Knocked Up

The awful Texas abortion law inspired this piece of writing.

I’ve had an abortion, much to my surprise. I say “much to my surprise” because by the time I needed the procedure, in my late 30s, I seriously doubted that I’d ever have an unplanned pregnancy. I started having PIV sex when I was 19 years old and, barring a year here and there when I was heartbroken or in between relationships or heavily drinking, have been sexually active ever since. And I’d never been pregnant. I’d never even had a pregnancy scare. Never bought a pregnancy test, nothing.

That’s right. I had sex, made love, and fucked around for almost two decades without getting knocked up or even contracting an STI. A lot of my female friends couldn’t believe it. One of them even suggested I must be infertile.

I attribute my success to a serious, even religious dedication to using condoms, along with ten years on The Pill, two years on Depo (“The Shot”) and about eight or ten uses of Plan B, the “morning after pill,” which I always used when the condom broke or when I had sex in an alcohol-induced blackout and could not recall whether condoms were used or not.

(Soapbox break: condoms work, kids. I’ve bought my own and carried them with me whenever I haven’t been in a monogamous, or at least fluid-bonded, relationship almost my entire adult life, and they never let me down. Ladies, make your date wrap it up every time you have intercourse.)

But it finally happened: I got pregnant. My luck ran out, and when it did, it ran out in spectacular fashion. It’s never the right time for an unplanned pregnancy, of course, but in this case, I got pregnant under the worst possible circumstances I can think of outside of rape in a war refugee camp.

The Collector and I had decided that we were going to have a baby in a few years when I turned 40. I know that’s old to have a baby, but it’s no longer rare in this day and age, and we were going to use a surrogate anyway, even though the doctors said that there was no reason I shouldn’t be able to conceive (I have a phobia of childbirth and the Collector didn’t want me to ruin my figure). As I’ve mentioned in other posts on this blog, I’d had my eggs frozen and the Collector had been to the clinic a few times to make his genetic contribution. The ingredients necessary to make a little Margo embryo (or Margo embryos, rather–the doctors said they’d need to make several in the hope that at least one of them would stick, as it were) were floating in a vat of liquid nitrogen. We were looking at surrogates.

Things were going pretty great (if you can call our batshit relationship “pretty great”) before everything suddenly, spectacularly imploded. I honestly don’t know if my relationship with the Collector would have survived the implosion–I think it might have, I really do–but it did not survive my pregnancy.

The family unit was devastated one weekend when we were all together at the family house in his home country. The boys flew back to their mutual schools–I never saw the Younger One again in person–and the Collector and I fucked off back to NYC. I was pretty shell-shocked and spent a lot of time staring out the windows or at the television (I watched the entire series of Breaking Bad and I hardly remember any of it). The Collector spent the next month worried about me, trying to pretend that everything was under control, and raging at his elder son. The brothers were not talking for the first time in their lives, and the entirety of what I’d done, what I’d let myself be talked in to, threw me into a very bad place, mentally and emotionally. I went to the psychiatrist and got on Wellbutrin. I suggested family therapy to the Collector and he told me that there wasn’t a shrink in New York who would take our case if we were honest about our lifestyle and the things that had happened. He was probably right.

I didn’t think much of the first missed period because I actually bled a little at the time I was supposed to. Spotting. I thought it was an exceptionally light period, but still a period. I don’t bleed nearly as heavily as I did when I was younger.

If there were other signs that I was pregnant, I missed them. I had a lot on my mind. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I had no morning sickness.

I missed my second period and didn’t even pay attention until I was over a week late. The thought that I could be pregnant had never even crossed my mind. I wasn’t looking out for it. One day I noticed the box of tampons under the sink and it occurred to me that I hadn’t used them in a long time. A long time.

One day when the Collector was watching me get dressed, he said “Your breasts look bigger.”

“Do they? I hadn’t noticed,” I said, which was true, but suddenly I did notice, and he was right: my breasts were fuller. They were flowing over my bra cups. I chalked it up to hormones; pre-menstruation bloat.

That planted the seed in my head, though, and after I didn’t bleed for a few more days I waited until he was at work and walked to Duane Reade and purchased a pregnancy test for the first time in my life.

Positive. Fucking positive. I sat on the toilet lid in the bathroom blinking at it owlishly for what might have been an hour. I was too shocked to cry.

