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. 

Roses and a Knife

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   Note: this post was written on Wednesday night.  I withheld it because I knew at the time that I was going to meet with the Mathematician later, and I didn’t want to give him ANY information in advance.  I am 95% sure he’s reading the blog.

   I’m not going to post all the lurid details.  Let’s just say that we met and I made it clear that if any harm comes to me through him in the future–whether tomorrow or ten years from now–there will be consequences.  

     One psycho down.  One to go.

     Can I pick em, or can I pick em…?  

          *                   *               *                *               * 

 Oh wow.  My 8 readers are going to like this one!

    I found a bouquet of roses and an unsigned valentine in front of my door.

Creepy Valentine

    Whoever left it there didn’t knock.  They just left it.

    Weird shit.

     After staring at it for a minute, I picked it up and brought it inside.  Then I started contacting people who I thought might have given it to me.

     It didn’t take long.  Pretty short list.  

     Everyone said no.

     The creepiness factor in my apartment shot through the roof.  I went to my front door and put the security chain on.  Then I went to my bedroom and checked the locks on the windows.  

     Being a woman is no fun sometimes, guys.  If you were wondering, let me tell you now: it’s no fun to be weak little prey for whatever comes along.  

     I was a little afraid to touch the flowers, but I decided to unwrap them.  Maybe there was a clue inside.  A receipt, a note…  


      Oh yes, there was something inside the flowers, all right.  

      Because nothing says, “I love you, Honey!” like ROSES AND A KNIFE.

       It was, as I’m sure you can imagine, exactly what I needed for my mental and emotional health this week.

       I’m sure he thought he was being honestly romantic.  The Surgeon has a flair for showmanship, and something is also screwed up with his “filter.”  Put those two together, and you get a man who hides syringes and random medical equipment around your apartment instead of post-its with hearts and smilies on them.  

      I tell you…can I pick em, or can I pick em?  


Clients: Please Don’T Lie About the Serious Stuff

      One thing that I always enjoyed about the Surgeon was hearing him tell stories (aka “complain”) about patients.  Boy oh boy, did he have stories.  Entertaining stories.  Incredible stories.  

      (It was also pretty fun to hear about how he dealt with them.  As you can imagine, he is not known for his comforting and therapeutic bedside manner.  The things patients wrote about him online routinely made me laugh so hard that I cried.)  

     One thing that I always found astonishing was his assertion: patients lie.  

     “They lie…?”  I asked, honestly puzzled.  “Why would anyone lie to their doctor?”

      “All kinds of reasons.  They’re ashamed or self-conscious about something.  They made a mistake.  They’re trying to manipulate me to give them what they want, and they know I won’t want to do it.  They don’t want to admit that they’re wrong.  All kinds of reasons.”  

      “What do they lie about?”

      “Anything.  Everything.  Date of birth.  Hepatitis.  Seeking second opinions.  History of past procedures.  How much they smoke.  You name it.”  

       “That’s so weird.”  

        But you know what…?  

        I believe it.  Oh yes, I believe it.  
        Know why…?  

         Because clients lie to me.  Not all of them, or even most of them, but a surprising number of them do lie.  

        They lie about their experience level and skill set.  They lie about other mistresses they’ve served or subs they’ve mastered.  They lie about being drunk.  They lie about being on coke.  

       What surprises me most is when they lie about things that I honestly do not give a shit about (and usually don’t even ask about or think about), like whether they’re married or what they do for a living.  

        If anyone is reading this who hires professional sadomasochists to get your kinky pervy needs met, please, please, I implore you: don’t lie about the important stuff.  Please please please! 


       I say this because when you lie about the important stuff, bad things can happen.  Or, as the excellent Domina Irene Boss hilariously calls it: “A BDSM-related accident.”  

      A few examples…recently some dork at the Studio lied about being on Viagra (why would he take viagra, I wonder?  He’s not getting laid.  And if he did take it, why would he lie?).  The mistress asked him about it specifically, because he wanted a partial inversion.  Well, he passed out and scared the shit out of everyone. NOT FUN!

     Another one was a client of mine.  A new guy.  Never saw him before.  

     I was moving him around by his hair, as I am wont to do.  He was making exaggerated wincing noises, so I checked in with him.  Asked him if there was anything wrong.

     No, no, he assured me.

    So I kept dragging.

     When I took my hand away, I looked at my palm.

     (can you see where this is going…?)

      There were fucking hair follicles all over my hand!  This guy had gotten hair plugs and didn’t tell me about it!  He let me pull on his hair plugs!  Why?  Because  he was vain, or what?  Hair plugs aren’t cheap, either! 

      Finally…the story that takes the cake…the most incredible story of client lying I’ve ever heard.  If I didn’t know the woman well, I think I would have dismissed this one as an urban legend.

       Man comes in for a smoking session.  Old guy.  Seems nice enough.  He wanted a little rough treatment, but mostly his kink was just having cigarette smoke blown in his face or forced into his mouth for an hour.  My friend Lisa tackled it.  

