The “A” Bomb

     Or maybe it’s the “A.A.” bomb.  

      The man I had the Brooks Brothers date with–I guess I’ll call him Spencer–SOMEHOW figured out that I’m in A.A.  He mentioned it via text message, which made it difficult to gauge his emotional tone, but he didn’t run screaming in the opposite direction, so I guess he’s still hanging in there.  

       I calmly told him that we should talk about it when I saw him again and I would be happy to answer any questions he had.  I mean, what else can one say?  Though the sum total of my opinion about A.A. is: “Yes, it’s vaguely cult-y, but I go to a lot of Agnostic meetings and I can’t quote the Big Book without feeling like an idiot, and in any event, IT BEATS BEING DEAD.”  

      I would probably be better off if I was a little more indoctrinated–I was doing better when I had a sponsor and doing more service instead of just cookies.  I’m counting days AGAIN.

      I also get the feeling that he’s a little concerned that I’m out screwing around.  Normally he’d be right, but as circumstance would have it, I’m not seeing anyone.  The guys at the Studio don’t count, at least not to me, but perhaps, as a man, he has a different perspective.  Though I hardly think that anyone could construe giving Milton a swirly as legitimate romantic activity.  I assure you, Spencer, Milton is no threat to you! 

      That is actually pretty funny.  I keep thinking about flushing the toilet with Milton’s head in it.  It makes me crack up at totally inopportune times.  The deli.  The laundry mat.  People look at me like I am crazy.  

       Anyway, it’s just a feeling I have because he makes jokes about me confusing him with other guys.  He’s not pulling any jealous controlling bullshit.  After the Surgeon, my tolerance for jealous controlling bullshit is pretty low.   

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     Actually, here is a funny story that is typical of what happens when I meet a really, really attractive man at the Studio: 

     I have aregular, and the first time I met him, I was thrilled.  WHAT A BABE!  He’s a tall, very well-built Japanese guy.  You can see that he lifts weights–he looks very athletic.  He also has a great face and a nice haircut and he always wears stylish, elegant clothes.  And he was born in Paris, so he had a French accent.  Accents usually don’t do much for me, but on this guy, it was sexy. He smells like nice clean clothes. 

      I was getting dressed in back after I met him, and I was practically doing a happy dance!  I wonder what I get to do to him! I get to see him naked—yaaaay!

      Well, let me tell you what I get to do to him: jump up and down on his stomach for an hour.

       Yeah, you read that correctly. 

        He doesn’t even take his clothes off.  I get nothing, except a little exercise.  And the threat of a broken ankle.  Power-walking on someone’s abdomen in high heels is pretty difficult. I have tripped on more than one occasion. 

       At first I was afraid that my shoes would puncture him, like a scene in a bad horror movie.  That would be fun to explain to the cops! But that has never happened, obviously.

     I don’t even get the satisfaction of thinking that he hires me because he thinks I’m hot.  Frankly, I think he sees me because he finds me to be the optimal weight for stomach-stomping, and I’m fit enough to do it for a whole hour.   

     He does tip very well.  He is, after all, a gentleman.  

Profiles in Sadism: The Surgeon and the Double Bind

    A reader who writes a blog I follow, Advochasty, recently wrote a post containing the following exchange he had with his Mistress

  “So you’re coming down alone, but you can’t get here until Saturday, do I have that right?”, she inquired sharply.

“Yes, that’s correct”, I answered on her crisp examination query.

“Well, we aren’t sure we’re going to use you, but would you like to be in the running?”

Priceless! You just can’t teach that, it’s hardwired.

    Now, the first time I read this–the first three or four times, actually–I didn’t get it, and I said as much in the comments section.  Humiliation doesn’t do much for me, though some subs, especially male subs, find it thrilling.

      But I read Advo’s reply and thought about it for a few days, and eventually, I groked it.  

     I bring all this up because I found an exchange of text messages in my old phone with I was cleaning it out (I got an iPhone!  The camera function is awesome, but I’m scared to use the rest of it.  I really don’t like machines.).  

       The exchange, is with my old boyfriend, the Surgeon.  Let me provide some context for you, gentle reader.  

        If you’ve read this blog long enough, you probably have a pretty good grasp of what this guy’s personality is like.  And please keep in mind that I never even wrote about the BAD shit he did on this blog.  I’m not saying that to make him look worse–1) I probably couldn’t (ha, ha) and 2) the man was my main squeeze for years, and I did care about him a lot. And my, wasn’t I attracted to him!  We had a very intense sexual connection.  It was so intense, frankly, that I’d be relieved if I never experienced something like it again.  It made me a vulnerable moron.  

