Greetings from a Village Refugee (Frankenstorm)

       Well, Frankenstorm was a total disaster.  You readers probably know that already by now. 

      The wind and rain were getting pretty nasty on Monday evening, but I really didn’t think it was that bad because I’d seen much worse in NYC.  I guess the tall buildings around my apartment building cut some of the wind.

        The lights started to flicker and went out at 8 PM.

       Then I was sitting in the dark, with 4 candles and a flashlight.  I started texting all my friends.  My friend V in Jersey still had power, and Mr. Wolf still had power way uptown.

      I read by flashlight for 2 hours and went to bed.  I assumed the power would be on when I woke up Tuesday morning.

       Haaahahahahaaahahahahaha….!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!


        It’s been two days since the power went out in Lower Manhattan, and my cell phone signal went out yesterday morning.  I’m writing this from a UPS store in Chelsea.  This afternoon–cold and bored out of my mind–I put on my walking shoes and decided to walk uptown to electricity.  I was at 29th St. and 5th Ave. before the traffic lights came on. 

          So yeah, this really sucks.  I could myself fortunate–I’m not missing work, because all my jobs are closed down, and I didn’t DIE, unlike dozens of others.  My building isn’t flooded.  All that I have to contend with is boredom and the discomfort of being a little chilly.  A friend invited me to stay with her uptown where the light’s still on, but I can’t leave my birds. 

       I am kind of worried for them–they’re not supposed to be below 65*, and warmer is better.  I got some of those chemical warm packs you put in your pockets when you go hunting or camping, activated them, and put them in the bottom of the cages with soft washcloths on top.  I hope that helps. 

       I could buy some camping lanterns, but I’m not working this week and I don’t want to spend all the vacation money I made last week on stuff I won’t need in a few days. 

        Yeah, this sucks.

        I have lots of pictures of downed trees and storm mahem.  Will post once the power comes on and I can get them off my phone. 

FRANKENSTORM and Notes on Mr. Wolf’s Party

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   1:30 PM.  The rain is sprinkling, but nothing hard.  The wind has been building since 9 AM, though.

    I am going to write this and then try to take a nap.  I was up waaaay too late last night.  And you know me–unless I have insomnia, I am definitely an early bird!  


     Mr. Wolf is most fun guy I have ever met on (cheesy tacky internet kinky site redacted).  By far.  By God, I knew slogging though all those awful contact emails would pay off eventually!  

    I don’t know how someone can be this hedonistic and still be normal.  He’s probably not.  He’s probably some sort of sex maniac or something.  

     That’s okay.  I am, too.  

      (Sez Mr. Wolf, nibbling seafood civeche on toast: “You seem very bookish and proper, but there is something dangerous about you.  I’m intrigued!”)

      Oh man.  That was quite a party.  

Coffee table in the waiting room in heaven

      Guy was not shy at all.  He had empathy and social skills–I could see him checking in with me to get cues as to how to act–but he really put himself out there.  It to me a long time to learn how to assert myself on others like that.  It really is a skill–nobody wants a Top with confidence issues.  

      It might have helped that I rolled over like a friendly, docile Golden Retriever the instant he told me to do something.  I don’t understand SAMs, I really don’t.  You are never going to get what you want if you make it too difficult for someone to give it to you. If you want to be controlled, the only thing you have to do is obey.  Don’t resist.  And if you want to have some say in it: cooperate.   I’ve only had one personal in my life so far, but those were his first three rules.

ROAWR!!!  Bar, I hardly knew ye!

     The evening was way too busy to recount in detail (and I’m sleepy, and the rain is really kicking up outside), but I’ll tell you one of the BEST PARTS..


      Mr. Wolf bought brand new motorcycle boots and I got to kneel on the floor and take his old ones off and take the new ones out of the box and put them on!  Then I got to worship them and play with them and he pressed me all over the nice wooden floor with them.  

     Arrrrghhh I am demented!  Why do I like that so much?  I don’t know, but I do!  I do!  

     When he was in the restroom, I put on his awesome leather motocross jacket and rolled around in it.  Then I put it back before he came out.  

     In retrospect, I should have just asked him if I could wear it.  He probably would have let me frolic around in it all night.  


     And he gave me four episodes of Breaking Bad on a flashdrive to watch while I’m holed up today.  He says it’s really good.  