      I guess towards the end, she gave him a pretty hard thump in the chest, and he screamed…and he’d declined to remove his shirt early on, even though he’d taken everything else off, which was kinda weird.  

       He confessed to Lisa that he’d recently had major surgery…a double lung transplant.  

       You can guess how that made her feel, after she’d forced half a pack of Camel Reds down his brand new lungs.  

       Guys: don’t lie about the major stuff.  

      This has been a PSA from Miss Margo S&M Productions. 

…Thy Days Would Not Be Long.

One kiss, one kiss of your lily white lips
one kiss is all that I crave…
One kiss, one kiss of your lily white lips
and return back to your grave…

My lips they are as cold as my clay,
My breath is heavy and strong.
If thou was to kiss my lily white lips
Thy days would not be long.

Oh don’t you remember the garden grove
where we used to walk…? 
Pluck the finest flower of them all,
‘Twill whither to a stalk…

          I had two nightmares about the Surgeon this week.

      In the first dream, the Mathematician went to him to have surgery done.  The Surgeon knew who the Mathematician was, but the Mathematician had no idea that the Surgeon knew me.  The Surgeon did the surgery wrong on purpose.  The Surgeon disfigured the Mathematician and made him paralyzed on purpose.  

     Then the Surgeon sent me a bouquet of red roses, with a note attached: That’s what you get.

     I’ve had this dream before, with another man I was dating…

   In the second dream, I rode the subway to watch the Mathematician play a match of squash against a random opponent.  

     I climbed up the stairs of the gym and approached the squash courts.  I saw the Mathematician there immediately, even though his back was to me.  He was playing against another man…someone smaller, wiry, fairer-haired. 
     His opponent.

     I thought to myself, That guy looks awfully familiar! Who is that?

     And then I knew: It was the Surgeon.  He’d found us.

     The coldness in the pit of my stomach. The absolute terror. 

     Did I confront the Surgeon about what he was doing…?  My brain was spinning with possibilities.  If I outed the Surgeon, I would have to explain to the Mathematician where I knew this man from.  

     I sat down on the bench and kept my mouth shut.  I felt like I was made of wood.  The way that it feels when you’re shocked and you have no sensation in your face.  All of the information pouring in through your eyes.  

     The Surgeon is older than the Mathematician, but he murdered him.  He nailed him with the hard little rubber ball every chance he got.  He hit that ball hard–I could hear people watching the game through the glass suck air over their teeth and wince whenever the ball connected.  Every time it did, he would look over his shoulder and smirk at me. 

       It took the Mathematician a little while to realize that his opponent was deliberately being an asshole.  At first he was confused, and then he became angry.  

       This awful situation was all my fault, and I felt powerless to stop it.  It wasn’t simply a matter of me throwing myself on the proverbial grenade.  

       It was powerlessness.  

                       *                      *                   *                 *

        I told these nightmares to my analyst.  She reminded me that in our dreams, we are each character in the dream.  The dream is an utterly organic vision.  

      The monster in your nightmare is you.

      The Surgeon really would behave in this fashion…except for the surgical mutilation–he wouldn’t do that because he’d get in trouble. But he didn’t do it. I did it. I am the nightmare surgeon.  

      When I’m with the Mathematician, everything is great.  

      I am falling in love with this man. 

      When he’s gone, I get so paranoid and afraid.  I tell myself that it’s a bad idea and I need to stop it right now.  I tell myself that I have to protect him from myself.  I tell myself that he wouldn’t want to be with me if he knew who I really was.  I am afraid of wanting to be loved.  Needs are dangerous.  When you give someone the ability to say “no” to you, you give them power over you.  When you are self-contained, you have power.  Autonomy. 

       But this voice is just crazy thinking.  It’s not really real.  The Mathematician doesn’t really think these things.  I am just making stuff up.  

     Trusting and honest.  Trusting and honest and don’t lie no matter what. No hiding.

Let’s Try This Again

    I had a bad night last night.  I woke up at 4 AM and couldn’t go back to sleep.  Worried.  

     An anonymous reader left this comment on my “Margo Freaks Herself Out II” blog entry:

Thé moment you think it might be serious with the mathematician, you have to dump the surgeon. The very moment. Otherwise, the relationship is doomed. This happened a few times in the past. The experiment ran its course. If you do not, in a few months, the mathematician will be out of your life. The surgeon will still be there. I used to like the later. After what he did to you, I think he is a cinder block for your progress.

     Whoever this person is, I think they are absolutely right. 

        I’ve been putting off the Surgeon as much as possible since before Christmas because I’ve felt sleazy and conflicted.  I’ve been a coward about it, I admit it.  Readers of the blog will know that he’s not an easy man to say no to, or to discourage.  It’s easier to just give him what he wants.

      I can’t keep avoiding him any more.  He has some boundaries issues and he does whatever he wants.  If he comes over to my apartment when the Mathematician is here, it’ll all be over.  The Surgeon is not going to say something like “I can’t believe you did this to me!” and leave.  Something ugly will happen.  The Surgeon has absolutely zero problem with confrontation and when he really gets combative…let’s just say that you will never forget it.  He’s never turned it on me full blast, but I’ve seen him do it to others, and it’s a shocking experience.  I do not exaggerate.  Shocking.  