To me? To me? Pregnancy had happened…TO ME?!

I couldn’t fucking believe it, reader! Could not…fucking…believe it! I was as shocked as if I’d found out I had cancer. I felt as if something freakishly improbable had happened to me, like I’d been struck by a falling meteor, or witnessed a dinosaur walking down the street outside the window, instead of having my body do exactly what it was engineered to do under the right set of circumstances: procreate.

When I could get up off the toilet lid, I walked to the kitchen and drank the half-full bottle of white wine that was in the fridge. When I could piss again, I took the other test, and it was positive, too.

I wondered if maybe I had a faulty box of tests, you know, broken tests, and went back to the drug store to buy more tests of a different brand. I stopped on the way home to buy some little airline bottles of vodka, which I sucked down with fruit juice as I sat on the sofa staring at the art on the walls, waiting for my kidneys to make more urine.

Positive. The tests were all positive.

I took all the tests and wrappers and the empty vodka bottles and threw them away in a trash can down the block. Then I lay in my bed in my room in the dark and wondered what the hell I was going to do, drunk (but not drunk enough) and staring up at the ceiling.

When the Collector came home I told him that I was sick and just wanted to try to sleep, but he noticed the wine was gone from the fridge and came in and sat on the bed and asked me what was going on.

Did I tell him? No, I didn’t.

I didn’t tell him that I was pregnant because I didn’t know who the father was.

Yeah, yeah, I can hear it from the peanut gallery now: Boo! Hiss! But I assure you, I hadn’t been cheating. You can take my word for that–besides the fact that cheating is sleazy, it would have been impossible to do in that relationship even if I wanted to. I simply didn’t have the privacy.

What I had was a Great Big Problem.

When I Went Back (V)

I agreed to sleep in bed with him, before it all happened. He promised me that he wouldn’t pressure me for sex or even touch me if I didn’t want him to–he just wanted to lay in the bed with me.

Naturally I was skeptical–for a man to sleep in bed with a woman he’s attracted to and not try to initiate sex with her is very difficult. But I thought, let’s test him. I also wanted it. That constitutes an admission.

We both wore clothes. Normally we sleep nude. He had the PJs he wears when his sons visit, and I wore a tank top and shorts. He spooned me and it made me feel small. He also had a boner, which of course I felt, but he was as good as his word.

I’m so self-contained, you know–like I don’t need anyone for anything…? But sometimes the body craves contact. Nobody touches me.

The next day, I agreed to have sex with him. After dinner–as usual, a delicious meal! Pork loin. People in his country eat a lot of pork. I declined the bathtub but we went to his bedroom, and that is when he attacked me.

I don’t mean attacked like “RAAWR! I have you in my clutches, you sexy beast!” Not where everyone is having fun, and one partner is just pouncing on the other.

Attacked.

He did not even wait for us to get undressed. I was wearing a dress. And it hurt, because my body was not ready to be penetrated. I tried to push him off of me but of course I couldn’t, he’s much too strong. He was hitting me, and we did not agree to any BDSM activity. He punched me. He’d never hit me with a closed fist EVER.

I yelled, “You’re hurting me!”

He screamed back, “I’m hurting YOU? You hurt me! You hurt my son! If you ever hurt me like that again, I’ll kill you!”

After it was over, he was sorry immediately. IMMEDIATELY. And I just lay there like a clubbed fucking fish.

“Margo, it will never happen again. I am so sorry. I never did anything like this in my life. Do not be afraid of me. It will never happen again.”

I left 48 hours later, and I’ve been running ever since.

When I Went Back Part II



He was waiting for me at the baggage claim. I had no baggage to retreive; I’d come straight from the hotel room. All that I had was a backpack with my laptop and some toiletries and a duffel bag with all the BDSM gear I need for work.

I was self-conscious because I knew I probably looked like shit. I’d tried to do my hair in Chicago during the layover, but all I had was a small bag of makeup to do my face (touch-ups in between sessions in the hotel room) and I was wearing jeans, Sketchers (I love Sketchers! Fuck the haters!), and a baby T-shirt with a campus mascot on it which is…a Gecko lizard.