     So I am going to take a nap (if I can calm down now that I’m all worked up) and watch Breaking Bad and play with Parrot while Frankenstorm pounds on my door.  



     Mr. Wolf invited me over to his place tonight to celebrate our imminent doom in style.  

     “Want to have dinner in my neighborhood first, Little Red Ridinghood?” he asked.

      I peeked out my window.  “Are places still open in your neighborhood?  It’s getting awfully quiet around here.  And don’t you have to be at work early tomorrow?”

     “My office was evacuated!  I have the day off!  See you at ten.  And wear the same heels you wore last time!  I like them.”  

     Well, only if you twist my arm…!

     Getting paid to be dominated by a sexy hedonist in his luxury apartment.  There are worse ways to spend a Sunday evening. And the Surgeon’s out of town, so I’m safe.  

     Calling my Sponsor to reinforce my sobriety.  Then it’s time for big hair and fake eyelashes.  WHEEEEEEEEEEE!  

Public Service Announcement

     Dear affluent, professional, married, well-known kinky Tri-State Area wackadoodles:

      You.  Yes, you.  You, Mr. CEO currently facing charges from the SEC.  Upper Saddle River, NJ.  

       Why did you respond to my secret job ad from your professional email account, with ISP #s in the headers, using your real name, and attaching a cell phone number that immediately came up on your LinkedIn account when I googled it…?

      Are you out of your fucking mind…?  What’s the matter with you?  

      I bet you are in trouble with the SEC because all of your decisions are characterized by such recklessness, lack of foresight, disregard for consequences, and poor impulse control.  AMIRITE?

     Actually, this goes for all of you–all of you who email me from work with all of your personal information in your messages.  

     You, NYC Controller Accountant.  You, Hunter College Prof.  You, architect.  You, pediatrician.  And all of you Financial Services Wall Street assholes who caused the recession–you guys are the worst of the lot (shocking, right?)! 

      Have you ever considered the repercussions if your employer or your family or, hmmm, the Post knew that you were emailing me on a company computer while you were getting paid to work?  I’m not a dog walker or pilates instructor.  You’re not inquiring about getting your hot tub cleaned.  You’re writing weird wackadoodle shit to some stranger on the internet you’ve never met.  Doesn’t that make you anxious..?  Even a little bit?  

      Picture this: Your boss, an HR representative, and a member of legal counsel come into your office and present you with printouts of the emails you sent to me.  What are you going to say?  What are you going to tell you family?  

     I know I must be out of my mind to do this crazy stuff.  I know that it’s dangerous.  But you know what…?  I’m also a nobody, and I’m not supporting anyone financially except myself and a parrot.  I still compartmentalize like mad.  To the best of my knowledge, I’ve had two security breeches.  One was a friend who stabbed me in the back, and the other was a client I became too friendly with.  

      But if I was a CEO with my name in the Times and the SEC website and I wanted to contact a wacky girl to get my wacky pervy needs met, I think I’d exercise a little caution.  I think I’d e-mail her from a gmail account at a Starbuck’s in a different neighborhood.  Yup, that’s what I’d do!  That would be the LEAST I could do in order to rest easy at night! 

      For heaven’s sake, guys, get a clue.  Take care of yourself.  You’re lucky that I’m a decent person and that I protect you from yourselves.  How can you not ever stop to think about what you’re doing?  


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     I’m disoriented and I caught a cold–not necessarily in that order–but otherwise, I’m safe and sound.  

      And $2000 richer.  

     Posting pictures of money is trashy and tacky.  But when is the last time I made $2000 in 36 hours?  Uhhh….never.  Uhhh….$2000 is usually approximately 70% of my monthly wages.  

Incredibly, cash

     Boy, that was something else.   It’s sort of a blur in my memory (and I wasn’t even drinking–ha!), but I know that my 8 readers like stories!!! of my wacky exploits, so I’ll give you…”Dinner with Donald” (the guy I was thinking of as ‘Donald Trump’ because of his preference in lodging).

      He was an affable man approximately as old as Nesfaratu: 
         But he was a nice enough guy.  We met in the bar area of the hotel restaurant.  When I extended my hand to shake, he looked at it for a long moment before he responded.  I wondered if maybe it was because he was from the older generation where men and women didn’t shake hands, but now I think he was just surprised that I actually showed up or something.  