         So anyway, the man in question: a relentlessly competitive land shark and a control freak of the highest order.  Not an emotionally complex human being, he has two modes: charming and hostile.  I personally believed him to be at his best when he was both simultaneously, but I am masochistic like that.  

          The doctor could be shockingly cruel and manipulative.  If you want to be frank, he could be transparently abusive, which is the main reason I had to leave him.  I had to teach him bondage and how to use some of the implements on me, but the sadism was there all along.  I ferreted it out, held it up to the light.  He was a very controlled, repressed individual, and I exposed him.  Or liberated him. Yeah, it was a pretty interesting dance we were engaged in, especially the first year. 

        The double bind was one of the Surgeon’s favorite methods of torture.  For those of you who don’t know, here’s the wiki.  Basically, it’s where you’re set up in a dilemma, and you’re fucked no matter what action you take.  

          The Surgeon liked this because a way for him to affirm his power would be to force me to do something I really, really didn’t want to do.  This is how you know that someone else is obeying your will (read 1984). In order to feel your power, you have to use it from time to time.  It’s not enough, for a sadist, to just know that it is there.   

          Forcing someone to hurt themselves is also psychological terrorism.  It really, really breaks you down. As in, “Now I need three years of therapy.” Ask any pimp or cult leader. 

        So, let’s take a look at this text message exchange.  The scene: I’d been very busy.  The Surgeon had been trying to get ahold of me to plan a date, but I couldn’t take his calls all day and we were playing phone tag.  He wanted to see me tomorrow, but I had a job interview tomorrow afternoon.

       SURGEON: Voicemail AGAIN? Are you kidding?  Answer me!

       ME: Why you upset?  Please don’t!  I just got your message.  You know this phone doesn’t work in the library!  Sorry! Tomorrow I have a job interview from 4-5 pm.  Maybe we could meet on Friday instead?  I miss you! 

       SURGEON: change it!

       ME: I can’t change it!  It’s a job interview!
       SURGEON: ……..

       ME: You are being unreasonable and cruel.  Perhaps this is what accounts for your strange allure.  (note to readers: I was being sarcastic. And he knew it.) 

        SURGEON: I know.  Arrange it.  See you at 4.  
      Now I’m totally fucked.  There is no right answer.  I only get to pick whom I am going to displease.  When you take the skin off this thing, my choices are: screw the Surgeon, or screw myself.  A few times I elected to screw the Surgeon, furious as I was as having been put in that position, and boy oh boy, did he ever make me pay for it.  

      I hope he doesn’t pull this shit with his kids, but I think he does. That’s how he operates.  

The Mayor of the Lower East Side

    I heard the funniest thing in an AA meeting today!

     We’re not supposed to talk about what we hear in meetings, but I honestly don’t see how this could hurt anyone. 

      This guy was qualifying–telling his personal story about his alcoholism.  He is middle-aged, Latino, artistical, plays a mean guitar.  I guess he used to party pretty hard, and sold a lot of weed and coke to boot.  The way he told it, he used to be pretty popular in the neighborhood.  When he was using, he used to have delusions of grandeur about himself.  He would consider himself to be “the Mayor of the Lower East Side.”  

      Well, because it was known that he was always holding and carrying a wad of hard cash on his person, one day he was robbed by four teenagers.  They knocked on his door and when he opened it, they kicked his ass.  Right there on the front porch.  

      Was he terrified? 

      “No!” he said.  “I was pissed!  These kids were kicking my ass, and I was on the ground yelling up at them, ‘Don’t you know who I am?  You can’t do this to me!  I am the Mayor of the Lower East Side!‘”  

      And that, my friends, is better than one of Aesop’s Fables.  

Miss Margo Gets Her Gloat On

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   Okay, this is going to be totally undignified behavior, but I don’t care.  Let us engage in sleazy gossip.

     Remember the Attorney, the guy I was all fascinated with last month?  I mentioned on this blog that he rejected me, but I withheld the gruesome details.  

     So, he was writing, texting, or calling just about every day trying to set up another appointment with me.  I finally capitulated.  I know it was bad, I know that I said I wouldn’t do it.  But I did.  It was a compulsion, okay?  

     I invited him to my home.  

     He showed up with his bag, as promised.  

     I was so anxious that I couldn’t see straight.  This is a huge warning sign for me, because men typically do not make me nervous.  I’m not bragging about that, I’m just saying–I have a lot of confidence about my power with men.  They’re easy.  

