Bittersweet Birthday and Session Marathon

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    I had a birthday this week.  It was bittersweet.  I cried in the morning because I couldn’t be with my family this year.  My mother called and said that she is worried about me.  She said that she feels like I hide things from her.  Her suspicion, of course, is not incorrect.  She has absolutely no clue how I live most of my life, but frankly, nobody else knows how I live most of my fuckin life, either.

    You, the reader of this blog, know more about my current life than my family, my AA buddies, my best friends, the even the Surgeon (though he’s gone now).  The only person who knows The Awful Truth is my psychoanalyst. 

     And that, my friends, is fucking problematical.  

     I need to change, but I don’t know how.  

     I need love, but I don’t know where to find it.  

     The Surgeon sent me flowers for my birthday (no scalpel inside this time).  Don’t worry, I’m not going back to him–though he’d take me back in a heartbeat–but it did make me miss him a little bit again.  He was a twisted little monkey, but I liked him an awful lot.  I think one of the reasons he loved me (insofar as he is capable of love) was that he knew that I recognized him for exactly what he was…and I accepted him anyway.  The good and the bad, from the first to the last.  

      I was the only one he trusted.  I know where the proverbial bodies are buried, if you get my drift.  

      We were two of a pair, because nobody really knew us.  We had secret lives…and he had all of my character flaws, magnified to the Nth degree.  

     Anyway…this week: two different birthday parties for Margo.  One dinner with the friends from school and my academic job.  Another party at the Superstudio (a bunch of us went out for chips and guacamole afterward at a Mexican spot nearby).  

      Enough sad stuff…

      The GOOD NEWS: after an extended run of pretty crummy Secret Job clientele, I had four independent sessions in a row this week, and they were all awesome and I made a zillion bucks! Wheeeeeee!  

      Session #1: Lawyer from Philadelphia hosts me in fantastic 4-room hotel suite.  He had to take an important business call and invited me to make myself comfortable.  The bathroom had locks on the door, so I took a bath in this swimming-pool sized bathtub:

awesome bathtub

      This is the view from the hotel’s bedroom window.  RAD!  And session was super-easy.  He was a cool guy. He wanted to snuggle a little bit at the end, which is usually a bit uncomfortable for me, but what the hell.  I guess we all need a little human comfort, and he let me use the bathtub and eat the $18 cashews from the minibar.  So I gave him hugs and he talked about his son’s Confirmation in the Catholic Church (I was baptized and reared Roman Catholic, but I was never Confirmed.  I was atheist by the time I was 14, so I declined that sacrament).  

NYC Famous Public Library

Top of Library

      SESSION #2:  Met a professional gambler at the Gansevoort Hotel.  We met in the hotel bar, because I always meet new clients in a public place first in order to size them up.  He was middle-aged, well-dressed, and not bad looking, but he had terrible table manners.  He ordered french fries, and was snarfing them down and spilling the crumbs all over the place.  

       The session was over with in about 20 minutes.  Mostly, he just wanted to talk.  He seemed lonely.  He was writing about book about gambling and showed me the draft (he has co-authored several books about gambling).  

       He claimed that his favorite city in the world is Las Vegas.

       “Vegas?  For real?  Uhhh, have you been to Europe?” I asked.

       “Yeah!  My Dad lives in London!  But Vegas has the best gambling.  Monte Carlo sucks!  Atlantic City sucks!  Vegas has the best hotels.  The best restaurants.  The best shows!  The best strip clubs!  It’s the best!”

       “But it’s a fake community.  Las Vegas is a monstrous temple to fake experience,” I said.  

       “So what?  I don’t go there for the community.”   

        He hired me for an extra hour to hang around and talk.  He talked all about his ex girlfriend. He talked about his books.  

        Then he taught me how to play poker.  At first, this made me very anxious, because…well, I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, gentle reader, but…my father is a gambling addict.  

       Gambling addiction is difficult for most people to understand, because it’s a behavior, as opposed to a chemical dependency (like drugs or alcohol).  

       However, like sex, gambling can be an addiction…and I simply cannot overemphasize the suffering and destruction it causes to the afflicted and their loved ones.  

