The Job Interview

  The Surgeon and I had our first date outside of the dungeon on Halloween.  He’d seen me three times previously inside, and on the third, he told me that he was going to a conference in Baltimore.

       “I have to give a lecture and teach, and after that, I’m bored.  These things are torture to me at this point in my career.  I want you to come with me.  You can have your own hotel room and do whatever you want during the day.  You can visit the harbor.  You can shop.”

        I laughed in his face.

        “Shop?  Shop with what, a fuckin food stamp?  Do you think that I work here because I like to shop?”

        That startled him.

        “No, I’ll go,” I said.  “I don’t get to travel much.  How are we going to do this?  And I don’t want to talk about this here.  Management could hear.”

         The Surgeon was the first client I ever poached from the Dungeon.  The only other time I did it was the Mathematician. 

         I know that going out of town with a man who was practically a complete stranger was dangerous…but it was also exciting, like an adventure.  And I was already attracted to him.  Fascinated, actually.  I didn’t want him, I didn’t want anybody at that point in my life because this was only seven months after I’d finally gotten away from John and I was very much enjoying my freedom…but I did want to study him.  

         “Where can we meet?  It has to be someplace discreet.  I can’t explain to my colleges how we met if we’re seen together.  We need to make up a story for that.” 

          “Call me tomorrow at 5 after I get off work here.”

          He called.  Ring Ring.  Where are you?

         I guided him to an Irish pub down the block from my dungeon.  It had a blinking neon sign of a four-leaf clover on the window and televisions broadcasting sports above the bar.  Guys were playing foozball and darts.  The only other women in the place were the barmaids.   I was sitting in a booth in the back. 

          I saw him right away when we came in, even though he wasn’t as tall as most of the other men.  There was an intensity to his bearing, like an aura.  He was wearing a beautiful blue suit and he actually had a flower on his lapel, and I thought he looked great. I found out later that he’d just finished administering oral exams to a class of residents.  Now that I know him as I do, the thought is enough to give me nightmares.  He grades them as harshly has he can, and if he can fail them, he does.  These people are going to be my competition, he said. 

          “Is this place okay?” I asked.

            “It’s perfect!  I wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this!  We can have a private conversation!” 

       Wow, what an asshole, I thought. 

       “What’s your name?” I asked.

       “Aaron,” he lied.  “What’s yours?”

       “Margo,” I lied.

        “What do you study in school?”

       “English Lit,” I lied.

       “I thought you said history before!”

       “I lied.” The truth.

       “What do your parents do?”

       “My mother’s a paralegal and my father teaches Civics and Government at a High School,” I lied.

         “Excellent.  You have siblings?  What do they do?”

        “My brother in college and he wants to be a cop.”

         “Do you have a boyfriend?”

         “No. I broke up with him in March.”

          “Do you have any contact with him at all?”

         “What about girlfriends?  Do you have girlfriends you talk to a lot?  Who have you told about this?  I have to protect my professional reputation.  But I have to tell you, you don’t seem like the type of have a lot of girlfriends.  I respect that.”

          The Surgeon’s a social climber and he knows a hell of a lot of people, but he has no real friends.  He doesn’t trust anyone.  I was his friend.  

          “I know how to keep a secret.”  Not a lie.

            He looked me in the eyes, considering.  Then he nodded.

           The barmaid came over and the Surgeon asked me if I wanted a drink.  I ordered a vodka cranberry.  

          “I don’t want to take a crazy girl to Baltimore with me.  Tell me what’s wrong with you.”

           “What the fuck is this?  A job interview?”

           “Yes.  That is exactly what it is.”

           “Wow, what a charming guy you are!”

            He smiled.  He has two smiles, a happy one, and a scary one.  This was a happy smile.  

           “I can be charming.  I’m paying you the compliment of being up front with you. You’re a serious girl.  Most girls are not.  Now answer my question.  Why are you working at that place?”

           “For the money!  Why else?  What were you doing in that place?  You met me there!  You were there too!

          “Do you use drugs?”

           I gestured at my drink.  “Just this.”

            And with that, he reached into the inside pocket of his suit and took out an envelope, which he passed to me across the table.

            “This is for your travel expenses and hotel room. I leave on Friday.  I’ll be free after 7 PM.  Take the Amtrak train and call me when you get in.”

            Then he put $20 on the table to pay for my drink and walked out.

         I put the enveloped under the table and peaked inside.  

         It was $1200 in cash.  I almost had a panic attack.  I was still very young, and had never had that much money on me in cash before; it was a months’ stipend from my fellowship at the University.  I became immediately paranoid that someone would take it away from me, and when I left the bar I went straight to the bank and deposited it.  

          That is the story of our first date.  How romantic! 

           He loosened up a lot in Baltimore.  We had a blast, actually.  I’ll probably write about that tomorrow.

          I’ve got my Domme Darth Vader costume ready for the party.  I’ll try to take photos.  They should be safe to post with the mask on.

Mommy Issues

     I spent four hours moving furniture out from the walls, trying to find exactly where the mice are coming from.  My apartment is very small, but this was a chore because of my ceiling-tall bookcases.  Books are heavy.  I had to remove them first. The aquarium didn’t make it easy, either.

     I think I found it: a crack in the baseboard, where the floor meets the wall, behind my tallest bookcase.  I stuffed it with steel wool.  Party’s over, you little bastards.  

