what I had planned.  None of them knew what I had in store for him. 

         I was extremely nervous before I left my apartment.  More than nervous–frightened, actually.  My hands were shaking as I got dressed.  I can’t know exactly what he was thinking our meeting was going to be (kiss and make up?  amicable negotiation?), but I knew that it was going to be something more like an attack.  An assault.  People respond in all sorts of ways when they’re attacked.  I had no idea how the Mathematician would act.  That was the scariest part.  Worst-case scenario: he could kill me with his bare hands in about five minutes.  You think that sounds histrionic?  That a man might try to murder someone in order to preserve his career, family life, reputation, and financial standing?  People have murdered over far less.  Murders have happened over a spilled beer.  Fact is, I don’t know the Mathematician.  I only know what I think I know, which is what he chose to show me…and in the words of Lance Armstrong, America’s Hero, he was “controlling the narrative.” 

       I knew I couldn’t do what I planned to do if I went in there a nervous wreck. So I sat down on the edge of my bed and did a little mental exercise. 

       Howdy, Daddy!  

       Hi there, Sweetpea! It’s been a while. You have a problem?  Why don’t you come have a seat by me and tell me about it?

       I got in touch with Franz Adler.  I felt like a fish swimming into a turbulent, powerful current that I usually keep away from. I don’t enjoy being in that frame of mind, and I can’t stay there for very long.  But it’s there, and I can go to it when I need to.

       By the time I got to the hotel room, I wasn’t the least bit nervous.  I wasn’t nervous at all.  I was actually looking forward to it.  I couldn’t get there fast enough.

       The cab driver complimented me on my beautiful smile. 

                 *                   *                    *                *

        Before I walked into the room, I did the same thing that I always before going into a client’s hotel room or apartment: I texted a friend in front of him with my exact location and said that if she didn’t hear from me within an hour and a half, she was sending the police.  

       He thanked me for coming and asked me if I’d gotten a haircut. He said that it looked good.  I was a little dressed up and had pretty makeup on.  I bet he thought that I’d dressed up for him and that he was going to get laid.  Hahahahahhahaha WRONG

      I ignored the compliment and sat down in the chair.  He sat down straight across from me, on the edge of the bed. 

      “Produce your identification,” I said.  I wanted to see if he’d do it.

      “What?”

      “Produce…your…identification.”

      He took out his wallet and handed his ID to me.  I took my time looking it over.  Then I gave it back.

       I sat straight up in the chair.  I didn’t shift or figit or move my hands.  I sat there like a statue, and I stared right into his eyes.  Aggressive, intense, unblinking eye contact.  The psychopath stare.  Like a hawk.  Or an owl:

“Produce your identification.” 


       It completely threw him off guard.  He couldn’t handle it for 30 seconds before he looked away–at the bed, at the wall, at the floor, wherever. I didn’t let up.  It was owl stare, silent and unblinking, the entire time.

       He started to babble.  He said that he was sorry that he “omitted the crucial fact” but he didn’t know how to tell me and he didn’t want to do it before the holidays because that would be bad timing and he had no idea that things would develop between us as they did and blah blah blah blah.

       He’d stop talking and give me the opportunity to respond, but I didn’t.  I just stared at him like an owl that didn’t speak English.  When I didn’t respond, he’d start babbling some more.

       I let him go on for at least ten minutes.  Maybe fifteen.

       Then I reached for the briefcase by my chair.  I slowly opened it and removed a thick file folder.  On the front of the folder was the Mathematician’s legal name, written in black marker.

        I handed it to him without a word, put the briefcase back down, and resumed my owl stare.

        The folder had to be opened from the back.  On the back flap, I’d written the legal definition of a lie by omission: A lie of omission is an intentional failure to disclose the truth in a situation requiring disclosure.  Also known as a Continuing Misrepresentation, a lie by omission occurs when an important fact is left out in order to foster a misconception. 

        He took out the contents.

        On the top was the name of his current employer and his office address.  Underneath that were wedding photos that he’d posted online on a social networking site.  Underneath that were printouts of just about every photo he’d put online, along with comments from his friends and family.  

       When he saw the first sheet, I heard him exhale pretty hard.  A bit of a cringe.  The wedding photos got a wince.  

       He glanced up at me.  I could tell that he didn’t want to keep going through it, but so what.  I hadn’t enjoyed looking at them either.  So no mercy.  Look through it all, you liar.  You can either look through that, or look at my hard eyes, boring into the back of your skull.  Take your pick. 

