Men and Their Weird Penis Obsession (My Personal Experience)

I thought long and hard before blogging about him.  I’ve been considering it for years, in fact. It’s a very private matter, and I don’t know if it’s appropriate to write about it online.

But, it’s been years, and there is no way he is reading this blog. Time has moved on.  Also, the story is very funny.

Allow me to preface this: I have never met a man who was not obsessed with his penis. Every man I’ve ever been with has been preoccupied with his cock. At work, I have been paid to humiliate men over their penises (or, alternately, to praise them).  I have been paid to watch men masturbate…FOR AN HOUR.

I myself, in contrast, do not think about my vagina unless I am using it in sex or masturbation or it has a yeast infection or UTI. Contemplation of it takes up very little thought in my brain.

That said, let me tell you the story of a boyfriend who was COMPLETELY NEUROTIC about his junk.

He was (is) otherwise a highly intelligent, accomplished man in a rarefied field. I wish I could tell you how we met, but that would be TMI. Cute–slightly overweight, but cute. Also, only three years older than myself.  I am almost never attracted to men in my age range.

I was still in grad school, and very impressed with how he did his job.

I asked him out via email.  The rest is history.  I can seduce any man who isn’t committed to his significant other. It’s part of my job. Also, men are easy.

He was also a very kind man. He never said a cross word to me, except to express anger at my being late a few times and worry about the fact I could imbibe a swimming pool of cocktails and still function, walking around.

I could have married this man, but we didn’t quite “click.”  Still, I cared about him very much.  He was also newly divorced–only one year out–and he was still in  a lot of pain.

SO, getting back to the moral of the story, I go to use the bathroom early in the relationship, and found Enzyte laying out on top of the toilet tank.

Okay, weird.

My primary concern was that a man with a huge brain who had a top-flight education could believe Enzyte could make his dick larger. If big-dick pills actually worked, every man would be huge. Every rational person knows it’s snake oil, just like big breast cream in the past.

Here’s the thing: there was nothing wrong with this man’s penis.  There was nothing for him to be insecure about. It was bigger than average–not enormous, but bigger than average–and it always worked right. Not that I discriminate against men with ED. I’ve dated them, happily.

Then, a few months into our 6-month romance, he starts to ask me about whether I’ve had lovers with bigger penises, and if I liked the sexual experience better.

“Your dick is bigger than average. If it was larger, it would make me sore,” I said.

“But how many have been larger?”

I became exasperated. “I am not going to catalog all of the penises I have seen. Yours is great. What’s the problem?”

He asked this over and over again.

A month later: “I became paranoid my wife was watching porn, and saw bigger cocks than mine.”

I wanted to bury my head under the pillow.

“If she’s watching porn, all she wants to do is get off in three minutes and turn it off. She’s not comparing your penis. She’s not even thinking of that! Jeez!”

She would not have married you if she found you inadequate!

THEN–here’s the kicker–I was sleeping over at his apartment and he had to wake up early to go to work.  I kept sleeping under the covers.

A few hours later I received a phone call. He asked me to get something important for his work out of a gray bag in the closet, and bring it to him, a few blocks away where he worked.

I obliged, of course. Always happy to help.

I opened his closet, and there were three grey bags.

I swear to God, I was not snooping.

I pulled out the first grey bag and opened …

…a penis pump.  I recognized it because I saw it in this movie:

I am not making fun of him. I never do that, unless a person is a complete asshole. I just didn’t understand.

I put the penis pump back in the bag.  I never said a word. I rummaged in the others until I found the tool he was looking for.

I was still dating the Surgeon, which ultimately caused the demise of the relationship.

My First Teaching Experience

I have the writing bug again, and insomnia.

This post is going to be boring, but the tale must be told.

Let me tell you about the first time I taught. I’ll never forget it.

I was 24 years old, and teaching American History and Culture. I had a scholarship–I’ve always been a scholarship kid–and teaching was my obligation, and my aspiration. My dream job has always been to be a teacher.

I was dirt poor and living in a very tiny studio in a house the neighbors called “The Crack Shack” because it was so run down. I did not have a suit or a blouse and skirt to teach in. I could not afford to buy luxuries. My stipend (which I was very grateful for) was $900 a month.