     Then I mopped the floors and scoured the grout in the bathroom.  This reminded me of my mom.  When I lived in her house, every time we took a bath we had to clean the tub with bleach and dry the chrome so that it was shiny and the water wouldn’t make spots.  The towels had to be hanged in a precise fashion.  I did not realize this was crazy until I was an adult. 

       The Surgeon is that way.  He is similar to my mother in many ways.  He even has similar coloring, which I didn’t notice until he pointed it out while looking at her photograph on my bedroom wall. 

      “She’s a professional,” he said.  “I respect that.”  

       I feel weird about what he did and I still can’t decide what to make of it.  I guess he didn’t get the memo (or else he got it but doesn’t give a fuck, which is even worse, but is pretty typical for him), because he sent me a cheerful card.  

       I have a nagging sense self-blame about it, too.  I encouraged him to be violent with me in our relationship.  Hell, more than that: I taught him how to do it.  Part of me wants to believe that he thought he was giving me what I wanted…but I saw his face and remember what he said, and I know he knows that what he did was wrong. 

       I can see the expression on his face when he thinks about it now: small smile because he feels he got away with something, but in the back of his mind, anxiety.  He’ll cut a check to his religious organization or go to the sink and wash his hands.  He washes his hands every time he gets off the telephone with his mother, and doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.  I noticed that right away.  It’s because he feels guilty about hating her.  

       Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sure she deserves it.  

       One of the best things I ever did for him was liberating him from some of that guilt and telling him that it was perfectly healthy to feel and express his rage towards her.  Nobody had ever told him that before (probably because they are scared of him).  It took him about a year for us to work through it together, but it changed his boundaries with his mother much healthier.  I don’t know how he could reach his age and not know better, but the Surgeon is not exactly big on personal reflection.  

       I had compassion for him on this issue.  He is an atrocious person, but really, a very dutiful and obedient son.  If he was as good a partner as he was a child, I’d still be with him, but the resentment and rage he feels towards her is expressed towards female loved ones as abuse. 

      And he’s just plain spoiled. 

      Speaking of people with issues, you would not believe the session I had today.  My Mistress Batphone blew up after 4 hours of furniture-moving and mousehole-searching, when I was disheveled and sweaty and gross, natch.  I was still glad to get the call, because my school job isn’t going to pay me for another 3 weeks and I’m stone broke.

        The manager told me that I had a two-hour session with an Englishman named…”Edwin.”  

         I thought for certain that it was my favorite cross-dressing Limey from “A Tale of Two Sissies.”  I love that dude; he’s lots of fun, so I jumped in the shower and hailed a cab.  I spackled on the whoreface en route.  Pro-tip: do not attempt to apply mascara in a moving automobile!  Especially one driven by an enraged Nigerian!  Not good!  

        Well, it wasn’t my Edwin after all, which is pretty amazing (how many could there be, visiting dungeons and asking for me specifically?).  This was a different Edwin, and oh boy, what a weird session.  

      It wasn’t wacky or crazy, like client “Ants-in-His-Pants.”  It wasn’t quiiiiiite haunted-house disturbing, either.  But it was still fucking weird, and I had a few moments of distinct unease, which is probably why it’s almost 6 AM and I only got three hours of sleep last night.  

      He said that he was in town because he had the day off from teaching.
     I brightened right up.  A colleague!  Something we have in common.  Makes breaking the ice a little easier.

      “I teach too!” I said.

      He asked me what I taught.  I gave him my fake discipline. 

      “You are much brighter than me, Miss.  I teach “X” and I am not even a full professor,” he said.

      Well, I was slow on the uptake, so I patted his arm and said, “That’s okay!  I don’t have tenure, either!  It’s hard to get in this town!  Nothing to feel badly about.” 

       He stared at me, like what sort of dominatrix are you?

       Then the little lightbulb went on above my head.

       “But then,” I continued, adjusting my posture and lowering my voice, “I’m much younger than you. I’d hope that by the time I was your age I would have made more of myself.  Teaching without tenure at your age is rather lame.  Pathetic, actually.”  

       He visibly relaxed.  Knew he was in the hands of a professional.  

       FYI: I believe he’s an academic because, along with soldiers and cops, I can usually spot them on sight.  My people.  I do not for a second believe that he’s an associate or adjunct slave holding office hours in a timeshared cubicle with a dying spider plant like myself.  He was way too bright and his fantasy was way too weird and creative.  He is probably at Columbia or one of those expensive private toy liberal arts colleges around here.  

       The session consisted almost entirely of him sharing his story, or fantasies, with me, while I sat across from him in a chair (I sat in the higher chair, of course) and listened.  

       His speech and delivery was absolutely flawless, by the way.  His diction, likewise.  It just flowed out of him like a string.  There was no interruption in his speech; he didn’t pause and search for words.  Perhaps he’s just gifted like that…or maybe he’s rehearsed and delivered the same fantasies a million times over the years.

      I don’t know how much I can share here without violating his confidence, not that he swore me to secrecy…

      He told me that a long time ago he was teaching in Munich (and I believe that part; his German was excellent) when he was seduced by one of his students, a beautiful young lady aged 20 years.  I suppose that part is possible.  From what I understand, there was a lot more screwing around on campuses before sexual harassment became illegal; these days it’s professional suicide. 

      He became her slave, and he had many stories to tell.