       He picked the file.  HAHAHAHAHAHA

       The soft wincing noises he made from time to time were absolutely delicious.  The man seemed to be shrinking in front of my very eyes.  It was great.

       At last, he said, “Yeah, that’s me.”

       Very astute observation! I wanted to say, but I didn’t.  No humor–even sarcasm.  I needed to keep it scary.

       “I have a copy of that folder–one that’s twice the size, actually–in a safety deposit box at the bank.  It also contains a description of our affair.  If anything happens to me–if I get hit by a car, if I fall down the stairs–other people will find it.”

        He exhaled and slumped over like he’d been punched in the gut.  It wasn’t quite a clubbed fish impression, but it was pretty good.  I got him.  Oh yes, I got him.

        Suddenly it’s all real for you now, isn’t it?  The way it was real for me all along, I thought. 

         “I would never try to hurt you.  Please.  I’m not that kind of person.  You know who I am,” he said.

          “Actually no, I don’t know, and I’m trying to decide how dangerous you are.  Are you just a selfish, entitled liar, or are you something worse?  In any event, you’re a high-IQ motherfucker, and I need to protect myself from you.”

          He opened his mouth–probably to object to being called a motherfucker, but who knows–and shut it again.

          “Listen to me.  If any harm comes to me through you, there will be consequences.  Now, or ten years from now.  If you poison my career or my reputation in any area of my life, there will be consequences.”

        “I would never do that to you.  I wanted to help you, blah blah blah blah…..”.

        I let him babble.  I’d tell you what he said, but it really isn’t that interesting. 

       I’d made my point, but I wanted to play with him some more.  

      “How long have you been reading my blog?” I asked him.  

       “Blog?  What blog?”

       Owl stare. 

       “I don’t know.  Which blog?  I saw a blog last summer.  It was about your last university.  Is that the blog?”

        Owl stare.

        “Can you give me some more information?  What is this blog about?  Can we talk about it?  Does it have sexual content in it?”

         Owl stare.  He sounded guilty to me.  If he really had no idea what I was talking about, he wouldn’t be trying to get me to answer questions about it.  But I wasn’t going to give him ANY information.  It would have to be enough that he knew that I knew.

         I changed the subject.  I said, “Health insurance.”

“Health insurance.”

          Cause when he told me that he was married, he mentioned that he was married for health insurance.  I mean, how fucking stupid does he think I am?  So I threw that preposterous excuse back in his face to watch him squirm.

           It was sort of funny to watch him explain that one.  I kept my laughter on the inside.  I could laugh later.  Stay scary, don’t let up.

      “The bird,” I said.

      “What about the bird?”

      “You brought your bird over.  That was a manipulative thing to do.”

       “I wanted you to like me!”  Yeah, thanks a lot, asshole.

       “Exactly.  That was very manipulative.  You knew I would like it.”

         He admitted that it was manipulative.  At least that was something. Then he said something very odd: “It was my bird!  I didn’t borrow it or anything!”

        I didn’t borrow it.  A very ODD thing to say.   Hmmmm.

       “Do you want to tell me more about this blog you mentioned?”

       I ignored him.  No, no I don’t. 

       “So, when you’re sitting next to me on the couch, in my home, and complimenting me and telling me that you’ve been looking for someone like me, how exactly am I supposed to interpret that, other than ‘I am very attracted to you and would like to have a relationship?'” I asked.  

“How, exactly, am I supposed to interpret that?”

        He winced.  At least he had the decency to look ashamed of himself.  He looked at me and nodded.

        “You knew it was wrong and did it anyway.  You knew I was developing feelings for you and did nothing to stop it, because you were having fun with your exciting little fantasy of having a hot younger girlfriend in NYC who liked having sex with you.  You just justified it in your mind by telling yourself that after all the hard work you do and the sacrifices you make for your family, THIS is something FOR YOU.   Your gift to yourself, right?  You deserve a little fembot girlfriend.  That’s all I was to you, right?  A vehicle for you to address your stupid mid-life crisis.”

        He looked extremely uncomfortable.  Maybe he has a conscience after all.  

        “Well, you hit the nail on the head, but I never thought of you as a fembot and I meant all the nice things I said about you and justification justification rationalization rationalization blah blah…”.

         Let me tell you: my mascot is Beaker the muppet, but at this point in the narrative, the Mathematician was the one doing the Beaker impression: me-me-me-me-me

         He sounded very selfish and self-centered.  It was pretty gross, actually.  