       My father’s addiction was the single greatest cause of pain in my life, and to this day, I can barely stand the sight of people gambling.  The slot machines are the worst.  I hate casinos.  I hate them.  If you could see what I have seen, you would hate them, too.

      Learning how to play poker from the Gambler in his hotel room wasn’t so scary, however.  Maybe because there was nothing at stake.  

       Before I left, I did blurt out: “Please be careful.  Gambling is dangerous.  You always lose in the end.” 

       I know that was unprofessional.  I never tell clients what to do. How they live their lives is none of my business.  But I couldn’t help it.  

       He cocked his head to the side, considering.  Then he said: “But if you win, then you win big.  I’m going to the World Series of Poker next year, and I intend to win.  You can watch it on TV!” 

    I have two more session to tell you about, include AWESOME DINNER AND SESSION WITH DEBONAIR CULTURED ZILLIONAIRE FROM COPENHAGEN who gave little Margo $1000!!!!  He cooked me dinner and had real ART all over his loft! He bruised me a little, but not badly at all.  But a student is coming over now, so I have to go.  Will write more later!

      Happy birthday to meeeeee!  With the $1000, now I can go home to see my Momma and brother! 

On Call (and Abduction Update)

     I’m on call till midnight at the Studio tonight.  A well-known (and, to be fair, highly regarded) dungeon barnacle expressed an interest in seeing me, so I’m hanging out in my apartment with my cell phone in front of me on my desk. 

       The guy is fairly reliable–he comes in most of the nights (and they are always nights) that he says he will.  He flakes approx. 20% of the time. He sessions so often and tips so well, however, that nobody holds it against him.  

      Shall I tell you what the session is like…?  

     Sure, why not! 

      He brings in all of his own equipment.  Said equipment requires two large duffle bags for transport. 

   He cocoons himself into a rather odd latex bodybag and requests to be blindfolded with his blindfold (he can’t do it himself, obviously).  Then the Mistress places a 24″ long slinky tube in his mouth that looks like a vacuum cleaner attachment.  It probably is a vacuum cleaner attachment.  He holds it in his mouth.

       The Mistress smokes a cigarette (he provide the cigarettes, because he has a favorite brand) and exhales the smoke through the tube into his mouth.

       That’s it.  I kid you not. 

       Yeah, it’s weird as hell, but he tips a few hundred bucks and you don’t have to talk to him (not that I mind talking to clients–I usually interrogate them, if they don’t mind–but keeping up a one-sided dialogue in this context would be very draining).  You can read a book, or Ped-Egg your feet, or surf The Economist website, or ask yourself what the fuck am I doing with my life?  I know that smoking is terribly unhealthy, but nobody is going to get lung cancer from half a pack of cigarettes.  

       Whilst not in the euphoria of his strange bodybag, he is a well-mannered and seemingly educated individual.  Whoever he is, he must be wealthy, because he comes to the Superstudio at least two or three times a week–always very late at night–and I’m willing to bet that when he’s not there, he’s going to other studios in town.  


       On a happier note, Miss Margo’s Abduction Birthday Party should be happening next weekend or the week after.  

       We abandoned the kidnapped-off-the-street idea.  The fantasy is extremely exciting, but there is no way to practically execute it.  

        I’m giving Heinrich the keys to my apartment and my approximate schedule for the next few weeks.  

       He–they–can come over at any time and let themselves in.  He–or they–are going to come in and take me….wherever.  Presumably to the artist studio on Long Island.  ha, ha.  Yeah…that “House in the Country.”  It must have a million dogs and cats on it.     

      Scary scary scary!  Home invasion is a huge scary fear of mine!

       AAAARGGHH! So excited and anxious I can’t see straight.


Benjamin Franklin: Genius and Horndog

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    First, I found some comments in the spam folder.  I’ll release them and respond when I get to the office.

     I woke up early this morning so that I could grade papers.  I require my students to turn in a paper every week, 2-3 pages.  I don’t know if this was a wise decision.  The essays sometimes fill me with despair.  They can also make me laugh, as when a creative teenage scholar (who is doing well, by the way) described our beloved Founding Father, Benjamin Franklin, thusly: “He was a genius and a horndog, a man of many talents.”  