      Oh, my friends, what a Freudian shitshow this was!  Some of it was completely mundane and typical (“She had a friend, Sophie, who was also a Domina, and who would sit in the front row of my class.” “I had to wear a ladies’ dress in the house.” “We went shopping for a dress and the women in the department store laughed at me.”).  

      But some of it was scary shit that came right out of his childhood, I have no doubt.  No doubt, because you can’t make this stuff up.  This was not wack-off material concocted in his randy, feverish brain.  I recognized the true parts because my Spidey Sense went off and all the hair on my arms stood up, like with Mel.  

    Such as: “I had to take 15 with the cane and after each stroke, I had to recite my lesson.  Such as: ‘I’m stupid and I shouldn’t have an opinion.’ ” 

     And: “It was wrong to steal the jam.” 

    Yes indeedy.  Just another day at the office.

      He also had these elaborate fantasies about his Mistress’s sexual relationships with other men.  That sounds like standard-issue cuckolding stuff, but these were weird, and some of them involved common male misperceptions of female sexuality.  I think that his “Mistress” was actually the person he wanted to be.  I think this guy has serious transexual leanings, even though he presented himself as quite masculine.  Which is fine.  It just makes him pretty unusual, in my experience. 

     The only thing that disturbed me, a little bit, was that his concept of love and human relationship was kinda warped (like I’m one to talk, ha ha!).  

     “It defined who I am,” he said.  “Once you’ve been a slave, you can never be anything else, really, can you…?”

      He meant it as a rhetorical question.  

      Food for thought, boys and girls.  Food for thought. 

      Remember what I said in the last post, about children being slaves?

      “She only beat me for my own good.  She did it to teach me lessons and improve me.  So I’d be better,” he said.

       I’m sure that’s what his mother told him.  And when you’re a child, you want to believe it, because accepting that your parent hates you is unacceptable.  

      He didn’t tip, which is sort of rude for a 2-hour session, but since I did almost zero labor (aside from the emotional labor, of course…but he did 80% of the talking), I have nothing to complain about.  And it was a fascinating session.  Not entirely pleasant, but fascinating.  

       He likes me and wants to see me again.

      “Do you think I’m very normal, Mistress?” he asked me at the end.  

        The question threw me.  I couldn’t tell whether he was asking for more humiliation…or validation and comfort.  

        I picked the safest option.  This was not a decision you’d want to make the wrong choice with.

         “You seem quite all right to me, sweetling,” I said.

        When he came back to normal and was putting on his jacket to leave, he said that he was going to stop by the Disney store and get something for his little kid.

        “I love playing make-believe and games with my kid!” he said, lighting up inside.  It was actually quite charming and touching to see.  “I really try to be a good father.  I could play games with my kid all day.  My wife says that I’m like a kid!”

        Emotionally, in some ways, he is.  He’s stuck.  


       I would never, ever hit a child.  But that’s no guarantee.  My parents almost never hit me, and I grew up to crave terrible violence.  

       Finally: After the session, I was changing my clothes to go home.  I was wearing the shorts I’ve been mousehole-searching in.  One of the other dommes saw the welt marks.

       “Holy shit!  How’d you get those?  Why?”

       “Because she likes it,” leered the manager.

        I told her about the twerp.

        “Do you like it? I hope you got a good tip!”

        “I didn’t like it from that guy, but I liked putting him in his place and the $400,” I said.

          “Girl, you are crazy,” she said.


      Insomnia strikes again.  Let’s cheer ourselves up!  I love these videos.  If you’re an academic, click on the link College Misery and share the joy. 

A rubber band?  Really?

I did catch a student using the water bottle, though.

And “America,” by Jon Stewart and the Daily Show team IS NOT A TEXTBOOK!

Flakes for “Snowflakes,” or special snowflakes.  “I focus on the grade..the only thing that’s real.”  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I love how this prof is drinking and googling his students’ papers.  “Joyce Carol Oates uses an allegorical figure…”. HAAAHAHAHHAHA

Government Shutdown Shuts Down More Than Gov’t; Also 2008 Remembered

    It’s October.  The men are back from spending the Summer in Long Island, not having sex with their wives.  The kids are in school.  The men are usually spending money on sessions. 

     I worked on one of the government shutdown days and I know other dommes who’ve worked the other days.  

      The men are not coming in.  

      It has been dead.  DEAD.  Deader than the first week of August.  

      This isn’t a complaint-fest.  I’m just reporting.  Dommes, or at least the ones I know, are suffering along with everyone else.   People are at home watching CNN and Politico, fearing escalation and Financial Doom.  My friend Heinrich can’t go to work at one of his jobs because the museum is shut down.  If these Game-of-Chicken enthusiasts in Washington don’t fix this pronto, I am all for bringing back a guillotine.

       Democrats suck in their own special ways, but I have to say–and I know I’m going to get some hate mail for this–the Republicans are a very unique brand of asshole.  They don’t give a fuck.  They do not care about bipartisanship.  For whatever reason, they think that they are entitled to run things, and they are aggressive.  They don’t apologize and they don’t explain. They have a will to power the Democrats seldom possess.  

      Remember Fall 2008?  Wasn’t that spectacular (not in the positive sense)?  Oh God, what a good time to be safely ensconced in grad school.  I had no wealth to lose.  Being in NYC, I felt like a geologist or meteorologist observing some catastrophic natural disaster.  

      I’d go visit the Surgeon. 