     The Mathematician is not going to put up with that.  He wouldn’t fight with the Surgeon or anything, but he would leave, and he wouldn’t be back.  Because this is something I understand very well about men: they will put up with a lot of drama and bullshit from a woman in a relationship…but they will only do that after they’ve made the commitment.  Once he’s in for the long haul, you can burn his house down and turn your head around like that little girl in the Exorcist.  If you hurt his feelings or spook him with some crazy-girl bullshit early on, however, he’ll shut down emotionally and then he’ll leave.  Men are much more inclined to protect themselves that way than women are.  

         The Mathematician would be gone, and I would be right back where I started…even worse, because the Surgeon would stay mad at me for a long time.  To say that little Margo would be in the doghouse would be an understatement.  I’d take the doghouse over being in the same room with Dr. Punishing Ragaholic any day.  

       He wouldn’t dump me, you know.  This is something I now know about the Surgeon: he will never, ever leave me.  A notorious womanizer, he has made a sport out of dumping women in hurtful fashion.  I am, as far as I know, the lone exception.  Lucky me!  It’s sort of like winning the lottery in hell.  The Surgeon always brags about it, as if he were paying me a compliment.  I guess in his mind, it is. 

        He won’t leave me.  I am the one who is going to have to end it.  

         And I gotta do it before this thing blows up on me.  I’m sitting on an IED.

         The thought of it, though…God it makes me exhausted just thinking of it.  

          It has to be done.  Has to be done. 

         And it has to be done differently this time, because I don’t want three months of harassment and emotional turmoil again either.  I do not delude myself that I can take care of this in, say, a single phone call…but maybe I can do it in a few. 

        I talked to my analyst about this yesterday.  We put some serious thought into it.  The Surgeon should reimburse me for the session fee, because all we did was analyze him. 

         “You have to ruin his attraction to you.  Make it seem that the breakup was to his advantage, and that he remained in control and didn’t lose face.  When you left him last time, you took his control away, and that’s what made him feel so angry and threatened.”

       planning planning planning 

Feelin’ Sleazy (plus a Creeper)

 What a week.

    I lost two weeks of work because of Hurricane Sandy, so I’ve been hustling trying to make up for it because I won’t be able to work when I visit the family for Thanksgiving, either.  

      I had two appointments lined up for tomorrow afternoon, but the Surgeon wants to see me tomorrow afternoon before I leave town, so I had to reschedule them.  It’s a pain.  I could have used the money.  

      I went to see Skyfall with the Mathematician on Friday.  It was both very entertaining and forgettable.  It’s only been two days and I can hardly remember any of it.  Daniel Craig is a fun James Bond, but I think he looks like a chimpanzee in a suit:

       I’m sorry.  For some reason, I’m just not motivate to write right now.  I have to do some stepwork with my Sponsor, bake brownies for the meeting, and then I have an appointment with a new guy tonight, which always makes me nervous.  I’m going to meet him in a coffee shop first and see if he creeps me out.  

      Then I have to see the Surgeon tomorrow afternoon.  He told me that he felt like I was avoiding him, which I have been.  I feel like I’ve been kinda sneaking around on him, which doesn’t exactly make me feel very good about myself.  The Mathematician is still paying me and I haven’t had sex with him, but let’s cut the horseshit here:  if the Surgeon knew about him, he wouldn’t approve.  So the situation isn’t quite sleazy yet, but it’s getting pretty close.  Or maybe it is sleazy and I’m just in denial.  In any event, I hate to feel sleazy.  

       Finally, a client I got a little too friendly with last summer and haven’t seen in a while is pulling some bizarre, sketchy shit for reasons I absolutely cannot explain.  Like, he emails me pretending to be someone he’s not, asking me questions and trying to set up an appointment.  It’s weird and a little creepy.  Why would someone do that?  

      Okay, I need to do something to cheer myself up!  Brownies!  Gym!  Sponsor!  

Summoned to Boston II

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      Not sure what to make of this.

    The Surgeon likes to go through my stuff.  

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

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

3 bags, opened and rifled through

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Summoned to Boston

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      The view from the window on my left:

        I love to travel by train.  It’s quiet, the seats are spacious, the views are often picturesque.  You can work, if you have work to do.  Trains and train stations are romantic (before I turn 40, I intend to ride the Trans-Siberian Railway…EXCITING!).  Trains are the civilized way to travel.  I’ve heard that airway used to be glamorous, but in my experience it’s like riding a bus at 35,000 feet.  

        The Surgeon has summoned me to Boston.  He’s there on business and wants to play with me until he leaves.  

        This is the third time I’ve been to Boston with him.  I like the town a lot.  I’ve had some pretty crazy experiences there.

        Will update this blog if anything interesting happens.

Good Girls Give Gifts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

           Perhaps that is why he still desires me.