         “Hey asshole,” I interrupted.  “Exactly what did you think I was supposed to get out of all this?  I was supposed to be happy being your girlfriend on the side, and waste more of my rapidly dwindling youth on a man who not only can’t give me what I need in a relationship, but isn’t even willing to?”

         Time to move on.  Fuck with his mind a little bit.  

        “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”  I leaned forward a few inches in my chair. 

         He leaned away from me.  Oh, this was fun.

          “Like what…? Babble babble babble.”

         “You don’t know what I know,” I said.  Confess!  Spare yourself!  Hahahahahahaha 

“You don’t know what I know.”

           He coughed up a few interesting things that I hadn’t heard before.

           “More information is coming in about you all the time.  I hope for your sake that you are not lying to me now, Mathematician.”

           He looked very scared and miserable and about ten years older from when I walked in the door an hour ago.  I was loving every second of it.  

            Time to wrap it up.  

            I gave him my most intense stare.  He flinched.  He couldn’t look at me.  Ha!  Ha!  This big, strong older man!  He was afraid of me!  Ha!  HAHA!

            “Look at me,” I said.

             He still wouldn’t do it!  Ha!

             I leaned forward again.  “LOOK AT ME.”

            Finally he did.  I could see himself forcing himself to do it, inside.  

             I held it for about ten seconds.  Then I repeated: “If you try to harm me in any way, there will be consequences.  I WILL FUCK YOU UP.” 

             Haaahahahahahaha I bet nobody’s ever told that to him before!  Matter of fact, I’ve never said that to anyone before!

            It felt great!  And you better believe that I meant it…and he knew that I meant it. 

         I stood up to go.  As I picked up my bag, I said, “You’re lucky I’m an ethical person, Mathematician.  You’re lucky that I’m not shaking you down for cash.  Many people would have.”

          I just wanted to put that out there.  I think that I deserve credit for it. I knew that he was going to be hurt (and probably a little angry) at the harsh treatment I’d given him later, after the shock wore off, and I wanted to remind him that I could have done much, much worse.  

        That he got off very lightly.

        When I walked to the door, he stood up and approached me.  

         “Do NOT touch me,” I said.

          He actually backed up.  Hilarious! “Sorry, sorry,” he said.

           I walked out the door and got the elevator.  

         By the time I got to the street, I was walking on air.  I stopped channeling my father, and became me again.

          I think that I knocked it out of the park.  The only thing that could have made it better is if I made him pay for the safety deposit box.  That is kind of expensive.  A small price to pay for peace of mind, however. 

          Oh boy.  I wish I could have seen what he did in that room after I left.  Because when I walked out, I felt his relief.

          I hope that he lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.  Like a clubbed fish.  Visions of safety deposit boxes running through his head.  

          It was a small revenge for what he did to me.  A small revenge.

          But very sweet.

         P.S.  I see you watching.  Well, hope you like the blog, because it’s as close to me as you’re ever going to get.

Sweet as My Revenge Part I

     Without a doubt, this has been one of the most miserable and difficult weeks of my adult life.  Now I know what it’s like to have my heart broken (the Surgeon broke it a little bit, back in the day, but nothing like this.  I have to hand it to him: he’s a crazy, abusive asshole, but he never mislead me about that.  I knew exactly what he was at the start.).  

     At least this means that I have a heart to break.  It still hurts like hell.  The pain and disappointment have been excruciating.  The emotional instability, the rollercoaster, the tears, the insomnia.  I was so messed up for the first few days that I couldn’t even take care of myself.  I couldn’t work or write.  I didn’t clean.  I just sat in my apartment staring into space.  I cried so much.  

    Then I came back to life enough to wonder, “Just who IS this person?  If he lied to me about being married, what else did he lie to me about?”

     I wanted to know who he really was…just to get closure for myself.

     I went to look for him online…and couldn’t find him. 

      Because he lied about his last name.

     (I suppose that one could argue that I should have google-stalked him from the get-go.  If we’d met in a normal setting, I would have.  But he was a client, and I don’t invade client’s privacy, because: 1) it’s unprofessional and inappropriate and 2) I don’t really care about their lives.)

      When I couldn’t find him, an awful black flower of rage bloomed in my chest.  It was like a second betrayal.  I was furious.  Then I felt helpless and demoralized and pathetic.  Taken advantage of.