      “Do you have any idea how much money I lost today?” he’d wail, rubbing his forehead.  “It’s like the end of the world!”   

      I will admit that I enjoyed seeing the banks fail, and the banksters to be summoned before Congress to account for their evil crimes.  Shadenfreude gloating on my part.  

       At school, we all wondered what this was going to mean if the governor made cuts in our grant(s). 

        At my secret job, business was booming (it was at my first stint at a dungeon).  The men hand’t yet realized that the compromise of their fortune was permanent.   

       On more than one occasion the following Spring, I’d approach a kneeling man in the dungeon, cane in hand.

        “Let’s pretend that I’m Ben Bernanke and you’re Bear Sterns, and I’m about to sell your ass for $10 a share,” I’d say.

         Just a little walk down memory lane. 

The Surgeon at War

“Plots have I laid!”    
              –Richard III

Since we’re getting down to the finals days of the “biggest jerk” poll, I have another story to tell…a few details have been changed to protect the identities of both innocent and guilty parties…

     The Surgeon has an enemy that he’s been at war with for years.  Decades.  Probably longer than I’ve been alive.  

     They used to be colleagues and then had some sort of falling out…I could never get a straight answer out of the Surgeon about what really happened between the two of them, which suggests to me that it was something that was embarrassing  or his fault, or both.  But who knows?  For a long time I thought that the Surgeon had probably slept with the other man’s wife or sister or something, but he denied it.  He claims the other man started it.

     When I say it’s war, I mean it’s war.  Scorched earth, take-no-prisoners, Siege-of-Leningrad war.  The Surgeon hates this guy and it’s very personal.  The only reason he hasn’t killed him is that he takes so much satisfaction in torturing him.  Legal action, academic one-upsmanship, poaching patients, poisoning professional relationships, various publications discrediting his research and methods and business practices.  

      The other man has a zillion dollars and gives as good as he gets, too, by the way.  He doesn’t come out of this looking too good, either.  I don’t even want to think of how much money these macho dickheads have sunk into fighting one another.  It’s like an awful divorce, where neither party is willing to quit.

      The Surgeon claims that the other man is evil, which might or might not be true–the Surgeon is not exactly a reliable narrator here–so I’m going to call him “Dr. Evil.” 

      Of course, I got dragged into the Surgeon’s plots.  At his instruction, I picked up Dr. Evil at the hotel bar at a medical conference one time.  In retrospect, I’m not proud of that.  It didn’t occur to me until afterward that it was a scumbag thing to do.  At the time, it seemed like a harmless game to me, and Dr. Evil was getting easy sexual attention from a younger, attractive woman, so what was wrong with that?  I didn’t hold a gun to the man’s head, true…but somehow I doubt that he would have had sex with me if he knew that I was the Surgeon’s girlfriend.  Dr. Evil didn’t know that I was there with the Surgeon.  He didn’t know who I was–he thought I was just a random person at the conference.  

      Or maybe he would have.  Maybe he would have!  Who knows?

     I’ve asked a number of different people what they think was going through the Surgeon’s head when we had me do this, as it remains a mystery to me.  All that I know is that the Surgeon got a huge kick out of it.  He wanted to hear alllll about it.  

      My analyst is convinced that this entire thing is homoerotic and the Surgeon was using me as a proxy for himself.  Others suggest this was merely manipulative, stalker-ish creeper behavior.  One guy said that the Surgeon used me to “impress” his enemy.  To this day, I honestly have no idea.  

    Let’s move ahead a few years…the Surgeon achieves his biggest victory of the decade against Dr. Evil, and I got to see that one up close and personal, too:  somehow, he managed to poach a former employee of Dr. Evil’s who used to organize an important  event hosted by Dr. Evil.  Now, he has the inside scoop on part of Dr. Evil’s life, and he is going to use this employee to throw a rival event the same week as Dr. Evil’s…

    “It’s going to be better than his!  I’m going to get all the best speakers in the profession!” roared the Surgeon, running around his hotel suite like some demented, maniacal ferret.  Oh, he was bouncing off the walls.  

      Competing parties.  Like they were back in middle school.  All the cool kids are coming to MY party!  We’re going to have a DJ!

       This also forces people in the medical community to basically pick sides.  I imagine that they did not relish this decision. 

        I got to be there when the Surgeon called Dr. Evil’s secretary and left him a long message informing him of his plans.  The language was ostensibly polite, very passive-aggressive, and gloating.  Gloating above all!

        The employee that the Surgeon poached was in the room, too, sitting at the desk.  

        I was there, too, but I wasn’t sitting with them.  I was five feet away, tied up in the closet.  The employee didn’t know that I was there, which is sort of creepy. The Surgeon wanted me to hear.  He was very happy with himself.  

       Afterward, the Surgeon walked the employee to the door and took me out of the closet.  He dumped me on the bed, still tied up, and then did a few more victory laps around the room.  Oh boy, was he happy.  He looked like he’d won the lottery or the presidential election or something.  

      “How’d I do?” he asked me, as if he didn’t know. He was bobbing his head like a happy cockatoo.  He was already checking his phone to see if Dr. Evil had called him back.  

       “I’m sure Dr. Evil will have a rage-stroke when he hears your message.”  

        The Surgeon called room service and ordered champagne.

        “Do you think I should send Dr. Evil an anonymous consolation gift basket?” he crowed, eyes glittering.