     I don’t know where this man had been hiding out–maybe he’s an escapee from a wealthy vampire retirement manor somewhere–because he looked at me like he’d never seen a girl before.  And there was nothing unusual about my appearance that evening–I was wearing a conservative black cocktail dress, pumps, and matte makeup.  I’ve been to enough stuffy dining establishments in NYC to know how to dress so that I don’t automatically look like I’m being paid to be there.  

     Conversation was easy.  He’d ask me something like, “What do you do for fun?” and nod slowly at my answer, as if he found what I said fascinating or confusing.  

    I had the scallops.  They were delicious.

    After dinner, we went to his apartment (I thought he was staying at the hotel, but I guess he has a residence there).  According to our agreement, I was supposed to tie him up with vet wrap and electrical tape (his idea) and then Skype with one of my friends about him (also his idea).  Weird, but undemanding, right?  Nothing to it!  

     Well, we didn’t get to that.  He wanted to keep talking.  Or, more accurately, he wanted to listen to me talk.  About really mundane shit, like what my favorite color is and where I went on my last vacation.  I actually started to wonder if he was confused about why, exactly, I was doing there (“Do you want to get started?” I’d ask.  “No,” he said.  “Do you enjoy fishing?”).  

    Okay, well.  I get paid the same either way.  It’s your dime, buddy, it’s your dime…
     Finally, at the end of the night, I thanked him for dinner and said that I’d had a lovely time.  

      He had one final question for me: “I think that you are a very sweet young lady.  Would you like to be my girlfriend?”

       Woah.  Didn’t see that one coming.  Now it was my turn to sit there frozen, blinking wordlessly.  I mean, the answer was obviously no, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings!

      Eventually, I stammered something about being too busy to have a boyfriend at this point in my life.  

     That made him look sad.  “Will you have dinner with me next week?”

      Suddenly I felt guilty about taking money from sad, lonely Nesfaratu.  

     “I have to check my schedule!  I don’t know if I’ll be in town!” I lied.  

      Then I got out of there.  

      I feel sort of protective of him.  I mean, talk about looking for love in all the wrong places!  I kinda want to forward him the link to Senior Match Connect or something.  

Gettin’ Paid (Please Pass the Xanax)

     If I can pull this week off, it’ll be a miracle. 

     I’m on a bit of a tear recently.  I need money for my Vermont falconry vacation (and boy, am I going to need some R&R after this!) and airfare back home for Thanksgiving and I’ve been trying to pay back the Surgeon, too.  

      I thought about C.’s advice (“Get paid for it.”) and took it to heart.  She also told me: “Look, you’re a bangin’ chick.  If you’re in this business and struggling like you were last summer, you’re doing something wrong.”  

      She has a point.  If you consider the risks I am taking (my family and students finding out about my secret job, THE SURGEON finding out about my secret job, running into someone who knows me at my secret job), some of the obnoxious shit I have to put up with (men high on drugs, insane dysfunctional management), and the sacrifices I am making (transparency in my life, emotional intimacy with a man) to do this, then the truth is: I should be making money from it.  Big money.  

       See, I have zero business sense and no natural material ambition.  I’m an idiot academic.  All I want to do is read and write and think about stuff all day.  And have weird sex.  

       So, I took out some ads, slightly expanded my services, and raised my fee significantly.  Then–and this was the tough one–I screwed up my courage and agreed to travel to them.

        Things got very intense very fast.  I don’t know if it’ll last–I don’t know if I can keep this up.

         I have students in the morning.  A manuscript is due on Friday.  The Mathematician is coming over to my place this afternoon (yeah, he’s paying me.  It’s emotionally sticky…I don’t want to think about it).  Then I have to spend some serious time in the bathroom getting ready for dinner and an extended appointment with a new guy at his hotel uptown.  The hotel is so expensive that I have never heard of it, and I’ve been around the block, if you know what I mean–knowledge of it has not drifted down to the level of my proletarian existence.  Usually I’d be excited because I’m fascinated with hotels, now all I’m thinking is that I have nothing appropriate to wear and I need to look good.  