He looked great, as he always does, but I gotta say, he didn’t look as good as when I left him. He’s always taken care of his skin and hair–he’s the only man I’ve ever met who uses uses Retin-A and sunscreen daily–but he looked older. I used to tell my shrink that it was as if he would get stronger as I got weaker (and, over the course of our relationship, I did get weaker, both as I became thinner to meet his demanding aesthetics, and as my boundaries broke down). He looked smaller somehow. Maybe he stopped taking the testosterone when I left (because that was what the Collector needed, MORE TESTOSTERONE)? Did he have more silver in the wheat-blonde hair? Was I imagining things?

But he practically ran up to me when I came off the elcelator and crushed me to him so tightly I couldn’t breath. I dropped my bag and he picked me up and spun me around.

His sweater was so soft–all his clothing is of the best quality. He smelled good. Why didn’t it feel like coming home? I was still hurt.

He grabbed the back of my head and kissed me hard. I’m sure I tasted great after four vodka-and-pineapples on the airplane. I brushed my teeth and Listerined, but after about three, you invariable taste like booze. When he released me, I pulled away.

“I’m sorry. I’m not ready, Collector.”

He had the good grace not to act offended. “I understand. Let’s go home.”

He picked up my bad and I followed him out to his car. He has a gorgeous car he almost never drives. I’ll never understand why anyone in Manhattan has a car–the fucking parking space alone is hundreds of dollars, and driving in the city is a goddamn nightmare–but I guess if you’re rich, it doesn’t matter.

“I’m so glad you’re here! Are you warm enough? Do you want me to turn on the seat heaters? You must be tired. Are you hungry? Do you want me to cook anything? I ordered elk steaks. White asparagus. African pineapple. All your favorite foods. I had the housekeeping put fresh linine on the beds.”

“I’m just tired. I’m sorry.” I was, and starting to feel hung over, too.

He patted my hand. Then he tried to put his hand on my thigh. That was too fucking much. I did let him hold my hand, though. The Collector’s hands are huge for his size, and his fingers are long. The left one is covered in scars from his years of cooking, where he’s cut himself. They are not soft. It’s one of the first things I noticed about him when we met years ago. I thought it was odd that a man with a desk job would have hard hands. I learned it was because he doesn’t wear gloves when he lifts weights. I loved his hands. They are downed in golden hair. I thought of them as wherewolf hands, which he found complimentary.

We got back to his building and he turned in the keys at the parking garage. The front doorman recognized me. I would never live in a doorman building, even though it’s convenient to get packages. I hate that they can monitor your movements. I guess rich people are used to it.

“Do you want me to give you a bath? Do you want to take a shower?”

Now, I don’t know if you remember, but bath time used to be a serious ritual between the two of us. Almost every night, it was bath time after dinner. I was just not up for bath time. Too intimate.

“Please don’t be offended, Collector, but I’d prefer to sleep in my own bed until I feel comfortable again.”

I have my own room in his house. He gave it to me when I moved in, so that I could have my own space.

I went to my room. He’d put the door back on the hinges. I hadn’t had a door on my room in years. His sons had commented on it, and we just said it was “broken.” Yeah right, it was in a fucking closet. When I examined it, I saw he’d even installed a lock.

As if any lock could keep him out. But I appreciated the gesture.

He was as good as his word: everything was exactly as I’d left it. Right down to the Hello Kitty toothbrush he’d left me in the bathroom.

I changed into gym shorts and a fresh tank top and fell into bed. After a few minutes, he came in with some hot chocolate and an Ambien. I could tell the hot chocolate had alcohol in it, and God knows what else.

On top of all the other alcohol you’ve had today, not to mention the propronolol, this shit might knock you out for days, I thought to myself.

Then: fucking fine with me.

(You know, I had a dream about the Collector in the last month or so. I was back at his house, and he gave me dinner, and then drugged the food. I passed out in my bed, and when I woke up, I threw off the covers. He’d amputated my feet. There was no blood or pain, just bandaged stumps where my feet used to be. He came into the room and said, “Don’t worry. You’re still beautiful. I just needed to make sure you couldn’t run away from me again.)

I still have my feet. But that is, in a sense, exactly what he did to me.

I did indeed sleep the rest of the night, and most of the day. He woke me up at 6 PM to get ready for dinner.

TO BE CONTINUED.