I had a very conservative black cocktail dress. It came up to my throat and went down to my knees. It was the best I could do.

It was sleeveless, and form-fitting. I was also wearing short heels and a pearl necklace my mother gave me. My hair was in a French Twist.

I cannot tell you how many hours I spent obsessing over the syllabus and my lecture.

When I came into the classroom I had a complete panic attack. Speaking in front of an audience? I thought I was confident, but what the hell?

(I can do it now, no problem, but it was a shocker to me then!)

I started to write my name on the board. Administration had assigned me an old-fashioned classroom with a green board and chalk. No smart classroom for me! Not even a piece of WWII technology like the overhead projector!

This is the funny part: I started trembling. It was precisely how one of my professors said when I consulted her about teaching: once the adrenaline hits your system, you’re done. Nothing you can do but wait it out.

,My handwriting was shaky, bended, and started to shrink. “Instructor Margo Adler” reduced to tiny letters.

I saw two football players giving me the old up-and-down as I stood there, writing. God, I can’t completely blame them because men can’t help themselves, but I felt very exposed and they turned out to be awful students anyway.

It did not help that this was the worst group of students I’ve ever had. I’m not blaming them, but I’m serious. There was one guy in there who happily talked about the material, because he actually read it. The rest were mute.

Well, not totally mute: one gave me a really shitty evaluation at the end of the semester: “Miss Margo is a very poor communicator,” among other poor observations.  She was pissed that I gave her a B-, and I was being generous.  She deserved a C.  “I need to get into law school and this doesn’t look good on my transcript!” Yeah, sorry, your analysis of The Yellow Wallpaper was wrong. In order to be a lawyer, you have to write well.

And I know it’s not just me, because my next class loved my ass (I had two classes, back to back). I stabilized in the Teacher’s Lounge and got some advice from the professors.

What they said boiled down to: “Wait until you stop trembling. They’re not going to bite you. You know what you’re talking about.  You’re the one in charge!”

I went in there with an attitude: These kids are not going to intimidate me!

You have to go in with an aura of loving authority.

This relates to my prodomme work.

Give them credit for participation in class discussion. Discern the shy ones who know the readings from the ones who don’t talk because they didn’t study. Any effort should be rewarded. Not saying someone who doesn’t comprehend the material should get at A, but if they work, they deserve credit.

Slackers can forget it. I have failed several plagiarizers. I go absolutely batshit over plagiarizers. Paraphrase is a fine art. You can’t just steal someone else’s work.

Half the teenage scholars I flunked would have gotten a pass if they just put quotation marks around what they stole.  That and a citation, and you’re golden.  I have written hundreds of essays, and when I was lazy and under a deadline, I would jack a whole paragraph just to take up page space. Very poor scholarship, but at least it was honest and true.

That is my first teaching experience.

 

THE SON KNOWS

I guess it was bound to happen eventually, but that doesn’t make it any easier:

The Elder One confronted me about my BDSM relationship with Dad, the Collector.

The Collector and I have been going through a rough patch. I left early and came back to my apartment to work in San Francisco. My regulars all wanted to see me again.

The Collector threw a fit and threatened to buy the house I live in.

“Please don’t make me buy real estate in that town, of all places,” he said on the phone.

“Why the hell would you buy this house? To evict me from my apartment?”  I couldn’t believe it!

“So that I have a legal right to be there.”

I hung up on him.

Well, sure enough, the guy flew across the country and dropped by my apartment unannounced.

And get this: he let himself in. Unbeknownst to me, he’d taken my keys out of my purse and made copies of all of them (except the car key. What would he do with a 20-year-old Toyota Camry?).

Here I am, sitting at the computer in underpants and a camisole, watching Game of Thrones re-runs, and a guy lets himself in without knocking and runs up the stairs.

The last time a man let himself into my home was the Surgeon, paying his final house call, and we all know how that worked out.

I freaked out.  I had to freak out!  What would you do, if you were a woman?  Besides being hostage in a Bosnian rape camp or living in Afghanistan, I think home invasion is every woman’s worst nightmare. A guy breaks into your house, and the best thing that’s going to happen to you is being raped.