        The Surgeon wants to see me tomorrow (and if he swings by unannounced, as he is wont to do, this afternoon, my ass is grass.  Uh-oh), but before that, I am meeting a different wackadoodle for two hours at 7 AM.  7 AM!!!  Who WOULDN’T want to get their balls stomped on at 7 AM?  7 AM is the ideal ball-stomping hour!  So it’s gonna be Mathematician, dinner and weirdness with Donald Trump, ball-stomping wackadoodle, tutoring center, afternoon madness with the Surgeon who I hope does not suspect anything, A.A. and a meeting with my sponsor (rigorous honesty!  rigorous honesty! arrrgh!), and then a breather until I go back to the motorcycle-riding Wolf’s house on Friday.  Then I have a student on Saturday and then a regular as the Studio and then another appointment Saturday night at midnight on the Upper East Side, but I’m probably not going to go to that one because it’s kinda creepy.  Nothing good in the Biz happens after 11 PM.  Take my word for it.

       And I gotta keep the Surgeon from messing up my skin too much.  

      In the pictures I sent to Donald Trump*, I was 5 lbs thinner.  Do you think he will be able to tell?  🙁   :-/ I am kinda worried about that.  And I hope that he’s not an asshat, because I have to talk with him for an hour and a half over dinner.  

       I feel like Beaker when he starts to freak out in this video:

*not the real Donald Trump, obviously


      I’ve had some interesting conversations with my analyst recently.  

       I was telling her about the Mathematician.

       “He’s a really good guy.  Educated, hard worker, handsome, responsible, loves his kids.  He’s very transparent.  Gentle.  Makes money, too! I don’t know why he doesn’t have a girlfriend,” I said.

      “Yes.  Why doesn’t he have a girlfriend?” 

      Beats of silence.  Excellent question.

      “You know, I really don’t know.  He says he’s too busy with work and kids.”  

       “He doesn’t want to be with someone because he’s too busy?  He’d rather be alone because he has children?  That sounds like an excuse.  And you’ve seen him every week and spent the night with him twice, and he hasn’t tried to have sex with you?  For a normal man, that would be very difficult.” 

       “Well I could tell that he wanted to.  What is an appropriate reaction?  I mean what is the guy supposed to do, try to rape me?  When money’s involved, things get complicated.  I don’t do prostitution or illegal activities.  I have to have boundaries, or else I’ll get fucked in the head.”  

       “He’s repressed.” 

        For once, I disagree with her.  I think that he’s relatively inexperienced with women for a man his age (that can happen if you spend your 20s in the campus computer lab and then get married straight away) and that he’s also a Nice Man™.  I know nice men exist because I’ve met them.  They are not all a bunch of violent wild animals.  

        She does have a point, though: there’s something weird about his situation.  Not necessarily bad, but weird.  There is no logical reason why this man does not have female companionship.

       ( “He’s still in love with his mother!” my analyst said.

        “Jesus, do you ever quit it?” ) <——this part is a joke! Ha! Ha!

                     *                            *                      *                     * 

         I have a student who always shows up late to our appointments.  Ten, fifteen minutes late.  Fucking always.  

       He is also chronically unprepared.  He forgets to bring his texts sometimes.  He forgets to bring writing utensils.  

       It’s not just with me. 

       His father wants him to go to law school.  His father is a lawyer and his mother is some sort of corporate executive.  Thing is, the son isn’t a very good writer.  He doesn’t read if he doesn’t have to, either.  His father gives him a hard time about it.  His father sounds cruel, to tell you the truth.  

       The son behaves in ways that provoke frustration in other authority figures.  He manufactures it.  When they are angry with him, it confirms what he believes to be true about himself: he’s bad, inadequate.  

       Good going, Dad.  Father of the year.

      The masochist needs a sadist.  If he can’t find one, he’ll make one where none was there before.  And if that doesn’t work, he’ll become the sadist himself.  

       I bring extra pens for my student.  I bring extra copies.  I don’t sigh.  I don’t roll my eyes.  I don’t complain to his parents.  When he’s late all I say is, “I’m glad you’re okay.”  

       He needs to be nurtured.  


Fortune Favors the Bold II: The Wolf

        I met him in a crowded bar down the street from his apartment.   

         I was expecting a man in a suit, perhaps with a steroidal necktie knot and a real gold college alumni ring.  

      What I got (and he found me before I saw him, even though he’d never seen a picture of my face) was a guy with a buzzcut and a heavy gray-black motocross jacket.  It looked functional, too–this wasn’t some luxury imitation shit from Neiman Marcus.  