What He Never Had

I thought that he’d had a charmed life. That’s how it appeared to me, from the outside. I especially considered this when I intended to have a baby with The Collector. I saw a youth who’d had the best of everything–things I could never have imagined as a child, or even as an adult. He’d had the best education money can buy, and two brilliant and naturally gifted parents in a traditional nuclear household. I imagined a household full of music, trips to the symphony and the children’s opera, and visits to the parks and all the family exhibits at the greatest museums in New York and several cities in Europe. Parents who indulged and encouraged his curiosities and fascinations, and introduced him to new ones. The extracurricular activities and school sports he cared to pursue (but which he was never pressured to precipitate in). College was a given, and the money to pay for it was a given.

What I didn’t see was a didn’t see was a dead mother, a stepmother who was gone half the time touring for her artistic profession, and a father who was gone more than half the time on business. He said that it was because he was making money to support the family, but the truth was that they had been born into wealth and nobody had to work a day in their lives.

When I bent over him and worked over his seated, trembling body with a very course exfoliating mitten, really putting my arm into it, I saw something else: nobody had touched him in his life.

Most certainly no woman.

The wet eyes and the dumb animal gratitude. He was soaked, so I couldn’t tell if he was crying or not.

I felt pity, and a desire to give him what he never had.

In time, the Collector twisted that. I can’t blame it all on him. After all, he couldn’t have done it without me.

The Strapon Post

It seems to be a taboo topic in a job where nothing is taboo. There is a reason I haven’t written about it on this blog, where everything else is fodder for conversation. Clients have incest fantasies? Want to pretend to be corpses, and I’m the undertaker? Eating dog turds? Want to be murdered, dismembered, and stuffed into Hefty bags? Or locked in a cage and covered in ants? Sure! Just don’t talk about fucking guys up the ass!

I cautiously presume prodommes don’t talk about it in public is because it’s admitting to doing something illegal—and make no mistake, any sort of penetration of a person is illegal, including, theoretically, a client sucking on the high heel of one’s shoe.  Another reason is because it’s not exactly the most glamorous aspect of the job. Most people don’t want to have anything to do with a complete stranger’s asshole. It’s sexier and more socially acceptable to tell the public that your clients pay you to worship your feet or be put in a leather sack and sensory deprivation. Understandable.

For the record: it’s a very common request and while I’m sure there are dommes who do not offer it, I can state with authority that I have never met one.

Every dungeon I’ve worked at (3) has strapon harnesses and dildos.  In fact, seeing a sink/washing machine full of dildos is one of the shocking experiences for a newbie telling her that she’s truly arrived. It goes without saying that the dildos are not there for the women to use on themselves. Tiny dildos and dildos the size and shape of a man’s hand are all in stock.

I do not enjoy doing it at work and my regular clientele gravitated towards other fetishes—birds of a feather, and all that. However, I would not refuse a session because it involved strapon and I have done it many times.

When I was a babydomme, it squicked me out so badly that I WOULD decline clients who wanted it.  I would also decline clients who wanted me to piss on them. I quickly learned that I was turning down a lot of money, and, as I became desensitized, my boundaries changed. Some, like willingness to do strapon or anal play for money, relaxed, while others hardened and became immutable.

I don’t enjoy doing it professionally, but clients reading this shouldn’t get butthurt (HA!) reading this, or take it as a rejection. I don’t find strapon “gross” or disgusting. It’s completely understandable.  Some do it because they find it very pleasurable. Some do it because they find it painful, which makes them feel more completely dominated.  Some do it because they have a phallic fixation which might or might not be a homoerotic impulse. Some do it because they’re misogynists who imagine being penetrated by a dick is the most degrading, pathetic thing ever, as every domme who’s ever had a crossdressing  “Beat me and fuck me like a whore!” client can attest.  There are many reasons why clients desire it.  

 I don’t like doing it with clients because it is so physically intimate that I consider it to be sex. And also because, frankly, most clients do not wash their rectums properly beforehand and I find shit repulsive. I am also OFFENDED that clients seem to think it is perfectly okay to subject me to their shitty asses for the relative pittance I was paid ($85-$120/hr) at the commercial dungeon.

If it was just trace amounts of shit, I could deal with it. I’m definitely not a germophobe. I work with all types of bodies, most of them not conventionally attractive, for a living. It is okay with me if you have back hair, are obese, have skin tags, a bad complexion, whatever. Horrid feet with Frito talon toenails make me gag, but otherwise I do not care if you are an ugly motherfucker as long as you are CLEAN.