Well, I freaked out and pulled my gun on him.  Yeah, I’m not proud of it, but can you blame me?  Legally, I could have killed him and gotten away with it. He’s not on the lease! I have every right to kill a home invader!

Abe was chirping and playing with his bell toys on top of the cage and he froze. Birds are sensitive. They feel the emotion in the room. When the Surgeon made his house call, all the birds froze and huddled together, and they didn’t play or vocalize for days afterward.

In the end, I couldn’t do it.  I like to think I’m tough, but I just couldn’t do it.

“Is this it? Are you going to take my life, Margo?”  I had a gun pointed at his head.  It’s only a .32, but it would do the job.  He averted his face, but otherwise he was completely unruffled.

I’m not going to lie: it was completely surreal. I carry a knife and I have a concealed carry permit.  In sessions at work, I have a sun gun that looks exactly like a cell phone.  I’ve never pulled a weapon on anyone in my life, though there’s a handful of bad apple “clients” who would have deserved it.  I’m a prodomme, but I’m not really a violent person.

I lowered the gun and went to lay it down on the coffee table.

“Do I need to unload this? Are you going to take it away from me and shoot me?”

“Of course not. I love you.  I just want to talk,” he said.

Yeah, I just want to talk is exactly what the Surgeon said when he banged my door down. If you just want to talk, you don’t have to say it.

“How did you get in here? I locked the door.”

“I made copies of your keys.”  He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I started crying.  I am not a crier–I cry maybe 10X/year–but this was just too much stress.

He picked me up and carried me to the bedroom.

“I don’t want to have sex,” I said.  Believe me, I was not in a sexy mood.

“Let’s just lie down.”

I am pleased to report that I did not have sex with him after that egregious boundaries violation. He went to a hotel that night. But, yes, we talked.

A few days later, the Elder One gives me a ring on Skype.

“I hear you pulled a gun on Father! I would have paid money to see that! You should have shot the bastard! Shoot him next time!  I’ll take care of you out of my inheritance!”  He was overjoyed.

“I’m not going to kill your dad,” I said.

“Dump his selfish, abusive ass!  What a loser!”

“Your father is not a loser by any objective standard. He wins at everything he does.”

“Well, he lost my mother, he lost his last wife, he’s losing you, and he’s going to lose me once I finish Law School. That is a loser to me.”

Readers, this is where the shit hit the fan:

This boy actually said, “I know that he hits you, and I don’t like it.  I see the bruises because he makes you wear skimpy clothes.”

I just sat there.  I was completely pole-axed.

What I eventually spit out was, “You don’t need to worry about that. Everything that happens between your father and me is consensual.”

“I am not a coward who hits women! How can it be consensual? How can you consent to being abused?”

What am I going to do, readers? I don’t want to give this kid a “birds and the bees” lecture about sadomasochism. My sex life is none of his business and I don’t want to gross him out! At the same time, how can I set his mind at rest?

He went on.  I really wanted to hang up the Skype and claim the internet went down, but that would be disrespectful. The young man had something to say. Maybe it’s my professional educator, but if they’re speaking from the heart, young people deserve a voice, and the Collector says constantly that we are a family. I can never be his Mom, but I can be his friend.

“I hate talking about this. It is awkward. I have heard people having sex. A lot of sex happens at (my boarding school). The noises that I hear coming from his bedroom do not sound like sex.”

What can I say? He’s not WRONG. If I wasn’t into BDSM, I’d think there was something abusive going on, too.  It still made me feel like a freak, and I was humiliated that I’d made that much noise. The boys stay in bedrooms in a separate hallway, and when they visit I try to keep the vocalizations to squeaks.

“Your father and I are sexually compatible. I’m not abused. You don’t have to worry about that,” is all I could think of to say.

“Everyone is bribed or abused.  Call me any time.  I have classes, but I will call you back.”

“Well, thank you. You know I am happy to proofread any of your papers.”  It was an idiotic statement, given that he has the best education money can buy and he’s completely fluent in English, but I wanted to offer something.

Client Misconceptions

Allow us to discuss client misconceptions.

