The Attorney (III): M. Margo Has To Learn the Hardest Way

Read More

  I wish to preface this post with an announcement: I am not fishing for or deserving of sympathy.  Two very knowledgeable individuals–three, of you count my logical mind–told me exactly what was going to happen if I saw this man again. 


                       *                  *                  *                     * 


      As I write this, most of my skin hurts.  Pretty badly.  Badly enough for me to eat Advil and fetch a bottle of the baby-teething pain cream from the pharmacy (you can rub it on your skin unless the wound is open–it really helps).  


       Early this morning, I sent the Attorney an email cancelling our appointment.  I claimed a personal emergency; a face-saving excuse.  


         He showed up anyway, and claimed that he did not get the email.  


       What are the odds?  I know you know, Gentle Reader.  


       I saw him.  Yes, I did..!  Pour me a Manhattan cocktail with extra cherries, please.  


        We talked for fifteen minutes about thus-and-such.  The weather! How do you train at the gym? Good movies?  


         I deliberately put myself into my pro top frame of mind: you are in charge of this.  You dictate when it will begin and under which circumstances.  He is a stranger in your space.  Everyone who comes to see you is scared to death.  


      “I’ll definitely remember that, but we should get started,” I said, I babbled.  Babble babble babble.  I completely forgot one of the first rules, which is: let them to 90% of the talking.  “No big rush, but I have to keep a schedule.  Do you wish to begin with anything in particular?  Are you nervous? Most people are nervous.  I tell them that everything is going to be great.”


        He looked me.  He had this bird-like look, like a hawk. He didn’t do that greedy compulsive up-and-down look most guys do.  He was looking me right in the eyes.  It was who kept glancing at the space of wall just beside his face, or his shoulders, or out the window.  This is NOT typical of me.  I’m a starer.  I gaze.  Enough people have commented on it for me to trust that it is true.


        He said: “No, I’m not nervous at all.” 

The Attorney (II): My Analyst is Grievously Concerned

      This morning I went to see my expensive neo-Freudian analyst.  I was tense and had difficulty being verbal, so we did the laying-on-the-couch thing.  It really is amazing, the way conversation is facilitated–and inhibitions are lowered–when the person one is speaking with is out of eyesight.  I use blindfolds myself on repressed and anxious individuals; it really turns a trick.  Try it yourself and see.


      Anyway, I told her about the Attorney I met last week.  


      To say that she was concerned would be an understatement.  


      After listening to my recollection, she declared him to be a sadist and incapable of having a loving relationship.  


       I thought this was unfair and rather harsh (not to mention incriminatory).  “But how do you know?


       “You just told me.” 


       “I did…?”


       “Yes.  You said that he was a tightly controlled, impassive sadist.”  


       “But I’m a control freak with sadistic instincts, and I’m capable of loving someone!”  I cried.  This seemed monstrously unfair.   


        “He’s not like you.  That beating he took is nothing compared to what he’ll do to you.  He’ll show you how it’s done.”


       I figited, upset.  Then I confessed The Awful Truth: “He’s seen me at my worst.  He knows about my secret life and accepts me anyway.”


       I twisted my head to look up at her.  Usually she has the smooth, neutral psychologist expression on her face (in our first two sessions together, I thought for certain that she didn’t like me.  Interesting, that.).  This time, her eyes were wide so that they showed the whites all around.  She looked kind of freaked out, to tell you the truth.  


      “Margo, this is not a relationship.  He does not know anything about you.  He is not accepting Margo.  You are an object for his hostility.  He wants you because he intuits your masochism.  You are acting out and he is acting out, too.  That is not emotional intimacy.”


       Hello!  Hello!  EARTH TO MARGO!  Come in, Miss Margo!


      “This man will make John look like a toy.  Actually, that is what you will be.  It’ll be fun to be played with, until he turns on you and revokes his compassion.  Then you’ll be confused, and try to win it back.  Sound familiar?”  


       I looked at her, startled.  Appalled, actually, by my capacity for self-delusion.  