When I think I might have anal sex with MY boyfriend (and he has to be my serious boyfriend—I have to be in love with him)—I spend serious time in the bathroom making sure that I’m as clean as possible so we won’t come into contact with any significant fecal matter. Shitting on his dick would be humiliating in a truly terrible way and I would hate for him to lose his attraction to me.

Why, then, do some guys roll in off the street and want strapon and either act apologetic (rare) or pretend indifference when I, game spirit and professional that I am, am putting my body up close to their buttcrack and plugging away, and a turd runs out and plops on the floor?  Seriously, men, how am I supposed to feel about this?  This has happened more than once.  I had to clean up the shit, too, and spray everything down with bleach repeatedly.

“I’m married and don’t have privacy blah blah blah” My dude, a Fleet enema kit is available at your local drug store and it only takes minutes. No excuses.

When I first when Indy (prodommed outside of the dungeon), I had a client who essentially wanted me to make love to him while I fucked him with a strapon. No PIV, just strapon and love. At first I found this offensively personal, but the man was true to his word—he never pushed to get regular sex. He brought his own harness & dildo for me to wear, and his body was squeaky clean, inside and out.  Because he was so appreciative and considerate, this man grew in my esteem. I wouldn’t kiss him on the face, but I’d hug him and lay on him and give him a lot of eye contact whilst I was doing it, and I still remember him with affection. I don’t mind doing strapon or anal play on the guy in my private life. It’s not something that naturally occurs to me, but if my guy likes it, I’m happy to do it. I think it can be fun. The prostate gland feels like a walnut and it’s fun to see men go like an overwhelmed limp beanbag just by penetrating them and touching it. Especially if he’s the Dom. Tots fun.

The Scheme for a New Job

So: the Job.

People against sex work often nag discourage childe “remind” us that we “can’t do this forever!  Eventually nobody will want to buy what you’re selling!”  I’ve heard this a few times–always from therapists, never from clients or other women in the biz, because we know better.  A person can, in fact, do various forms of sex work through middle age and presumably beyond.  I used to be insecure about getting older in this industry, thinking that it would be harder for me to find work, but I needn’t have worried: my money hasn’t been affected at all.  Even when I was working out of a commercial dungeon with women in their early 20s, I did just fine. A lot of guys like very young women and will not deviate from that, which is fine, but they are by no means representative of the entire client base. I know women in their late 40s and 50s who are very successful, moreso than I have ever been, and these women are not serve a niche market.  Especially in prodomming, there is a lot to be said for experience and looking like a convincing authority figure.

As long as I maintain my face and figure, I could do sex work for a very long time.

The reason I want a new career is that I need a job conducive to starting a family eventually.  For me, sex work ain’t that. I also need a job where it will be easier to maintain my sobriety.  All alone in an anonymous hotel room/rented dungeon space for days at a stretch on tour, cut off from the world except for sex worker Twitter and email, is not a great place for me to be.

If I want to raise a child, I need stability and a reliable, steady source of income.  Kids cost a fucking fortune, so the job has to pay well.  The Collector has a fortune, but without him, I will need to provide everything.  I never had much material ambition, but there is a certain standard I want to achieve and be able to maintain before I even consider having a child.

I’ve settled on a new career: court reporter.  It’s an AA degree, which means I could be done in two and a half years and start work right away after I get my license. I am done with the big leagues–I don’t want another grad degree.  An associate’s, though, I could do.  The pay is good (well, I think it’s good–court reporters in NYC make $80,000/year), the job is in high demand, and I can do it as long as my hearing hold out.  I wouldn’t even have to work in the courts, because there’s other work for freelance stenographers. Best of all, court reporters are essentially self-employed (and I love being self-employed!), so I can work as little or as much as I want to.  This would be important when the child is young.

I’ve found the college I want to attend.  I want to start in the Fall.  It’s accredited and NCRA-approved.  The program is online (they have a brick-and-mortar campus, but it’s in another state) and while I’d much prefer to learn in a physical classroom, I see no reason why I can’t do this online.  I’m a bit intimidated because this is unlike any education I’ve had before–this is a technical degree that requires me to master a stenograph machine and its attendant software programs. It also requires some native talent for the machine, which I may or may not possess: if I can’t perform with the necessary speed and accuracy (and some people can’t, try as they might), I can’t get my license..