I know these because they have been expressed to me frequently for about ten years now.  The men have spoken them into my ear. I know about that of which I speak.

First and foremost: we are all rich.  They imagine me reclining on a sofa being fanned by submissives, dripping in diamonds, eating fruit. NOPE. Most sex workers are working class. I am on the upper end of this, because I’m white, educated, and Aryan-looking.  I’m not young anymore, but I still look “good” and I’m skinny.

Another one: we do it because we’re constantly randy.  Men think we are nyphomaniacs. Dudes looooove this one! I have had so many men say, “If I was a woman, I’d do this, too!”  If you could last one day in this industry, I’d eat your shorts. I have a very high libido. It is not, however, my motivation to be in this job.  I have a lot of fun in my good sessions. I seldom get turned on. Because boundaries.

“Daddy Issues!” Can’t get you wrong about that one (speaking for myself), but half the women in Congress have the same problem. Also, nobody asks guys how many have mommy issues. Hear me now, believe me later: it’s a lot. A LOT of guys have mommy issues.

“Sex Trafficking!” It exists and it’s awful. Why a man would bring this up to me during a prodomme session is a real head-scratcher. I suppose it does suggest he has a soul. However, I am clearly not trafficked. Furthermore, what sort of mentality does it take to presume the woman you are seeing is “trafficked” and then want to book her anyway?

 

Photo Disaster: Please Advise

UPDATE: Thank you all for your input. I read every comment more than once, and I also got more than one email and IM.  Readers gave me very very considered thoughts here.  I want to express my appreciation.

I have decided that I am not going to say anything.  And that’s not because I’m afraid of confrontation (you all know that).  It’s because the younger one’s comfort and security must take priority. If I bring this up with him, he’s just going to be mortified as fuck. He knows what he saw, I know what he saw, he knows I know what he saw.  I mean, what is going to be good about re-hashing it?  This isn’t burying my head in the sand, it’s just trying to give younger one some privacy.

I am really worried this is going to screw up my relationship with younger one.  I like him so much, and he is very much a kind young lad. He did nothing wrong.

THIS IS WHAT WORRIES ME:

The Collector is not a man who makes mistakes.  This is a very calculating individual.  He is not sloppy.

What worries me is that he left that folder out on his desktop because he knew his son would see it. That folder did not get there by accident.

*                         *                     *

 

Well, I have a fucked up situation on my hands and could really use some advice.

Some months ago, the Collector took me on a vacation to Thailand.  We had a blast.  It was a really fun trip and he was the perfect boyfriend the entire time.  Good sex, good food, beautiful hotel, rode the elephants in the jungle, watched Muay Thai fights two nights in a row, did the tourist thing and drank snake blood, all that good stuff.

Well, one day it was raining hard all day long so we just stayed in the hotel suite and played around all day.  I went down to the salon and got my hair and makeup done, and then I let the Collector take photos of me in different lingerie outfits.  He has a great camera and I’ve done some modeling, so I know how to pose.  Some of the pictures turned out great.  I seriously considered posting them here or in my prodomme ads, but it was an intimate time with my partner, and I didn’t want to violate that.

The pictures were not pornographic, but they are definitely provocative.  I would not want my Mom to see them, even though I’m dressed in all of them. Think Maxim magazine or Playboy‘s lingerie issue.  Me on the bed, me on the couch, me straddling a chair, cupping my boobs over my bra, silhouetted against the window.  You know what I’m talking about.

Fast forward to recently.  The Collector’s youngest son, who is now 15, flies in from Switzerland to visit Dad and his brother, who is going to a college in the Tristate area.

He had to finish a paper for school and e-mail it to his instructor.  Well, he spilled a drink on his laptop and fried it.  Laptop is ruined.  Thank God he saved his work on Dropbox.

He didn’t have time to go to BestBuy and get a new one because he was working under a deadline and HAD to finish this paper, so he asked if he could use Dad’s computer in the library.  This is a “public” computer–it’s not the one the Collector uses for business in his office. I’ve used this computer, the boys use the computer, guests use this computer.

Young one worked on that computer all day long.