         “That might be overkill, baby,” I said.  How does he come up with this stuff?!

         Then he fucked my brains out.  
         What a guy.  What a story!  I’ve got a million of em.  

Tattoo Removal

     I just finished my first laser treatment to eliminate the tattoo on my ass.  I was inclined to have it excised–it’s very tiny, and I sort of like the idea of having a small scar left behind…symbolic, you know?–but the doctor talked me out of it.  

      When the Surgeon put the tattoo on me, I expressed that I hoped nobody would be able to see it unless they were really looking (I don’t like tattoos). 

      He glanced up from his work.  The green eyes took in my face:  “You’re lucky I’m not putting it on your lower arm.”

       At the time, the reference went right over my head.  I only just remembered it at the dermatologist’s office this morning.  

       I got a chill, and my skin broke out in gooseflesh.

       (The Surgeon is not a Gentile.) 

                             *                           *                         *

        It is impossible to retain personal pride and be the Surgeon’s girlfriend.  As anyone who knows him can tell you (even his patients), humiliation is part and parcel of the relationship, and if you don’t like it, well, too bad.  Most of the significant fights we had were because sometimes I stood up for myself and didn’t back down, and oh boy did he ever punish me for it.  Insubordination was a capital offense, as far as he was concerned.  

       Over the years, I became very good at groveling.  I look back on it, and I’m shocked at how submissive he made me feel, at how deep the need was that he provoked within me. I had zero boundaries with that man.  Nothing was forbidden.   Nothing was withheld.  

       Sometimes I try to empathize with him and imagine what it must have been like to be in his position when we were having sex.  I’m imaginative, but it’s still pretty hard for me to picture the male perspective.  It must have been intoxicating for him, and very validating, because he was still obsessed with me five years into the relationship and usually he gets bored with women after just a few months, or even weeks.  

      He’d look down at me, pinned underneath him and trembling, and the expression of lust and hunger on his face would take my breath away.  I’ve had plenty of dudes look at me as if I was a jar of cookies.  This was a whole other level.  This was a junkie eyeing a big bag of smack.  

      “You will belong to me FOREVER!”

      You probably think that sounds cheesy, but let me tell you, he said it with complete conviction.  When he said it, I believed it.

     “Tell me what you are,” he’d ask.  He liked to hear the words.  It excited him profoundly.  

      “I’m your property!  You own me!  I love you!”

      “What can I do to you?”

       I knew all the words.  I knew all the answers by heart.  We’d been through this catechism many, many times.  And oh, it was pure bliss.  

       “You can do anything you want to me anything anything I love you I need it so much please please can I come please?”

       “You may,” he’d say, and I did, over and over again.  He was withholding in every other way, but he was a very generous lover with me.  He always made sure I was satisfied, always dominated me the way that I needed him to.  He learned how to use all the tools.  I had to teach him most of it, but he learned very fast, and he learned very well.  He was a natural-born sadist and a very talented man.  He was also very coordinated, with a great degree of fine motor skill.  He moved fast, thought fast.  I loved watching him move.  He was very graceful.  He would stalk me on the street sometimes, come up behind me, and I wouldn’t see him or hear him until he wanted me to.  Sometimes he’d follow me for blocks.  He loved it.  It was a game to him.  

        We’d act it out formally sometimes, actually, almost like a game of hide-and-seek…he’d give me a head start, and I’d leave the apartment or hotel and get on the street, and then he’d find me without knowing where I was going.  He’d find me fast, too…unless he wanted to take his time.  

         I told one of my female friends about this game of his.  She found it disturbing, but I always just thought it was cute.  

      I’m lonely.  My laser-treated skin hurts.  If the Surgeon ever found out that I took his tattoo off, he’d kill me.  

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.


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    Well, I did something I’m not proud of last night.

     I got into it with the Surgeon.  

     It was stupid.  I knew there was no point to it.  I guess I just did it because I was lonely and angry.  Two out of four in HALT and yes I admit I was thinking of martinis.  

     See, he sent flowers to my apartment.  A bunch of lilies, which are my favorite.  No scalpel in the bouquet this time.   Just a nice card saying that he hopes I’m doing well.  

      I should have gone to a meeting or called one of my friends or taken Parrot out to play with her or cleaned my fish tank or something, but instead I just on my bed staring up at the ceiling and feeling upset and angry.  It came out of nowhere.

       I knew that he’d reach out to me in inquire about the flowers.  I mean, it’s natural to be curious about how a person receives a gift you’ve given them, but the surgeon always checks up.  That’s one thing about this man–he does something nice and he basically expects a parade for it.  You know those people who make anonymous donations to charities or otherwise ask that their names not be published?  That’s not him

       Sure enough, he sends me a text message:  Did you get the flowers?  I was thinking about you.  You are a very special person to me.

       Well, I don’t know what it was, but I totally flipped my shit.  This almost never happens to me.  I’m definitely not a crier and I almost never lose my temper.  I just almost never get pissed off.  I don’t know if it’s my personality or the way that I was raised in a strict household where displays of rage or grief by children were considered unacceptable and not tolerated.  My father, especially, reserved the luxury of rage exclusively for himself. 

       Whatever it was, those flowers and that text message set me off.  I know it doesn’t seem to make sense.  Why get mad over a card and flower?

        I wrote back: “‘Special’ like the kids on the short bus, or what? What do you want, a parade?  You do something nice for me once and you think it makes up for all the bad things you put me through?”