     While Teenaged Scholar’s description of Franklin’s libido was not inaccurate, I felt it necessary to cross out that charming colloquialism and suggest a more formal replacement.  lol

     Here, I’ll tell you a secret, gentle reader: sometimes I save the very worst student papers for my private library.  I make copies of them store them in a special manilla folder underneath my bed.  I’ve been doing this for years.  I do it because they amuse me, and when it comes to this line of work, you take whatever you can get.

      On that note, in case you were wondering, have I told you about the state of the academic job market..?  I haven’t…?  

       IT SUCKS!  It sucks shit through Hefty Bags!  Forget tenure, I’ve long given up on that!  I’m competing with scholars from rich-kid schools for 4-semester contracts at training-wheels colleges out in the boondocks!  It’s a disgrace!   All these geezers who have had tenure for 40 years are still around, hogging all the jobs and teaching off the same yellowed notes they’ve been using since the Clinton presidency!  

          Well, I’m not teaching high school.  Especially in this town.  

        I’m thinking about applying to a few internships in the practical area of my field.  Something short.  Get my feet wet.  It just might be time for a career change.  Hmmm.

        My friend wrote a book and wants to hire me to edit it for her. She is going to pay me.  I don’t know whether it’s appropriate to charge her the going rate for editing services or give her a discount because she is a friend.  I guess I’ll make up my mind after I see the book…because the last time I signed up to edit a book sight-unseen, I was clobbered with the shittiest book ever published by a university press.  It read like it was written by a bunch of ESL students high on crack.  I ended up having to re-write large parts of it, and it still sucked.  In fact, I specifically requested that my name not be put on the new edition.  I didn’t want credit for that resume stain. 

         Spring is here.  The flowers have bloomed.


Snatched Off the Street

    Paltego, owner of Femdom Resource, recently posted a blog entry about (in part) abduction fantasies.  It got me thinking about how much I would like to do an extended kidnapping session.  This, in turn, made me wish that I could somehow arrange for a scene in which I was the person being kidnapped.

     I spent a goodish amount of time yesterday turning the idea over in my mind.  I was enjoying it tremendously, if you know what I mean…wink wink, nudge nudge.  

     Then, about 9 PM last night, I decided: fuck it–I’m going to do it!  Why shouldn’t I?  If I can’t have a boyfriend and love right now, the least I can do is have TONS OF FUN!

       And I knew just the man to give it to me…in town again, for a limited time only…

        I shot off an email to Heinrich outlining my ideas, and then impatiently sent him a text:  Mein Herr!  You have email!  :-D!

         My phone beeped ten minutes later:  I have a friend on Long Island with land and an artist’s studio…not residential, but running water & electricity.  Very private.

        Me: So nobody could hear me scream!

       Heinrich:  You know screaming is not permitted.  How many men?  
       Me: 3 or 4…?

      Now we’re trying to work out the particulars.  I need to tell him precisely what my limits are and what I want to get–or think I want to get–out of this experience.  That part’s easy.  This ain’t my first rodeo.  

      It’s the practical details that are going to prove problematical.  As with client “Ants-in-His-Pants” (as I’ve taken to thinking of him), this scenario presents certain logistical challenges.  My fantasy has certain components to it that simply may not be feasible.  I might have to abandon or modify them.

      First and foremost: how are the guys going to snatch me off the street in New York City, throw me in a van, and drive away?  Especially if they are wearing ski masks?  How is that going to work?  I assume (and perhaps I’m being too generous in my estimation of their compassion and sense of civic duty) that multiple horrified onlookers would take out their phones, snap photos and video, and call the cops…probably in that order too, heh.  Besides the risk of arrest and the awkwardness of trying to explain that one to the cops, it’s just not cool to subject innocent onlookers to that level of stress.  I don’t know about you, but I’d be very upset if I saw someone–especially a girl–get abducted in front of me.  

   I guess we could try to do it in a quiet area at night–like the financial district, where it’s crickets-and-tumbleweeds after 6 PM–but that area is full of security cameras and with my luck, the video would be broadcast on the local late-night news.  Yeah, the Post would love that one.  