(You see where this is going, right?  I know you see where this is going.)

That evening, the young one started to act strangely around me.  He was withdrawn and didn’t want to hang out and chat with me, or play chess or a video game (the video games drive the Collector crazy, but as long as the boy keeps his grades up, he doesn’t nag about it too much).  I felt kinda like he was avoiding me.  And his Dad, too, for that matter.  Not that the Collector noticed–or, if he did, he didn’t say anything.

It took me about two days to realize the problem was ME, for reasons I will explain.  I just assumed the kid was having some personal issue–maybe a problem with a girl, or a friend, or a bully at school, though I couldn’t imagine him getting bullied, since he’s good-looking and big for his age.  Or, hell, maybe he was just being moody.  Teenagers get moody sometimes.  Hell, everyone gets moody sometimes.

“Is something troubling you, (Younger One)?” I asked.  I thought we’d spent enough time together that it was appropriate for me to inquire. “You seem a little upset.  Is it just my imagination?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said.

So then–THEN–I went to the computer to look up a restaurant menu to order some sushi delivery.

Guess what is there, my 8 readers! Guess what is there on the fucking desktop.

A folder named “Margo’s Sexy Vacation Pics.”

I clicked it.

YUP.  About a hundred photos of me in my sexy underwear looking seductively at the cameraman who is obviously the younger one’s father, the Collector.

The desktop is immaculate.  The desktop on my computer is complete chaos–it’s so cluttered that if that file was on it, it would probably escape notice. On THIS computer, though, it is practically the only file there.

My stomach flipped over and my heart started pounding.

The younger one HAD to have seen those photos.  I mean, “Margo’s Sexy Vacation Pics?”  How could he resist clickbait like that?  I know I couldn’t!  I can’t even blame him!  I would have clicked it, too!

I deleted the entire folder and then emptied the recycle bin.  I felt sick to my stomach.  I felt humiliated.

Then I went to see the Collector and told him that I needed to speak with him in private.  We went to his bedroom.

“Why the fuck did you have our vacation photos on that computer? On the desktop?  I thought they were supposed to be on your private computer and password protected!  The young one SAW those photos!”

The Collector just chuckled. Unbelievably.

“Relax. I’m sure he sees much more explicit content on the internet on a regular basis. Besides, you look great.”

That sound you hear is my jaw, hitting the floor.

“He sees more explicit stuff on the internet, but not of his father’s girlfriend!” I yelled.

“I am sure he did not mind seeing those pictures,” he said, still smiling.

“Of course he minds! That’s why he’s acting weird around me!  Those pictures sexualized me to him!  And they also suggest something about his father’s sex life!  The last thing any kid wants to think about is their parent’s sex life!  He’s probably freaked out!  Collector, you could have just ruined my relationship with younger one!”

“I doubt it. He may look at you differently from now on, though.  You are right about that.  I’d be surprised if he hasn’t noticed you that way before, however.  He’s not blind.”

I was so fed up that I just walked out.

This is my question, readers.  Please advise:

Do I approach the younger one and say something like, “Oh, hey, I think you might have seen some pictures of your father and myself from our vacation in Thailand.  Of me in my bikini and stuff.  I’m sorry that you saw those photos.  They were supposed to be private.  I really hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.” And just leave it at that?

OR do I just say nothing and wait for it all to blow over?  HOPING that it ever blows over?  Pretend like it didn’t happen?

Readers, what do I DOOOOO?

 

 

 

My Type

He was a Scotsman who worked in Edinburgh. Tall, handsome, cultured enough to keep a conversation. He had brown hair going gray at the temples.  I have to hand it to the Collector: he picked my type.

When the Collector introduced me to him, he did the typical male up-and-down (I was wearing a coral satin halter dress) and said, “Collector, I see you’ve done well for yourself.”

“Of course,” said the Collector.

“Come sit at the table and enjoy some cheese before the steak comes out,” I said, taking his hand.  His hand was soft.

I found out that one of his degrees was in psychology, specifically Organizational Psychology. I studied this in school, so we had a lot to talk about.  If there’s one thing I love in a man, it’s his ability to talk nerdy to me. I’d fuck Quasimodo if he wrote a book I admired.