      Consider this from the Attorney’s perspective: he hires a pro and hits the jackpot.  She is beautiful, educated, childfree, vulnerable, and sexually relentless.  And let’s cut the shit, here:  I quit the booze and I quit the Surgeon, but my life is weird as hell and I’m not living this way because I am Ms. Norma Normal NYC 2012.  While I wouldn’t describe myself as unhappy, I still live with a goddamned parrot and fifty million books.  My career is languishing, and it’s not because I don’t have skills, credentials, or talent.  


      I have to protect myself.  


      I have an appointment with this guy.  I was sort of counting on the money so that I could buy new boxes of contact lenses, which is actually pretty ironical.  


       Better to cancel it, and borrow from my brother, or something.

“What Can I Do To You? ANYTHING!”

    Heh. The stories I could tell you.  


    The Surgeon is surprisingly, shockingly strong.  Like an ant.  His hands flew like birds to the most vulnerable parts of me, grinding bruised flesh into the bone and pressing against the nerve on the outside of my elbow and underneath my armpit.  


     Biting me.  His teeth would plunge and rear, plunge and rear.  


     MINE.  We need each other!  You will belong to me FOREVER!


      It felt like my mind was breaking apart.  I was an animal–naked, defenseless, without guile or pretense.  


      What can I do to you..?!   ANYTHING!


     It’s important to note: this wasn’t sexy pillow talk.  The Surgeon never did that shit.  I mean, he was definitely one of the all-time great bullshitters, but he knew straight away that he couldn’t bullshit me, so he almost never tried.  


       Anyway: he meant it.  Meant every word.  

Quoth The Surgeon: “WHO GAVE YOU THAT BRUISE ON YOUR ARM?”

     Ah, yes.  Just when I thought I was out of the woods, the Surgeon leaves a batshit crazy furious message on my voicemail.  


      I’ve avoided him, in part, by not answering my phone unless I recognize the number.  This is because he calls from random phones all over New York (and beyond).  


     Today I ate a shrimp taco for lunch with Advo and was trotting home when my phone beeped.  Margo has voicemail!


       Hmmm, I think, in my blessed ignorance.  I wonder who’s calling me…?  


       The Surgeon’s voice, bristling with hostility: Who gave you that bruise on your arm?  What rank amateur?  Was he drinking?  Were you drinking?  You shouldn’t wear short sleeves to school with that on your arm.  Do you know what people must think of you?  I can’t believe you leave the house like that.   


       The hands shake so badly that I almost drop my telephone. 


        I let this man beat me a thousand times.  I craved it.  I let him into my home.  


        He is a sadist for real.  Not like me.  He is for real.  The real deal.  And he’s obsessed.  


       Where did he see me?  When?  


        I might have to seek outside help for this.  

The Attorney: Birds of a Feather

    I met a man. 


    He emailed me to set up an appointment.  He wanted to be beaten–that is it, that is all.  The letter was concise, precise, and  businesslike.  We arranged the particulars in about ten minutes.  


     When I saw him walking up the stairs, I was utterly astonished.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  


      The man looked perfect. I don’t mean that he was spectacularly handsome–he was conventionally attractive, but not movie-star good-looking–but that his bearing and appearance was impeccable. He ran up the stairs quickly, effortlessly.  His posture was ramrod straight.  


     I welcomed him in and introduced myself, shaking his hand.  He was an attorney.  His hand was not soft.  I felt callouses on the base of the fingers.  Weights, maybe?  He did not look me up-and-down the way most men do (consciously or not) when they meet me.  He looked me right in the eyes, taking in my face.  


     He had a high-and-tight military hairdo.  His shirt was blindingly white.  The necktie, the cufflinks, the locked briefcase.  


     He reminded me of me. 


     He reminded me of The Surgeon.  


     I brought him a glass of water.  We chatted for a few minutes.


     I did not detect the slightest bit of nervousness in him.  I have never had someone visit me who was not nervous before.  He said that he identified primarily as a sadist (I believe him), but for whatever reason wanted to be beaten every now and again.  


     He undressed.  Usually, they strip like 10-year-olds, leaving their clothes wherever they drop, and I have to get on them: “Were you expecting your mother?!  Pick that up and fold it!”  This one folded everything perfectly.  Perfectly!  He paid attention to the crease in his blouse!  