     I certainly wouldn’t want all parties involved to end up like this unfortunate couple.  (While I feel badly for them–well, a little bit–they didn’t do it right.  If she was going to be naked in the back seat, the least they should have done is cover her with a blanket or long coat.)

      Second: where are we going to get the other guys?  Heinrich says that he can take care of that part, and while I trust his judgement implicitly (and it would feel more “authentic” if I didn’t know the other persons involved)…the idea of doing this with individuals I have not personally interviewed and vetted strikes me as, well…unwise.  The last thing I need is some asshole taking photos of me and putting them all over Fetlife, or thinking that I agreed to something that I didn’t, or…well, we all know what could happen.  

    Third: I want it to be a surprise…but it can’t be a true surprise, because this requires so much planning and coordination.  People have to get time off work.  If I’m gone for more than 24 hours, I need to arrange care for my animals.  Maybe we could narrow it down to a weekend?

     Fourth: Not too bright to be somewhere “on Long Island” without money, ID, and/or cell phone.  Heinrich is safe, but…

      I will put my mind to this…if any readers have advice or suggestions, I’d love to hear them!

Chompy the Shark


“Oh shit!” he yells–yeah, no kidding, I screamed and crapped my pants from the safety of my computer monitor!

I like this guy and his video.  It made me smile and laugh.  “I think we’re going to need a bigger boat!”


April Fool III

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    So, I stopped by the Studio yesterday to drop off some dry cleaning.  

    “Margo!  Did you hear?  I was just telling C!” said Betsy.  Betsy is a gorgeous English lady.  

     “No.  Hear what?”

     “I just got dumped!  Alec canceled our date tonight!” 

    We cackled like crows.  Bwaahahahahahaha!

    Betsy is another friend of C’s–she was supposed to go on a date with Alec, too.  Boy, did she have big plans for him!  Alec has no idea what a bullet he dodged…

    Betsy is married and her husband is quite a studmuffin.  Handsome, used to play pro baseball. Her husband is in on the joke.  Betsy was going to go out with Alec for dinner, and then hit up a night spot…a lounge with music.  

     There, she was going to “meet” her husband…and after a little flirting and conversation…ditch Alec for hubby!  Ditch him for another man, and walk out of the bar with him!  Right there in front of Alec and everyone!

      Diabolical..!  But tell me it’s not perfect!  What a scheme! 

      Well, Alec got cold feet and canceled the date that morning.  He claimed to have an important business meeting that he had to attend, but I think that sounds fishy–who has a business meeting at 8 PM?  Alec doesn’t work in the entertainment or restaurant industries, either–he does some boring corporate bullshit with a platoon of other douchebag MBAs.  The only thing guys like this do at 8 PM is order their third martini of the night and at Ciprini downtown and avoid going home to their families.  

       Betsy’s also stunning, a 6-foot tall blue-eyed glamazon.  No man is going to blow her off for a “work meeting.”  They’ve been emailing and talking on the phone for two weeks, too. 

       Methinks Alec might be getting nervous about his skills with the ladies.  Lol!  

      She’s trying to reschedule the date.  I’ll let you know how it goes. 

       In the meantime…I want this corset dress!  Perfect for Spring!

     The new season of Hell’s Kitchen sucks.  Boo!  It jumped the shark at least four seasons ago.  I can’t watch it anymore.  I’m trying to get into Game of Thrones, but alas, it’s just not doing much for me.  

      There’s always Real Time with Bill Maher….I was going to blog about Maher once, and never got around to it.  Maher’s a unique case, as far as I’m concerned, because although I find myself agreeing with almost everything that comes out of his mouth, I also find him deeply unlikable.  Truly, he is the definition of a prick.  Is there a bigger asshole on TV?  He makes Bill O’Reilly look like Mr. Rogers.  

      I have to take my air conditioner out of the closet and re-install it in my window, and there isn’t a man around to pick it up for me.   🙁

Babe and a Half

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     I found this photo reblogged on some tumblr.  I was so impressed with it that I wanted to repost it. 

   I have no idea who this woman is, but she looks like an awesome badassed bitch!  I really admire her presence. What a babe and a half. If I were a submissive dude, I’d be all over those boots.  She could kick me around all day.