This is what I want to do.  It is not my dream job, but it is a good job performing a necessary social function in an environment that I would not hate to be in. It is something that I could be proud to be.

This is Plan A.  My backup plan is paralegal, another degree I could knock out at my local junior college in three semesters after I transfer credits.

Now I have another problem to address: paying for school.  Court reporting college is expensive, and I am very reluctant to go into debt for $40,000.  Almost all of my college was paid for through scholarships and fellowships.  I can’t do that here.  Without the Collector’s money to fall back on, I have to do this myself.

Which brings me to the next part of my plan!  I’ve been scheming!  Scheming about how I’m going to pay for this!  And it’s sex work, natch.  A new kind of sex work!

Is it a hair-brained scheme?  Is it spectacularly ill-advised?  Or is it feasible?  Indeed, I ask you, WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

You tell me!  I’m writing about it in the next installment.

I’m Back (on a limited basis)!

This is just a quick blog post to let my 8 readers know that I’m still alive.  I am sober, physically healthy, and psychologically sound.  I feel pretty good, all in all.  Rehab is a huge drag, but I’m glad that I committed to it.

I’ve spent over three months sequestered from my job, family, relationships, and the Collector.  Now, -rather than returning to my life, I’m opting to re-introduce myself gradually. I want to do this right, and never have to do it again.  I am too old to waste any more of my life struggling with this.

I’m living in what is essentially a very structured sober-house environment with a few other women.  I hate having roommates, but I am not ready to be alone again yet and I am not in a position to make a decision about moving in with the Collector.

I have a crappy straight job whose only redeeming quality is that it provides routine and leaves me too tired to be upset, or disappointed with myself.  I volunteer at a shelter for women and children.  My goals this summer are pretty small: start writing again, get as physically fit as possible given my work schedule, and be patient with myself.

And stay sober, of course.  I don’t anticipate any problems with that–I’m on naltrexone, in intensive treatment, and am almost never alone.  I’ve also committed myself to the process.

I have much more to write, but I can’t do it now.  I WILL have internet access one or two days a week now, so I’ll be able to update this blog.  I’ve gone through my drafts and picked out a dozen decent ones from the archives that I intend to finish and publish starting next week–untold dungeon tales from NYC, reader mailbag, relationship stuff, book reviews.

I can also read and respond to comments.  I’ve just started reading the ones left for me since I went offline in February.  Thank you all for reading, and for all your thoughts, input, and support.  It really means a lot to me. Till next week!

 

I can’t put it off any longer (not that I’ve had much time to put it off at all–this shitstorm of consequences rained down on me just a few days ago).

My 8 readers, as always, deserve The Awful Truth.

I have to go back to rehab.  AGAIN.  Because I relapsed.  AGAIN.

I have been accepted into a rehab facility in town (my home town).  The Collector threw a fit because he knew it would keep us apart and he wanted me to go to Smithers. I know what he’d do.  He’d cruise from physician to physician who had anything to do with my case, looking for the weak one and charming the nurses.

Probably a resident, but one never knows.

Next is WHY. My mother, and others, want to know WHY.

There is no why. One can pan it down to a relentless urge towards self-annihilation, but what we are looking at is a genetic heritable disorder.  I have never met an addict (and I’ve met plenty) who was happy, unless they were inebriated.

I am, simply, tired of fighting it. My addiction has followed me like a tin can tied to a dog’s tail for ten years now.  I get sicker every relapse. Incredibly, I have reached late-stage alcoholism in my mid-30s.

I am going to be away for some months.  The place that I am going to sounds like a prison, and I do not relish it.  But maybe a prison is what I need. I don’t think that modern psychiatry knows how to effectively treat addiction, and that scares me.

Maybe six months in a structured environment will be enough to reset my brain chemistry. At this point, I’d be willing to try anything short of ECT.

I think that the time alone (well, aside from the other junkies and the staff) will also give me time to ruminate about my relationship with the Collector, and whether or not I want to make a family with this man.

The blog is staying up, but I won’t be able to update it for a few months, unless I get a pass to use my PC somehow, which is unlikely.

Please don’t give up on me.  I’ll be back to writing as soon as I possibly can.  I will journal in rehab (even though I HATE writing by hand…but when you gotta write, you gotta write) and I may publish those as blog posts later.

Wish me luck.  You know I have always appreciated you.

Margo

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.