        I’m sure that shocked him.  I’ve been rude or mean to him a handful of times over the years we were together, and each time, I remember, he acted surprised.  Stunned, even. That’s how out of character it is for me.  And also, because he is a bully, he’s used to people walking on eggshells around him.

       But, you don’t want to fight with this guy.  He goes for the throat, and if you don’t lose the fight, he’ll eventually make sure that you wish you had.  There were a couple times where he had to acknowledge that I was right because he didn’t have a leg to stand on, and boy, did he punish me for it later.  

        After a minute, he asks: How are you supporting yourself over the summer?  Your old dungeon closed.  Want me to throw a little work your way?

        The Surgeon never completely got over the fact that he met me at a dungeon.  I’m not totally sure why.  I know it’s rank hypocrisy, given that he was there too, and he turned out to be more sexually strange than me–I won’t disclose his kinks, but trust me, he’s not Dr. Normal Normal.  

        I think that what bothered him the most about it was the idea of me with other men.  This, too, was hypocrisy, because we were never monogamous.  Nevertheless, he was a jealous man.  I think one of the reasons he used to bite and beat me so hard was that he was being territorial. 

        I wrote back: Wow, that was fast with the old familiar cruelty. Please, keep it coming.  It reminds me of why I had to dump your crazy abusive ass. 

        Him: You’re right, the sarcasm wasn’t nice, but I would never hurt you the way that you hurt me in these last several months since you cut off contact.  You are a cruel ice queen.  The way you have treated me is unconscionable. 

        Me: Breaking up with you was unconscionable?  You’re a self-centered rageaholic and an obsessive philanderer who ignored most of my emotional needs when you weren’t using me for sex!  How could I improve on that, right? Sorry that I needed a man capable of loving me in my life.

       Him: How can you say that about me? I know I have my issues, it’s true, but I have been the only person in your entire life that you could depend on.  When you had nobody else to turn to, I was always there.  What, did you want a child?  I would have given you that.

       I had to acknowledge that that part is true.  He’s right about that.  It doesn’t make him Boyfriend of the Year and it doesn’t ameliorate the bad things he did or the contempt with which he would treat me.  But I have to hand it to him: he went to bat for me on more than one occasion.  He always came through in a pinch.  

        Here it is, the Awful Truth: I have had no experiences in my life which would lead me to believe that I could depend on a man. You may think that is hyperbole, but it’s not.  With the exception of my brother, every man in my family tree has been a junkie, a user, a taker, a criminal, or a violent abuser and rapist of women and children.  

         Think about that.  You can bet your ass that I have. 

         I had to acknowledge that in my personal relationships with men–both intimate and familial–the Surgeon  was the best of the lot.  THE SURGEON!  THE FUCKING SURGEON!  Do you know what he did to me?  The things that would come out of his mouth?  It would turn your hair white!  And even still, the best of the lot!  Hell, compared to that pathetic lying manipulative cheating mathematician, the Surgeon was solid fucking gold!  He never mislead me about who or what he was.  

         Him: If you acknowledge that, then how can you question my commitment to you? I tried everything I could to keep you with me because I care about you.  I still care.  That is why I sent you flowers.

        A rare moment of grace for him.  I couldn’t tell if he was really trying, or just being manipulative.  I mean, yes, he wanted to keep me…but that doesn’t mean that he treated me well or that the relationship was good for me.  He was sexually obsessed with me. It doesn’t mean that he loved me.  I mean, he loved me a little bit, I always knew that.  

       But the Surgeon is not an emotionally evolved man.  His capacity for the higher emotions is very limited.  He doesn’t have a broad spectrum.  It’s difficult for me to explain.   He cares about me, and thinks that he cares about me, but he does not experience the loving, nurturing care that healthy people do.  

       And when you get right down to it, there is no escaping the simple truth that the Surgeon is just not a very good person.  He’s just not.  I say that as someone who truly loved him anyway.  He is rude, vain, shockingly insensitive, controlling, vindictive, and he goes out of his way to be cruel to people.  He can be nice when he feels like it, or when he wants something.  He can be very charming in fact–he’s a huge charmer; and he’s a smooth talker, he turns it off and on like a lightswitch.  He can be a lot of fun, but he’s a prick.  A colossal prick who thinks that he’s God. 

        He sort of is like God.  He goes into people’s bodies and slices them with knives and puts machines in them.  He changes their bodies.  It is not a coincidence.  

        He wanted me to have his kid, you know.  Incredible.  I thought about it.  The kid would have some good genes.  It would be smart.  It would probably be good-looking.  The Surgeon has money to give the kid a good start in life.

       But the Awful Truth is that there is simply no way in hell I could let that man be around my child.  He’s too dangerous.  He would damage a child.  Especially a girl.  He would be a better dad than my father was to me, but given that my father got a big fat “F-“ in Parenting 101, that is not exactly complimentary. 

       Not good enough for my child…but for years, I thought that he was good enough for me. 

       Anyway, that was pretty much the end of the argument.  There was a little more back-and-forth in which he told me how cruel I was for ignoring him.  But what else could I do?  We had to break up.  How the hell do you end a relationship if you keep interacting with the other person?  And how is no contact “cruel”?  Is it?  

          Him: I went to that strip club on Long Island looking for you!  I went to your old dungeon looking for you!  Do you have any idea how much anxiety and pain you have caused me?