      “Hi.  Are you Margo?” he asked, as I stood searching the crowd.

      I said yes.

      “Nice to meet you!  How are you?  That pretty red coat–I like it.  Little Red Riding Hood!”  I was wearing my nice scarlet woolen pea coat. 

      Miss Margo’s blog Christens thee: The Wolf. 

      We went to be seated at a table in the back of the establishment, where we could talk.  

                   *                   *                       *                     * 

        We carried on for almost an hour.  He was warm, less restrained than myself.  An outgoing personality.  Seductive, but I didn’t detect predatory intent.  The topic turned to motorcycles.  

       “I’ll show you mine.  We’ll pass it on the way to my place.  Do you ride?” 

        “I learned how to, but no.  They’re a lot of fun, but I’m way too risk-adverse.”

        ” ‘Risk-adverse,’ eh?  You’re not so risk-adverse.”

        “What do you mean?”

        “If you were risk-adverse, you wouldn’t be here.  Shall we go?”

                *                             *                      *                   * 
          The Wolf had a damn impressive apartment.  It had real art in it (the joke around Margo Manor is that it is “full of worthless reproductions of priceless works of art,” hardy har har) and floor-to-ceiling windows.  I parted the blinds to check out the view while he regaled me with tales of his bizarre rich-person lifestyle (“When I was scuba diving, an octopus swam up and tried to take my camera!  Want to see the photos?”).

        Then it was time.  

        I ran an internal diagnostic of myself.  Everything was fine.  Nothing about this man alarmed me.  He seemed stable and transparent.  

       “How would you like to begin?”  I asked.

       “Take off your dress and serve me a drink.”

                      *                         *                          *                 * 
        J.T.’s Stockroom must send this man thank-you cards–actually, make that thank-you gift baskets–because he had cases and cases full of arcane, quality equipment.  Like electrical stuff with all these awesome attachments (I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I love playing with electricity.  It’s wild.  Nothing like it.).  He kept going to his bedroom closet (or wherever he was going when he left the room) and bringing out more fun tools. It was like Christmas morning, even though none of it was mine and I didn’t get to keep it.  

       He was definitely a Top, but he didn’t hurt me badly at all.  I was manhandled and thrown around then and there, but the next morning there were no signs of injury besides a swollen knot on the back of my scalp where he yanked my hair hard (at least, I think that’s where the swelling came from) and a small bruise on my back.  And a bruise on the knob of the protruding bone on my wrist–not sure how I got that–I think I might have knocked it against his coffee table.  

       This one is a different experience for me.  His demeanor, his personality, is different.  I can’t quantify it yet.  He’s emotional, or at least more emotional than me, which isn’t saying a whole hell of a lot. He’s creative, fluid.
         He was a hedonist.  I did not perceive that he was a sadistic wackadoodle.  And I say that as an unapologetic sadomasochistic wackadoodle.  He took control from the moment I said we could start, and the aura of authority was drool-inducing, but there was no oppression. 

     I’ll end this blog post now–I’m tired.  I didn’t know what to write.  This is such a strange topic and I don’t trust my feelings.    

Fortune Favors the Bold

    Update: 2:45 AM

     I’m home safe and sound.

      I will see this man again.

                   *                       *                   *                        *  

    Tonight I have an appointment with a fellow who wanted to hire a masochist.  I’ve never met him before.  I’m not sure exactly what he’s into, but he claims to be experienced and he agreed to my conditions, so I’m going to try it.  

      I’m always nervous about going to visit them on their home turf, which is why I seldom do it.  It’s a little funny that if I met this guy in a bar back when I was drinking and liked him, I’d go to his apartment without a second thought (not too bright, I know.  Remember Kiwi Bull Terrier?).

      We’re meeting at a restaurant close to his place first so we can assess mutual compatibility.  I’ll size him up.  If he seems shady or gives me bad vibes, I’ll call it off.  

       I typed his address into Google in order to get directions.  Holy shit!  Expensive building.  Really expensive.  

       I reread his email.  It’ll take me a while to get back uptown from Wall Street, it said.

       Patrick Bateman!  Patrick Bateman!  My mind screamed.

       Here’s to hoping he’s not Patrick Bateman.

       Fortune favors the bold.  Literally.