     Following that, though, I absolutely do not trust my taste.  If I am really attracted to a man–really, immoderately–there is almost certainly something very wrong with him.  That’s just the way the cookie crumbles, I’m afraid.  Margo was imprinted wrong.  Thanks for nothing, Dad!  

     So anyway, by the time he showed up, I was strung up tighter than goddamned piano wire.  If I’d had alcohol in the house, I would have drank it.  

     He didn’t hurt me as badly as he did the first time around–that first time, I think, was a contender for the worst beating I’ve ever taken in my life, which is really saying something.  Within the margins of my body where I granted permission to be marked, there wasn’t a three-inch patch of skin that wasn’t bruised or welted.  

      This time wasn’t as hard, but it was still quite a ride.  I will spare you the pornographic details. I was glad the neighbors were gone.  I tried not to scream, but sometimes, you can’t help it.  

Remember this? I did!  Took skin off of two of the knobs on my spine.

My abdomen, afterward–the concave feature/hole at the bottom of the pic is my navel. 

      I also gave him access to my sexuality.  I have never crossed that line with a client before.  But let’s cut the horseshit here–I knew I was going to do it when I invited him to my house.  

        In retrospect, I am grateful that all he did to me–or let me do to him–was all that happened.  Because he could have done anything.  I had absolutely no boundaries.  None.  

        Before he left he said that it was time to settle up.  I told him that I couldn’t take payment.  This seemed to please him, but what do I know?  

        (FYI, I don’t think that prostitution is necessarily objectively wrong, but I do not do it.) 

        He announced that he was hungry.  Was there a place around that had good pizza? 

        (note to readers: the pizza will return)

        I recommended a tasty Italian place down the block from my apartment.  

        Afterward, I spent a day turning it over in my mind.  Dwelling on it, I guess you could say.  Not debating, really–my mind was made up.  I was gone.

        I sat down at my desk and composed a note.  Thank God I had the presence of mind to keep it brief and informal.  I said that I was at his disposal.  Yes, I really did say that.  (What can I tell you…?  In the right circumstances, I can be very submissive.) 

        No response.

        I know that he got the message.  His communication turnaround had previously been very, very quick.   

        So this guy chased me for weeks, and then when he finally got me, he didn’t want me anymore.  Okay, well…  Wasn’t expecting that, but everyone gets dumped sometime.  

          Two days later, I’m sitting on the bus when I get a text message from him: By the way, the pizza was fantastic! 

         If someone can come up with a bigger douchebag quote, I’d like to hear it.  Yeah, that text message became an instant classic.  I was stunned at being rejected–I mean, I just didn’t see it coming–but after I got over it, The pizza was fantastic! became a running joke around Margo Manor.  

          I told Heinrich about it when we ate lunch at the Frick.  

         “You offered to serve heem and hee told you vat?” he asked, brow furrowing.

         “He made me cool it for two days and then just said ‘The pizza was fantastic!‘”  

         Heinrich rubbed his forehead like he’d just gotten a headache.  “That is pathetic.”  

         Bless your heart, Heinrich, for reaffirming my sexual value.

        So, a couple weeks go by.  I figured I’d never hear from the Attorney again.  

         Then my phone beeps.  Hmmm, who is texting me at 6 AM?  Our favorite sadistic pizza-loving sexual-favors-enjoying attorney at law!

       The text contained a magnanimous offer to administer extreme acts of violence upon my person.  And if I say they’re extreme, please just take my word for it.  Miss Margo didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday.  Violence is one of my favorite recreational pastimes.  

        I did not respond.

        Exactly one week later–exactly one week later, like down to the hour–the guy shoots me an email reiterating his offer.  

         And again: I trust I will hear back from you.   

         But he won’t hear back from me.  NOPE!  As tempted as I am write back: “If you think the pizza is good, you should try the calzones!” 

          Nope!  That would be beneath my dignity. 

          What isn’t beneath my dignity, though, is engaging in this sordid gossip with my 8 readers and enjoying a good gloat that now I get to reject him!  HA!  NEENER NEENER NEENER!

           I invite you to join me in doing the dirty chicken victory dance.  

A Swirly for Milton

 UPDATE 9:50

       Well, we gave Milton a swirly, and damned if I wasn’t the one who took the lead and hauled him into the bathroom and flushed the toilet.  I was pretty aggravated with the guy by that point, so I grabbed him by the back of the head and pressed it down into the water.  No crown-of-the-hair-swirlys here!  Only true, deep swirlys will suffice!  

       Well, cross that off my Bucket List (kidding!  Kidding!).  