       Me: Surgeon, that is fucking stalker behavior, it is not indicative of love. 

       Him: What else can I do when you ignore me?

       Me:  You are not entitled to my attention.  

       Him:  After 5 years?!  You are cruel!

      Me: No, cruelty is telling the woman who loves you that your DOG is the only thing in your life that brings you happiness.  That’s cruel!  Remember that?

         After that, the communication deteriorated into immature back-and-forth.  I usually argue in a very respectful fashion but I have to admit that I blasted him a few times last night.  I think the fight in his mind seemed to center around the topic of my alleged cruelty, which I vociferously denied.  Why did I deny it?  Who cares?  It’s not like I’m going to change his mind.  

       I did raise the spectre of OJ Simpson.  Maybe that was cruel.  But how can it be cruel if it’s the truth?  

        Was it wrong to be mad at him after the flowers and he tried to make nice?  

        It was a stupid fight via text message that did nothing but leave me feeling confused and tired.  Was I mean to him in the relationship?  I don’t think that I was.

        What a fucking depressing blog entry this is, but I had to write about it.  

        I’m going to take a shower and try to do something fun today.

        Here, let’s end on a happier note.  This medical specialty decision flow chart really cracks me up.  


Surgeon ‘waterboarded’ his mistress and ‘stuffed her head down a toilet over offensive Facebook post’

(Miss Margo note: This guy is NOT THE SURGEON…but if the name and photos were withheld, I’d totally believe it was him.  I want to forward him this article, but I’m still hiding from him.  I wonder if he knows this guy…?  I guess it’s possible; Llorente worked in a burn trauma center…

I find domestic violence to be the least funny subject ever…but I have to admit…this article made me laugh and laugh.  OMG.

And check out the lawyer-speak: The attorney for the defense, Marcos Beaton said in an email statement: ‘I don’t see anything within the narrative that suggest that Dr. Llorente prevented the alleged victim from leaving, either by threat, by force or by implication of force.’

I hope my readers aren’t too disgusted.  I think this is one of the more questionable things I’ve ever posted.

Take him to the cleaners and get him off the street, Ms. Sauma.)

Plastic surgeon ‘waterboarded’ his mistress and ‘stuffed her head down a toilet over offensive Facebook post’

PUBLISHED: 10:08 EST, 9 May 2013 UPDATED: 12:35 EST, 9 May 2013

A cosmetic surgeon is facing charges of attempted murder and kidnapping after he allegedly waterboarded his mistress in a bath tub after becoming enraged over a Facebook message posted on her page.  

Dr Orlando Llorente, 41, from Miami, Florida is said to have pushed Leanne Sauma’s head down a toilet and then forced a rag into the mouth of while pouring water over her head.

According to the affidavit, Dr Llorente subjected the victim, 36, to almost 16 hours of abuse and torture in an apartment before driving her to a CVS where she escaped from his car.

The horrifying ordeal is thought to have been sparked by a post on Ms Sauma’s Facebook page last month though details of what the message said or showed has not been released by Miami police. 

According to the police report, Dr Llorente, angered by the post, grabbed his mistress by the hair and dragged her into the bathroom on April 21st.

There he is said to have repeatedly struck Ms Sauma’s and threatened to kill her before banging her head on the floor and subjecting her to the vicious torture tactic while straddling her in the bath tub. 

The police report reads: As the defendant bangs (syc) the victim’s head on the floor, he demanded that she tell him the truth about the Facebook message.’

It continues: ‘The victim advised that she had to play along with the defendant and make him believe that she would not tell anyone for him to let her go,’ the report revealed.

Finally releasing Ms Sauma from the bathroom, the couple drove to a CVS parking lot in Pinecrest where according to Ms Sauma’s statement, her ex-boyfriend began ‘coaching’ her on what to tell people about her facial injuries.

While the victim attempted to record Dr Llorente telling her to tell her mother she slipped in the bath tub, he allegedly grabbed her by the neck as she managed to throw the phone out the car window.
In a tussle outside the car, the doctor then seized the phone and smashed it up. 

When Pinecrest Police arrived at the scene, Ms Sauma was alone in the parking lot.

Dr Llorente is vehemently denying the charges and attorneys say he is resolute that he will clear his name. 

Miami Police have confirmed that the doctor is in fact married and did ‘once upon a time’ have an affair with Ms Sauma.

After Ms Sauma’s allegations surfaced earlier this week, he turned himself in on Tuesday and was presented before a judge on Wednesday who denied the doctor bond. 

The attorney for the defense, Marcos Beaton said in an email statement: ‘I don’t see anything within the narrative that suggest that Dr. Llorente prevented the alleged victim from leaving, either by threat, by force or by implication of force.

‘Dr. Llorente voluntarily surrendered to authorities yesterday and is resolute on clearing his name. He reached out to law enforcement, through his lawyers, when these false allegations surfaced. 

‘We are disappointed that our requests for more time in which to present a thorough and thoughtful examination into the source of the allegations and the facts surrounding them was declined.

‘In fact, the City of Miami Police Department ignored repeated phone messages from Dr. Llorente‚Äôs attorneys. Had we been given that opportunity, we would have been able to show that Dr. Llorente is absolutely not guilty. We look forward to vindicating him in court.’

Llorente, who is also facing charges of robbery, battery, tampering with a witness, false imprisonment and criminal mischief in the April incident, was ordered to have no contact with the alleged victim.