We discussed BF Skinner and Chris Argyris over Cotswald and Brei cheeses on slivers of French bread while the Collector roasted some asparagus.  He poured the Scotsman a big glass of wine.  I had ice water.

I did a test and adjusted my garter briefly. He didn’t say anything, but he focused in on it with laser-like intensity, and forgot the words he was saying.

I have him, I thought.  There is a part of my personality that loves the chase. I like to be hunted, but I also love to hunt.

The steaks came out.  We all liked them medium-rare.

The Collector kept exchanging glances at me over the table, and even nodded at the Scotsman.

“This is delicious,” said the Scotsman.

“If you think that is delicious, you ought to try her. Sweet and briney at the same time,” said the Collector.

The Scotsman turned beet red and started scratching the back of his head.

“Is this a proposition?” he asked. He was almost stammering.

I reached out and grasped his hand, which was still holding a knife: “It’s a proposition if you want it to be a proposition.  Do you want it to be a proposition?”

I’m telling you, the guy was trembling like a leaf.

“What do I do?” He asked.

“Finish your wine and come with me,” I said, softly.

He gulped it down and I took him by the hand and started leading him to the first hallway. The Collector followed.

“Second bedroom on the left,” he said.  I understood.  It’s a lovely bedroom, but it’s a guest bedroom, neither mine nor his.

Once we got there, I started to undress the Scotsman. Take it from me: men love to be undressed. They turn to water. This one was no exception.

The Collector unzipped my dress from behind, so I was nude except for my garter and stockings.  The way his eyes widened when he saw my little breasts!

“I told you she tasted good.  Find out for yourself,” the Collector said.

He dived between my legs.  His technique was not the best–he was a little too frantic–but it felt good.

The Collector was fully dressed and he would let me touch his hard-on through his trousers, but not take his clothes off.  “Save it for later,” he said.

He left the room for 90 seconds and came back with some condoms, which he threw to the Scotsman.  The Scotsman dropped them and picked them up from the bedspread.

“Fuck her well. Fuck her hard. Make her come,” said the Collector.

He kissed me gently while the Scotsman screwed my brains out. I was being held by men at my mouth and my pussy.  I cannot envision a better shangri-la.

Eventually, the guy came, and I invited him to relax on the pillow next to me for a few minutes.

“Do you mind if I vape?” he asked.

“Not at all,” the Collector said.

He vaped while the Collector brought him a glass of Port.

After 30 minutes, we invited him to use the shower and then walked him to the elevator. Bye-bye, back to Edinburgh.

“I’m not done with you yet,” The Collector said. “Go take a quick rinse and go to my bedroom.”

He tied my arms behind me and put my legs in a frog-tie.

“Nobody get to fuck you like this but me,” he said, thrusting into me. “What was your favorite part of today?”

“The way you controlled everything,” I gasped.  “What was your favorite part of today?”

“Seeing another man covet what is mine,” he said.

The Monogamy Talk, aka “The Big One.”

It was with great trepidation that I sat down with the Collector to have The Monogamy Talk.

You see, I know myself, and I’m not naturally monogamous.  Frankly, I used to be the biggest player I knew.  When I was with the Surgeon, for example, he was my main squeeze, and then I had two or three other guys in rotation all at the same time.  I dated as much as I could while still keeping my grades and work up.  I didn’t lie to any of them–I’m not a sleazy cheater–but that’s the way that it was.  The Surgeon didn’t like it, but since he was (and, presumably, still is) a notorious womanizer, we had an uneasy compromise: I never, ever talked about any other men, and he pretended he was the only one I was seeing, even though he knew better.

The Collector, on the other hand, seems to be a serial monogamist.  This came as a hell of a shock to me, because in my experience men are only as faithful as their options. Since he is handsome, wealthy, and a fascinating conversationalist, I expected him to have girlfriends all over the world.

To my eternal surprise, the Collector is only interested in seeing one woman at a time, and his relationships typically last for years at a time. When he’s with vanilla women he hires professional submissive fetish workers from time to time–which is, incidentally, how we met–but he doesn’t have sex with the pros.