        When I finished with him, the shift was changing, and I saw a few night-shift girls in the lounge.  I told them what I’d just done.  

       One of them, A., asked for graphic details and the name of the movie.  A. is younger than I am and extremely intelligent.  She has a grad degree and is a hardcore libertarian.  She also had a great sense of humor.  And she’s got a feel for these guys–I have one too, but hers is different.  I like her a lot, but she usually works nights, so I don’t see her very often.  

      A. said, “There’s more to this than meets the eye.  Nobody is this focused on a recreation of a film or drama scene unless they are some sort of psycho.”  

       I didn’t get it.  

       She tapped on her laptop.  

        She brought up the trailer for the film Slaughter High.  

 Okay…well then.  A murder-revenge film where Milton murders all the bullies who tormented him…

    Suddenly, the entire scenario I just reenacted with Milton is bathed in a particularly unlovely light.

    So weird.  So, so weird.

    Ummm….in other news, Awesome Guy who took me to Brooks Brothers a few weeks ago took me to lunch yesterday (we had oysters last week, too.  I have an unfinished blog entry about that).  He is a very caring person.  I could be wrong–lord knows I’ve been wrong before–but that is the impression I get.  I like him a lot.  He is not like most of the men I meet.

     He seems pretty conservative (not necessarily politically), but he also knows what I do, and seems interested in me anyway.  This is unusual.  I have almost never dated clients–there was the Surgeon, and I tossed out my boundaries for the Attorney.  The Surgeon had me on a sort of retainer for a long time before things became…emotional.

        My point is that he is interested in spending time with me and getting to know me.  I haven’t been around that in a long time–almost a year, I think.

         That’s all I can write for now; I have to go.

          Has anyone else been enjoying FLEET WEEK?!?!?!?  

           I have no intention of cruising the town and picking up drunk Dudebros in Navy uniforms, but damned if they are not fun to look at!  Where, oh where, are the officers hanging out?  Is that an order, Sir? haaahahahaha

            Thank You, Fleet Week visiting sailors, for making my commute and evening errands more fun-filled!
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   Hi to my 8 readers!

     Someone sent me a concerned email, so I wanted to check in and let everyone know that I am, in fact, alive.  

     I have some interesting updates, which I’ll try to get to later this evening once I get out of the Studio.  

     At the moment, however, I’m sitting in the back lounge waiting for my call to take part is what has to be the most preposterous roll-play session I have ever been asked to do.  

     In NYC, there is a huge t-shirt wearing dork named Milton.  I don’t think Milton his real name, but whatever.  He comes in and wastes everyone’s time and has us watch the first 7 minutes of the illustrious 1986 film, Slaughter High, in which an unpopular nerd is lured into the High School locker room by a beautiful cheerleader who promises to have sex with him.  The cheerleader turns off the lights and encourages Milton to undress.  While the lights are off, a ton of other student sneak in the room.  

      When Milton is undressed, the cheerleader turns on the lights and everyone mocks and jeer Milton, shouting (unbelievably): “April Fool’s!  Where’s the beef?  Where’s the beef?  April Fool’s!”

      Then we give him a swirly.  

      I have never given someone a swirly, but if anyone I know deserves one right now, it’s this guy.  He’s a spaz.  Like, he got here over two hours ago.  He has been monopolizing everyone’s time and asking inappropriate questions.   

      And with that, I’ve got to put this away–you’ll hear from me soon.

       Right now, it’s SHOWTIME!


Praise for Pigeons!

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Awesome ad at my local subway station

 Many people despise pigeons.  I find this hostility incomprehensible. I want to ask pigeon haters: what did pigeons ever do to you? The only undesirable thing pigeons do is crap all over the place.  Well, shit happens–literally.  We would crap all over the place if we didn’t have toilets.  

     What’s not to like?  Pigeons are pretty.  They are related to doves, which are universally beloved. They are docile and completely nonthreatening.   They make a gentle cooing sound, instead of a harsh noise like a crow (can you imagine how awful it would be if pigeons sounded like crows?).  

       Pigeons perform a role in society.  They are scavengers.  We leave them food to scavenge.  The eat our garbage.  We have a symbiotic relationship. 

      They are also useful and entertaining: people used carrier pigeons for hundreds of years, and there are pigeon clubs all over the world.  People pay big bucks for fancy pigeons.  

      Check out these rolling pigeons!  In flight, they tuck their wings in and tumble downward in a circling motion.  I suppose the rolling was originally a survival mechanism meant to distract and fool raptors.  Human bred to emphasize rolling tendencies, so now the pigeons are rolling fanatics.  