   I have a thing for boots and male footwear.  The Surgeon had some really great shoes.  Actually, most of his wardrobe was fuckin fantastic.  

    …..aaaaand, my sex drive is back.  Friggin FINALLY.   After the Mathematician messed me up, I couldn’t bear the thought of being touched, and the good memories of our funsexytimes made my heart hurt so badly that I cringed to recollect them.  He slept in my bed. In my bed.  

    Well…at least he helped to put the Surgeon behind me.  At least that’s something

     Maybe later this summer, after I heal some more, I’ll be ready to try again.  Mister Right-for-Margo.  Master Right-for-Margo.  

      I’ll love him and we’ll be like this!


Crisis Averted by Wonderful Cab Driver

    Last night, Captain Cranium here left about $450 worth of bondage equipment and S&M gear in a briefcase in the back seat of a taxicab.  

    I didn’t even remember it until this morning, when I was tidying up and went to clean it and put it all away. 

    I. Almost. Flipped. My. Shit. 

    I have a separate set of equipment that I use in my personal life, with boyfriends (WHAT boyfriends these days, ha, ha?), but I sure as heck am not going to use that stuff with clients.  Nothing against clients, but I have to have boundaries, or else I’ll lose my mind. 

   (The last time I lost all my stuff was in a taxicab in Las Vegas in 2009.  At least that time I had the excuse of being drunk.)

    After debating whether it was worth humiliating myself, I called the cab company to inquire about getting my perv gear back.

     The benevolent cab driver had turned my briefcase in to Lost & Found.

      Oh, thank you Jesus.  Or whichever deity you do or do not believe in.

     Benevolent cabbie is getting a thank-you card with a crispy $50 bill inside.  And I am swinging by the garage to retrieve my kinky briefcase this morning after class.  I do not care if it’s embarrassing. Let them laugh.  

    P.S.  The Mathematician got busted for our HIS affair.  I guess he saved some of our sexy flirty text message conversations from January on his cell phone…presumably for wack-off material, but who knows?  Mrs. Mathematician read them.  The Mathematician let me know, in the event that she contacts me to, ahhh, inquire about him.  

    Sucks to be you, you selfish scumbag.  

    I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for THAT confrontation.  I’ve researched his wife.  She is an intelligent and accomplished individual.  I bet she rained down holy hell on him.  

     Actually…no, I don’t think I would have enjoyed witnessing it after all.  

     Because if the Mathematician is not a total idiot–and he’s not–he would lie his ass off about me and about the affair.  

     “She was just a sex worker.  I never spent the night.  I never stayed at her apartment.  I never encouraged her to care about me.  I never BROUGHT OVER A BORROWED BIRD.  She meant nothing to me.”

     Yeah.  That would hurt to hear…

    (Assuming that he’s telling the truth about getting busted by his wife.  My friend–the one who found him for me–thinks that he could be lying.  That it could all be a sympathy ploy.  “Miss Margo, my wife found out about us, she’s leaving me, I want to be with you, can I come over and get into your pants again?”)

     I can’t put anything past him.  Not after learning what I learned.

    I see you reading, scumbag.  Hope you like it. 

     P.P.S.  The Surgeon’s history.  He still pops his head up from time to time–or, more accurately, circles like the JAWS shark–but I think he’s finally history.  

     He had a few screws loose, and he could be abusive.  I remain fascinated by his capacity for cruelty and explosive aggression. Definitely not Boyfriend of the Year.  But he never mislead me.  He wasn’t pathetic.  And he sure as fuck would not stoop so low as to bring over a borrowed cockatoo.   

     At least he respected me more than that.  

     You are lucky, Mathematician, that I did not send him after you.  If I wasn’t worried that he’d pull an OJ on me, I would have. 

Parrot Lays an Egg

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     Parrot has been going nuts recently.

     Usually, she is a very quiet bird, but for the last few weeks, she’s been screeching her ass off.  She’s been jumping over to my bookcase and attacking my books.  She shreds the newspaper on her cage floor.  She knocks her beak against hard surfaces.  She menaces my sweet smaller birds.  