      “Do you want safewords?” I asked.


      “No,” he said.  Matter-of-fact.  
    
       I said: “You can lean over and grab the edge of that dresser if you need something to brace yourself.”  


       He didn’t need to brace himself.  


       I beat that man.  I beat that man.  I made him sweat, and turn red, but he didn’t make noise and didn’t ask for a breather. I looked at him frequently, checking in.  His brow was furrowed, he was off somewhere inside of himself.  Processing the pain, perhaps, or keeping his equilibrium.  


       At the end, I said: “You have quite a few welts.  Do you want an Advil? Ice?” 


       He shook his head no and cleaned himself up with a washcloth and some wet naps.  Then he got dressed.  I watched him, fascinated.   He was so intense.  Like a hawk.  


       He turned to me.  “You’re very serious about this.”


       It startled me.  That was just what I was thinking about him. “Yes.  This is an expression of my sexuality and personality.” 


       “I see that.  I’d like to make another appointment.  What are your limits when you switch?”
   
        How did he know that I switch?  Birds of a feather….  


       We scheduled a session for next week.  


         Anxiety.  Anticipation.  


         If I am attracted to him like this, something must be WRONG.   This is how I met the Surgeon.  This is kinda how I met John, my truly bad Ex.  

Two Krazy Bitches

  Argh…I spent most of the last week in an inexplicably foul mood.  Listless, morose, sometimes hostile.  Not entirely sure why.  I experienced something unique and intensely upsetting, and maybe that had something to do with it.  I wish I could be more forthcoming with the details here, they’re…very personal.  


     Riding fast on the heels of Intensely Disturbing Experience, I had to deal with–not just one–but two krazy bitches.  I don’t want to sound like some disgusting sexist oinker when I say “Bitches be crazy,” but in this case, bitches actually were crazy (I think I read that on Savage Love).  


     One of them was just a dysfunctional cracked ragamuffin who SOMEHOW got hired at the Superstudio.  Whoever hired her should be taken out behind the barn and shot.  This chick rubbed everyone the wrong way within ten seconds of her arrival.  


      I was sitting in back, already in a bad mood because I was laboriously editing a manuscript written by someone who was apparently engaged in a never-ending holy war with the English Language, and Miss Cracked Ragamuffin cranked up the volume on her laptop so that she could sing along with KORN (no I am not making that up) and unplugged my laptop so that she could plug in her hair flat-iron.


    I had to endure this person for about 16 hours of my life that I will never get back.  


     She was fired from the Superstudio in a truly spectacular fashion.  I would have paid big bucks to have been there–unfortunately, I wasn’t working that night.  Apparently, Ms. Ragamuffin Korn Fan stole a bottle of the Russian manager’s vodka from the top of her desk and tried to sell it to a client who was all coked up and wheedling for a drink.  If you are thinking: Wow, that sounds like a bad idea! you’d be right.  I myself would not so much as borrow a pencil from Russian Frau Farbissina’s desk without her expressed permission.  I’m surprised the girl got away with her life.  


     Not one day after that, a nutball Ukrainian was expelled by force from my apartment building.  A deeply unpleasant creature, this woman would insult (usually in a feminine, passive-aggressive way, though not always) anyone and anything she laid eyes upon.  Here, I will give you one example.


      Scene: At Local Laundry Mat: 


      Her: “Hey, where you get that watch?”


      Me: “This..?  Uh, I don’t know–it’s an old gift.”


      Her: “Looks nice, but is cheap, ya?  Ees good for cheap!” 


     When they kicked her out, she went BALLISTIC.  I have never seen an adult flip out like that.  I was observing from up the stairs just in case the cops needed a witness.  I am surprised they didn’t have to take this woman out with a tranquilizer gun, the way scientist Park Rangers anesthetize Lions in the Serengeti so that they can get close to them.  


     She noticed my presence towards the end and turned on me, pointing her manicured hand with its fake acrylic french-tip nail: “DEED YOU COMPLAIN ABOUT ME?!” 


     I almost said “no” and then changed tactics: “What would I complain about?”  


     Long story short: they got rid of her and I wasn’t assaulted.  


      More soon.  I’m sleepy.