Given this difference in our sexual preferences, I was not looking forward to having The Monogamy Talk, but I felt that it had to be done for the sake of honesty.  My solace was that I knew he is not a sexually jealous man–he has never held my work against me or felt any retroactive jealousy about men I’ve been with in the past.  If anything, the only emotion he’s displayed about my previous relationships is curiosity.

But there’s a big difference between not being upset over my clients, whom I do not technically have sex with, and not being upset over the fact that I will want to fuck other men, and I am telling him that to his face.

Typically, the only men who don’t care if a girl they’re seeing wants to sleep around are men who have zero emotional investment in the girl.  Otherwise, unless it’s their fetish–like they’re into cuckolding or they’re poly–most men I know are not able to handle something like that.  In fact, it would make most men flip their shit.

Well, I felt that, for the sake of honesty, The Monogamy Talk had to be done.  I’m not going to lie to myself and I’m not going to lie to him, either.

Oh, The Awkward.  Oh, The Trepidation.  Oh, the field of land mines I was about to tap dance across.

Here’s how it went down:

“Collector, there’s something important I need to talk with you about,” I said, sitting down across from him on the sofa.

With a completely understandable look of wariness on his face, he put his book down and gave me his full attention.

I just spit it out, unrehearsed.

“Look, I feel like an asshole springing this on you out of nowhere, but I don’t know how else to do it. I want you to keep in mind that the absolutely last thing I want to do is hurt or offend you.  But I have given this serious thought, and I think we need to have this conversation.  I know myself very well, and I know that eventually I am going to have to have sex with other men.  It doesn’t mean that I don’t love you or that you’re not enough for me, and it doesn’t mean that I am not committed to you or that I’m interested in pursuing other relationships.  Nor does it mean that I want any other men right now or that I’m looking at anyone.  I’m just saying that eventually it will happen, and I’m asking your permission about whether or not I can do it.  If you say no, I won’t do it.  You don’t have to worry about me running around on you.  I’m not a sleazy cheater.  If I say I won’t do it, I won’t.  But if it’s okay with you, then we can work something out, and I will always be honest with you about it. I know how to manage this emotionally and nobody else would ever come between us.”

Then I just sat there like an idiot, wondering if he was going to tell me to get packed and get the hell out of his house.  Maybe he would ask me if I was some sort of pathological slut or an ungrateful little monster.

He sat there for what felt like a hundred years, considering.  There was zero expression on his face.  I had nothing to go on.

At last, the verdict:

“Very well.  From time to time, infrequently, and only at my discretion and under my direction.”

That was it.  No argument, no debate, no rage or hurt feelings or confusion.  No misunderstanding.

I felt sort of pole-axed that it was so easy and final.  I sat in my chair blinking at him like a mole thrust suddenly into sunlight.

“Thanks,” I said weakly.

He went back to his book.

Things went on like nothing had happened for over a month, and then one day when he was at work and I was at the movies (IT, highly recommended, FYI), I got a text:

Margo, I have a special gift for you.  I am coming home early to cook.  We are having a guest for dinner. 

TO BE CONTINUED

 

Almost a Woman

There was a teenage girl there–in rehab.  She was sixteen.  Skinny,  pretty, save some acne. I recognized this chick immediately, even though she had all of the other women eating out of her hand almost at once.

All of the other women had children.  They were in rehab to get them back. The addiction is very strong, but the maternal instinct is also strong.  I think about half of them have a good shot at it. You should hear the sobs I heard at night while they looked at pictures of their kids.

(Coincidentally, there was a gambling addict there who reminded me a lot like my father, Franz.  He was an Ad Man in NYC for 27 years. The guy was friggin meticulous. Button-down shirt, trousers, bright blue socks.  He had perfect posture.  And he was smart…highly intelligent. I’m a sapiosexual)

“No offence, sir. I actually like you a lot.  However, I don’t take any risk with gamblers,” I said.

“IT’S GAMING!” he yelled.  No, guy.  My father was a gambling addict, from whence I inherited this addict gene. The fact that you use an euphamism to cover up this factiod–“gaming”–like it’s a playsport–speaks tons. I don’t touch gamblers. That shit is poison. It ruins lives.  Ask me how I know.