      She even bit me!  She’s only bitten me once before, and that bite was just a little pinch.  This bite actually hurt.  It didn’t break the skin, but there was a bruise the next day.  

     And she screams and squawks and makes this very high-pitched chirp that hurts my ears.

     What’s up, Parrot?  Why are you freaking out?  Are you having a little birdie period or something?  

     I made an appointment to have her examined by our avian vet. 

     And then…the next morning…I found her sitting in the corner on the floor of her cage.

      This alarmed me.  Parrots don’t sit on the ground.  Even my little ones, who in their wild state scavenge the floor for food, don’t sit still on the ground.  

      Parrot had to be very sick, I thought.  And when birds are sick–by the time they evidence symptoms–they can perish quickly.  They are not hearty animals.  They are delicate. 

      I put on a glove and gently moved her to the side, and….


      An egg!  

      She was freaking out because she was pregnant!  She was chewing up the newspaper and the books in order to make nesting material!  

      I got online to ask people on a parrot forum for advice about what to do.  

      They said that, like poultry, parrots can lay eggs even if they don’t have sex/have a mate.  The egg is not fertilized.  So it won’t hatch, obviously. 

      The best thing to do is replace her egg with a fake plastic egg…or, if I don’t have a plastic egg, just let her sit on her own egg.  She will figure out that the egg is not going to hatch, and abandon it.


Parrot shreds $95 textbook

April Fool II

     I got dressed for the big date at the Studio, where I could talk to C.  I decided to wear my sexy backless purple dress and black pumps with kitten heels.  I chose the shoes because I needed to hightail it out of the restaurant in expeditious fashion, and the last thing I needed was to sabotage myself by tripping in skyscraper sandals.  Yes, a nice face plant by the hostess station, that would be inauspicious.  

      C wanted me to wear one of those tiny spy-cams or a recording device, but I thought that was just too fucking much.

      “You want me to wear a wire with him? Like in a cop tv show? Are you serious?”

      “Yeah!  That would be awesome!” 

      “Is that even legal?”

       She rolled her eyes.  “God, you’re such a nerd!  Who cares? Three!  Three pieces of domme gear!”

      “C, you are starting to sound crazy.”

      No wire or camera.  Too much.  Also, as a woman, I have strong feelings about recording or photographing people without their consent, as I’ve talked about on this blog. 

      I went to the date in a pretty good mood.  You may see it differently, but I thought the entire scenario was funny.  I felt like I was in on an epic practical joke.  

      My biggest concern was that Alec would prove to be a very likable person, and then I would feel guilty about what I was going to do to him.  

      I needn’t have worried.

      Alec did, in fact, look like a slightly chunky Alec Baldwin.  I saw him in the bar right away because he was so big and tall.  C likes em big, and she puts a much higher premium on a good-looking face than I do–sure, I’ve dated a few human Ken dolls, but I’ve been with plenty of plain-looking guys, and I often say that I’d have sex with Quasimodo if he wrote a book I admired (and incidentally, this is something I tell my girlfriends: if you go out with a man who is less physically attractive than you, you will always have the upper hand.  And he’ll treat you like gold.).  

      He commented on my strong handshake.  It always irks me when men do this, because you know that they only say that to women.  No man in the world shakes another man’s hand and says, “Wow, you’ve got quite a grip, there!”  Bleh.

      He had a surprisingly strong Southern accent.  I even wondered if he was laying it on a little thick, in the hopes that I would find it charming.  I am not partial to most Southern accents (Texan twang is a bit amusing), but it sounded positively musical compared to the way New Yorkers speak.  Oh God, New York/New Jersey accents, don’t get me started…but I digress.

      There was a moment of panic when the hostess tried to seat us close to the restrooms.  That would have ruined my scheme!

      Alec unwittingly saved my plan (and his misfortune) by requesting a different table by the windows.  Whew!

     I mentioned in my previous blog post that I’d chosen this restaurant for our date in part because of its absurd furniture.  As anticipated, Alec did not fit easily into the hard plastic chair.  The arm rests bit into his love handles.  It was a little comical watching him figit around, trying to get comfortable.  He clearly felt that he could not comment on the problem.  Hmmmm, interesting. 

      He asked me where I was from.  I told him.