       A sucker.  An idiot.  A stupid, gullible fool.  I had been so open and trusting with him.  

       I already have trust issues, and I’m not used to letting people in.  I really felt violated when I learned that the one time I let my guard done, I was burned.

       I decided that I would find him.

       I was successful. 

       I will not disclose how I found him, because I think that he’s reading this, and I don’t want him to know and learn from his mistakes so that he can protect himself in the future.  

       But I can say that I used my resources, and a friend helped me out.  Boy, did they ever.  They really went to bat for me.  They were the greatest single source of emotional support and caring I had during that time, and I cannot express the depth of my gratitude and appreciation for all the time, hard work, and sympathy they devoted to me.  

        You know who you are…and I am now, and ever after, at your disposal.  

        My friend found him and delivered him to me.  

        And boy oh boy, what a find!

         Oh, the giddy joy of getting some of my power back!  

         The Mathematician is lucky that I had a few people telling me to cool it until my emotions calmed down and not to do anything brash.  

        Because I was ready to nuke him.  

        You know how heat can turn sand into glass?  That was the temperature of my fury.  

         I wanted him glassed.  

         For the first time in my life, I was having truly dark revenge fantasies.  I’m not talking about run-of-the-mill stuff, like thinking that I would like to run over my old Dean with my car if I ever had the opportunity and knew I could get away with it.  I mean black fantasies.  Seriously considering, in my mind, exactly how I could cause him the most harm, the most regret, the most humiliation and loss.  The thoughts were intrusive and they deprived me of sleep.  It was shocking to me that I could be thinking these things, because my personality is not like that at all.  I never schemed to hurt a person like this before (even though, frankly, a few people in my life have deserved it).  It was not a fun experience.  I know that might be confusing and difficult for some readers to understand, given that I’m a professional SADIST, but really, I never have cruel intentions (I can fake it if you want me to, though.  Ha, ha).  

        If you’re reading this, Mathematician, I want you to know that the fury you caused me to bear was something that I could have lived without…and that this corruption of my soul is on your shoulders.    

        So I waited for a few days while I decided what to do with him.  

        Quite a few people told me that I ought to shake him down.  Take some money.  I know blackmail is illegal, but in this situation, I was pretty sure that I could get away with it.  You say you’re proud of my intellectualism…?  Well, I was mostly a scholarship kid, but I do have a little student loan debt, and it ain’t paying itself!  If you’re so proud of it, maybe you ought to help fund it! 

         My personality and established values system is incongruent with those decisions.  I just don’t think that I could be okay with myself if I did that to someone.  Even if he’s a rich asshole who deserves it…and, frankly, owes me SOMETHING for all this grief and pain and lost work.  What’s the legal term for it?  Pain and suffering?

       In the end, though, I decided not to do it because I am still pure of heart, and if I did something that I felt was against my moral values–like blackmailing him–I wouldn’t be so pure of heart anymore.  He’s not worth that.  He is not worth compromising my integrity and self-respect.  

       There was another reason I decided not to blackmail him or just get on Ye Olde Facebook and nuke his life: I didn’t want him to hate me and carry a vendetta.  The Surgeon and I run in completely different social circles and work in completely unrelated fields.  The Mathematician…it’s possible, in five or ten or fifteen years, that we might know some of the same people.  Who knows what the future holds?  I don’t want him dripping poison into my career or my personal relationships down the line.  He’s rich and well-connected, and he has compromising information about me.  He could make my life very ugly.  Rich people have lawyers. 

     ….Furthermore, I have no idea how dangerous he is.  I’ve never talked to his family or seen the way that he is in his home–he could be a domineering control freak, a tyrant, a total psycho!  What do I know..?  

        I decided, in the end, that I needed to protect myself from him.    Now and in the future.

        Let him know that he dodged a bullet with me.  Barely.  

        But I still hold the gun.

        And that, my friends, is exactly what I did.

Right Now, M. Margo Doesn’t Give a….

   Remember when I posted that beautiful video about birds?  After I worked through my anxiety about being emotionally vulnerable with the Mathematician?

     WELL NOW I FEEL LIKE GEORGE BUSH IN THIS VIDEO

     (warning: nsfw)

     Now I have to go teach.  My students are in for a treat this morning.

      Someone else is in for a treat, too.  Watch and see. 

      I’ll bring the professor an apple. 

P.S.  the good news is that my sense of humor has come back.  That means I’ve come back to life.

I always know when I’m close to death when my sense of humor goes away.