      In fact, if one breeds two deep rollers together (rollers who roll for a long time), their offspring will kill themselves once they fledge.  

      They start to roll, and they will not pull themselves out of it.  They fall right down from the sky and dash themselves upon the ground.  They perish upon impact.  


Cute New York Dogs and Memories of Pepper

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   Author’s note: I wrote this over a week ago and tried to edit the text for typos today.  My editing bumped the post to the top of the list.  If this happens again, please just ignore.  Thank you.

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  I have dog fever, for whatever reason.  I want to pet and cuddle with almost every dog I see on the street.  Can’t wait till I get one of my own again.
      My last dog was a whippet mix we adopted for free out of the newspaper.  I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on her.  The owner had a toddler, and the toddler was holding a milk bottle in one hand and a soggy oreo cookie in the other.  I watched Pepper, the dog, quietly emerge from the kitchen.  It was clear that she had a plan.  She walked up to the toddler and gently–ever so gently!–pulled it out of the baby’s hand and ate it.  The kid didn’t even perceive it was missing at first. 
      That is the first impression she made of me: gentleness and self-control.  Most dogs, including my boisterous, goofy golden retriever, would have bowled that kid right over to get the cookie.  Pepper was a delicate, calm dog.  So gentle with that baby!   
       Dogs are so special.  Super special.  I never had a favorite dog–I just loved each one in a different way.  
       When I get a dog again, I’ll probably get a whippet or greyhound or one of their mixes.  Maybe a borzoi or saluki.  Sighthounds are nice and calm and quiet, which I like.  Not the smartest dogs, but whatever.  Everything in life is a tradeoff. 
       I also like mutts.  Really weird-looking Heinz-57 types that don’t look like any other dog in the world.   
            One great thing about NYC is all the dogs one gets to see!  More dogs than you can shake a stick at.  I like to take pictures of them if their owners don’t mind.  People love to talk about their dogs.  It brings out the best in them. 
      Here are four awesome cute dogs outside of a coffee shop in my neighborhood!  SO CUTE!  What kind of dog is that GORGEOUS one at the very front?  Is it a mini queensland or something?  The shaggy one with the dapple coat and white toes!  So pretty!  AWWWWW!

   Here is a cute dog in a blanket!  His owner says his name is MIDAS!  Look at those big soulful eyes!

Word to the Wise: Don’t Offer KMart Blue Light Specials on Sadomasochism

   The Following is a Public Service Announcement from Miss Margo S&M Productions:

    If you are a professional practitioner of sadomasochism, M. Margo heartily advises you to learn from her mistakes and do not, under any circumstances, reduce your fees for services provided.  

     Miss Margo was persuaded to try this an hour ago by an acquaintance who makes oodles and oodles of money.  Hoping to enjoy similar success, Margo published an advert proffering her rarefied talents for a new low fee.  

     Much to her dismay, it appears that every drunk, broke, crazy chumpass motherfucking wackadoodle in the Tri-State area (and beyond!) shares some sort of party line.  Maybe it’s a special package offer by Metro PCS or something.  

     Miss Margo pulled her ad in less than an hour and is going home to scour herself with a brillo pad and antibacterial soap.  

     May you never communicate with the creatures she has recently communicated with. Spare yourself.  Do not charge less than the going market rate. 



I just got home and checked my messages!


Arrrgh FREAKOUT what did I ever do to HIM…?  My rent has been late for the last four months, it’s true, but it’s always been paid within the month with the LATE FEE attached!  I’m only in the hole $700 right now!  For the first year and a half I was here, I was often paying two or three months in advance!  

He cannot evict me for $700 he cannot evict me for $700 he cannot evict me for $700 he cannot evict me for $700

If I make $200 a day, which is totally possible between my students and secret job, I can get him off my back by the end of the weekend. 

Arrrgh can’t sleep!  Landlord will eat me!  


   SOMEONE from Illinois is cruising my irrelevant blog and clicking the link to the website “I Blame the Patriarchy” constantly.   As in, multiple times a minute sometimes.  Ninety-seven times today? Really?  That’s what I was informed, and my informers have superior analytics and zero reason to lie.  

     I have no idea who you are or why the fuck you are doing this, but I’m suspending that link because you can’t be hitting it constantly for any good reason.  If you wanted to boost IBTP in the google rankings or whatever, you’d use google.  

      What’s your point, psycho? 

      I commemorate a new tag label to you: BLOGVANDAL ASSHOLE.