      “Well!  I bet you are awfully glad to be out of there!” he said, smiling broadly.  

      I have come to expect that condescending horseshit from New Yorkers, many of whom mysteriously believe that the rest of the United States is unlivable, and also that everyone who is not a New Yorker envies them.  

      This attitude coming from a fellow hick, though, was a bit much.  

      This example brings us to Alec’s main personality flaw, as I understand it: he’s a snob.

       I don’t mean that he comes from a privileged background or that he has expensive tastes or even that he has that “sheltered rich person” affect.  Those things can be a bit irritating, but none of them are an indictment of character or morals.  Nobody can help the circumstances of their birth, and everyone is entitled to their choice in taste. 

        I mean that he’s a snob.  He’s a snob in general, not like “I’m crazy about microbrews and have strong opinions about boutique beer.” 

        How big of a snob was he?  Check out this humdinger: over the course of the conversation I was talking about where I studied for my Master’s degree, and he said, in all earnestness, “You’re very sharp and it’s obvious you liked school.  I’m surprised you didn’t consider Stanford or Claremont.”  

       Can you believe it?  This town is full of Ivy-league pricks, okay, but I have never heard anyone say something that obnoxious.  Does he think that people go to public schools because they have inferior taste, or what? 

       I wanted to give him a reality check and say “Poor white trash doesn’t go to Stanford,” but I couldn’t.  That would have been hostile.  I didn’t want him to be uncomfortable before I bolted. 

        He also interrogated the waiter about the ingredients in the food as if it were the Inquisition.  And not because he had food allergies, either.

       He was drinking a frou-frou girlie drink.  A cosmo, complete with a twist of lime.  If he was a good guy, I never would have judged, but since he wasn’t, I seized the opportunity:

      “Most men I know would be too insecure to drink that in public,” I said.

       His brow furrowed a little and he stared at his drink, both confused and alarmed.  I could tell that he was trying to figure out whether I’d paid him an insult or a compliment.  Haaahahahaha.

       Twice, he tried to compliment me by comparing me and my clothes favorably to other women in the vicinity.  I hate that. You think it is attractive to disparage other women in front of me?  For no reason?  Ugh!

        I got something in my contact lens and had to rinse it out in the bathroom.  When I came back to the table, I saw that our food had arrived, but he sent part of mine back because it didn’t look good enough, he said. 
        To cheer myself up, I started thinking about the stories C told me about Alec’s struggles with erectile dysfunction.  That made me smile.

         He complimented me on my smile.  HA! HA!  If he only knew!

         I remembered one time C came in very upset because he’d said something critical about her clothes.  She likes that hipster shit from American Apparel, but there was nothing wrong with her dress.  

        Now that I was sitting there with Alec, I suddenly understood how hurtful a snide remark like that could be if I really cared about him and wanted his approval. 

        Yup–this is exactly the kind of smug, clueless asshole who, instead of thanking his lucky stars to be on a date with a beautiful, funny young woman like C, would rather pick on her clothes.  He probably made her feel like she embarrassed him.

       WHAT A TURD!   No wonder she hates his guts!  

       “You know, you look like Alec Baldwin.  He’s one of my favorite actors!  Can I take a photo to show my girlfriends?” I asked.

        That made him puff up.  “Sure!”

        I took a photo of him with my iPhone.  Then I texted it to C.  HAAHAHAHA

         After dinner, I went to use the bathroom…and ran out.  I was worried that he’d see me, but he was messing with his phone.

         I watched from across the street.  There was a Starbucks with dark windows. I couldn’t see his face, unfortunately, because his back was to me.  

         He started to text me.  Are you okay?

        Everything all right?

        Margo?  What happened?

       Where did you go?
       He left after about twenty, twenty-five minutes.  

       A man without a gigantic ego might ask, “Did I do something wrong?”

       All I got was a flouncing text informing me that he was wrong about me and I clearly was not a lady.  

        Maybe not.  But you, sir, are no gentleman.  

        I’ll ask C if she minds if I post the picture of this douche canoe on this blog.  It should be fair, if I blur his face, right?  You guys could see big bad Mr. Citadel with his cosmo in his big soft hand.  Lol