Bittersweet Birthday and Session Marathon

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    I had a birthday this week.  It was bittersweet.  I cried in the morning because I couldn’t be with my family this year.  My mother called and said that she is worried about me.  She said that she feels like I hide things from her.  Her suspicion, of course, is not incorrect.  She has absolutely no clue how I live most of my life, but frankly, nobody else knows how I live most of my fuckin life, either.

    You, the reader of this blog, know more about my current life than my family, my AA buddies, my best friends, the even the Surgeon (though he’s gone now).  The only person who knows The Awful Truth is my psychoanalyst. 

     And that, my friends, is fucking problematical.  

     I need to change, but I don’t know how.  

     I need love, but I don’t know where to find it.  

     The Surgeon sent me flowers for my birthday (no scalpel inside this time).  Don’t worry, I’m not going back to him–though he’d take me back in a heartbeat–but it did make me miss him a little bit again.  He was a twisted little monkey, but I liked him an awful lot.  I think one of the reasons he loved me (insofar as he is capable of love) was that he knew that I recognized him for exactly what he was…and I accepted him anyway.  The good and the bad, from the first to the last.  

      I was the only one he trusted.  I know where the proverbial bodies are buried, if you get my drift.  

      We were two of a pair, because nobody really knew us.  We had secret lives…and he had all of my character flaws, magnified to the Nth degree.  

     Anyway…this week: two different birthday parties for Margo.  One dinner with the friends from school and my academic job.  Another party at the Superstudio (a bunch of us went out for chips and guacamole afterward at a Mexican spot nearby).  

      Enough sad stuff…

      The GOOD NEWS: after an extended run of pretty crummy Secret Job clientele, I had four independent sessions in a row this week, and they were all awesome and I made a zillion bucks! Wheeeeeee!  

      Session #1: Lawyer from Philadelphia hosts me in fantastic 4-room hotel suite.  He had to take an important business call and invited me to make myself comfortable.  The bathroom had locks on the door, so I took a bath in this swimming-pool sized bathtub:

awesome bathtub

      This is the view from the hotel’s bedroom window.  RAD!  And session was super-easy.  He was a cool guy. He wanted to snuggle a little bit at the end, which is usually a bit uncomfortable for me, but what the hell.  I guess we all need a little human comfort, and he let me use the bathtub and eat the $18 cashews from the minibar.  So I gave him hugs and he talked about his son’s Confirmation in the Catholic Church (I was baptized and reared Roman Catholic, but I was never Confirmed.  I was atheist by the time I was 14, so I declined that sacrament).  

NYC Famous Public Library

Top of Library

      SESSION #2:  Met a professional gambler at the Gansevoort Hotel.  We met in the hotel bar, because I always meet new clients in a public place first in order to size them up.  He was middle-aged, well-dressed, and not bad looking, but he had terrible table manners.  He ordered french fries, and was snarfing them down and spilling the crumbs all over the place.  

       The session was over with in about 20 minutes.  Mostly, he just wanted to talk.  He seemed lonely.  He was writing about book about gambling and showed me the draft (he has co-authored several books about gambling).  

       He claimed that his favorite city in the world is Las Vegas.

       “Vegas?  For real?  Uhhh, have you been to Europe?” I asked.

       “Yeah!  My Dad lives in London!  But Vegas has the best gambling.  Monte Carlo sucks!  Atlantic City sucks!  Vegas has the best hotels.  The best restaurants.  The best shows!  The best strip clubs!  It’s the best!”

       “But it’s a fake community.  Las Vegas is a monstrous temple to fake experience,” I said.  

       “So what?  I don’t go there for the community.”   

        He hired me for an extra hour to hang around and talk.  He talked all about his ex girlfriend. He talked about his books.  

        Then he taught me how to play poker.  At first, this made me very anxious, because…well, I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, gentle reader, but…my father is a gambling addict.  

       Gambling addiction is difficult for most people to understand, because it’s a behavior, as opposed to a chemical dependency (like drugs or alcohol).  

       However, like sex, gambling can be an addiction…and I simply cannot overemphasize the suffering and destruction it causes to the afflicted and their loved ones.  

       My father’s addiction was the single greatest cause of pain in my life, and to this day, I can barely stand the sight of people gambling.  The slot machines are the worst.  I hate casinos.  I hate them.  If you could see what I have seen, you would hate them, too.

      Learning how to play poker from the Gambler in his hotel room wasn’t so scary, however.  Maybe because there was nothing at stake.  

       Before I left, I did blurt out: “Please be careful.  Gambling is dangerous.  You always lose in the end.” 

       I know that was unprofessional.  I never tell clients what to do. How they live their lives is none of my business.  But I couldn’t help it.  

       He cocked his head to the side, considering.  Then he said: “But if you win, then you win big.  I’m going to the World Series of Poker next year, and I intend to win.  You can watch it on TV!” 

    I have two more session to tell you about, include AWESOME DINNER AND SESSION WITH DEBONAIR CULTURED ZILLIONAIRE FROM COPENHAGEN who gave little Margo $1000!!!!  He cooked me dinner and had real ART all over his loft! He bruised me a little, but not badly at all.  But a student is coming over now, so I have to go.  Will write more later!

      Happy birthday to meeeeee!  With the $1000, now I can go home to see my Momma and brother! 

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!