Anyway, getting back to the girl…

She was manipulative as heck.  And I didn’t really dislike her. I put on my professor hat almost at once: I’d respect her and give her space, but I never trusted her.

She was smart. She was not a a good liar, however.  Not yet.

She came off as “shy.”  There was nothing shy about her.  The shyness was a real head-scratcher.

She consulted me constantly about legalese. I hate to be a snob about it, but I was the most educated person in the room.  This kid ain’t no fool.

“Is it legal that my Mom sent me here?” she asked, coming into my doorway.

“Well, yes.  I’m not familiar with minor jurisprudence in this state, but I am pretty sure that until you’re 18, your Mom has legal custody of you.  You are her ward. Basically, you are her slave, unless you can prove you’re being abused. I wish that wasn’t so, because I do believe children have rights, but that’s how it is.

You get drunk at school and your Mom keeps a wine closet in the house.  This is exactly where you need to be.  Back out now while you can.  Trust me.  I’ve done the research.  I’ve been struggling with this most of my adult life.  You’re smart. Too smart to be an asshat.  Stop lying.  Go to college.  You know most of my students were almost your age, right?”

Know what she did…?

She ran out the front door 15 minutes later.  All of the alarms went off.

I want to protect her.  All of the other women were swarming around her the entire time she was there, because they felt guilty. They did not see what I saw.

I still have hope.

 

 

 

False Positive

I had to take a 5-panel urine test before I checked out of the inpatient rehab.

I wasn’t worried.  AT ALL.

I tested positive for Benzos.

“I’m on 10 mg of Lexapro and a multivitamin. I take both in the morning in front of the tech. Besides food, that is all I eat.”

“Don’t get upset and freak out,” she said.

“I’m not upset and I’m not freaking out.  There has to be a perfectly logical reason for this false positive.  You watch me when I take a leak. I am completely compliant and you know it. You shook down my luggage and all my clothes and I don’t know anyone in this town and I don’t have my phone and I’m certainly not ordering drugs. You know where I am, 24/7.”

I was chill.  I was serious as a heart attack.

Turns out, it was the Librium they gave me when I was admitted. It has a very long half-life.

Life Sucks. Back to the Loony Bin.

Well, readers, I’m not going to sugar-coat anything: I had a relapse in Thailand and couldn’t pull myself out of it. It was exactly how they told me a real relapse would be in rehab: you can control your drinking for a few weeks, and then it snowballs and everything goes to shit and you end up exactly where you bottomed out…or even lower.

I started sneaking booze out of the bar while he was at work. Part of me hates to  be drunk because I can’t do anything or think critically while I’m drunk.  At the same time, it kills all the feelings and seems to make life bearable until the shitstorm from the unavoidable consequences rains down. I’ve struggled with this so many years now that I should have known what would happen.

Actually, I knew.  The sense of impending doom.

I tried to quit drinking at least four hours before he came home, so I was always sober around him, but all of my physical symptoms came back almost immediately.  Hand tremors, nausea, insomnia.  Difficulty swallowing at the dinner table.

That’s why I haven’t been blogging.  I can’t write when I drink. I’ve been able to work and fly back and forth, but containing it so that I can have a degree of professionalism at work takes all my strength. I can’t even read, which is, like, my only solace in life besides my parrot.  All I can do it tweet stupid shit and schedule everything so that I’m not drunk around other people but also don’t go into withdrawal.  What a life.

The Collector noticed and I didn’t (couldn’t) deny it. I’m going back to rehab. Probably for 30 days.  Maybe longer.

I’m so tired of struggling with this. Rationally, I know that drinking distorts my thought process and makes me behave erratically. But I still do it, and when I’m in it, I can’t get out, especially when NOT doing it makes me violently ill.

On that note, it about 12 hours I expect to be ralphing foam (because there’s nothing in my GI tract) into a trash bin while a staff tech comes in to check my vitals.

Don’t let this happen to you, kids.  Don’t drink.  Don’t pick up.  I’m so ashamed of myself.

Abe is safe with an Avian vet boarder.  I made sure he will be okay.