The hunter’s speech (or its translation) is poetical…and he gives the eagle a parting gift?  I’m going to cry!

        The landscape looks beautiful and dry like my homeland.  See how clean and pure it is.

        My brother killed a deer and there will be venison steaks to eat for Christmas.  He waited in the tree stand with his rifle.  I can smell the cold air from here, as I write this.  The place where I was born has the best-smelling air on earth and the water is so hard it barely lathers in the bath.  It tastes like quartz and it’s so clear that you can’t tell the depth of the stream.  You could judge it as ten inches deep, and then step into it and find yourself in water up to your hip.

       I said, I hope you didn’t make it suffer.  I am not sentimental and Lord knows I’ve always helped him eat the animals he takes, from chukar to hare to elk to trout, but I have never been entirely comfortable with his hunting.

       (Although really…if I am honest with myself, which of us is the more violent person…?  And why…?)

        I heard him take a drag on his cigarette over the telephone, thousands of miles away.  I pictured his hands.  Everyone in my family has hands as hard and strong as a piece of garden stone from the time we are about fifteen years old (my brother, a lean young man, can crush two walnuts together in his fist).  I am the only exception.  

        “Two shots, Sis.  Not a second apart.  One to the heart and one to the brain.  She didn’t know what hit her.”  

         A bullet to the heart and a bullet to the brain.

        The perfect summation of my childhood. 

My Republican Hookup (or, Conference Scammin’)

     Hanging out with the girls.  It was 2 AM, so you know we weren’t discussing international politics.

      My friend was discussing the impending awkward Christmas dinner with her boyfriend’s conservative family members.  I expressed my sympathy.  

       “Would you knowingly have sex with a Republican?” she asked.

         “I’m so lonely and frustrated these days I’d probably fuck any man to the Left of Joseph Goebbels if he sent me a text promising to be at my apartment in 10 minutes.  But seriously?  Probably not.  I found out that the Surgeon gave thousands of dollars to John McCain and almost had a rage-stroke.  It was gross.”

       And that reminds me of a funny story!

       A few years ago I attended an academic conference–the biggest annual conference in my discipline.  Everyone in the field was there.  

       Now, I don’t want to give it away…but my field is old liberal white dudes.  It just is.  The reading list for my comprehensive exams had exactly one book by a female author on it.  It’s starting to change–my programs had plenty of female students–but the field is dominated by men.  Liberal men.  Democrats.  

       Well, after a long day of attending research presentations and panel discussions, I got together with my colleagues and we did what grad students often do: we got smashed (there was a moment of sheer terror when I was approached by my Dean at the hotel bar while I was drunk.  I hated the man, but I also worked for him, and he controlled the purse strings and my fellowship assistance.  I did not want to be drunk around him.  Speak as little as possible, I told myself, just shut the fuck up!  I got through it okay).  

        Then I did what I often did when I was a kool Swingle (swinging single, get it?) and not the sexually frustrated old lady I am today: I picked up a man at the hotel bar.

        A young man, about 30.  Handsome for an academic.  Especially an academic in my field.  That is actually what I thought when I met him: this guy is handsome, for being one of us.  Because people in my field are generally ugly motherfuckers.  We just are.  We are not as ugly as the poor jerks in the Philosophy department, but we are ugly, and we are dorks.  Ph.D. programs are never known for being populated by kool kats–it’s never been cool to be smart–but my field are bigtime nerds. 

        So…cute guy…let’s call him “Liam.”  He said that he was a freshly minted Ph.D. and on the tenure track at Penn State.  Penn State is a good school in my field.  I was impressed.  Quite a Young Turk here, I thought.  

        We launched into conversation easily (I wasn’t too drunk to be able to have a good discussion.  The fact that I can remember it all so clearly is testament to that.  You may not get it if you’re not in the habit of drinking yourself into obliteration).  We must have talked shop for a few hours, and I noticed something else about him: he was a bit smooth.  Not slick like my main squeeze the Surgeon–Liam wasn’t going to pull off giving a phone interview to the New York Times while getting his dick sucked by yours truly (hard to tell who gave the bigger blowjob: the reporter or me)–but, you know, he was a little smooth.  

       A little smooth for an academic.  Especially an academic in my field.  Nerds are not smooth.

        He knew a lot of stuff in the field.  Like I said, we were talking shop for hours.  He knew (of) the profs in my Department.  He inquired about them.  He knew all about the profs at Penn State.

        It was almost midnight.  I checked out with my colleagues, one of whom, my Canadian Friend who often leaves comments on this blog, were monitoring my progress across the bar.  

       Time to seal the deal. 

       “Want to show me your most recent publication?” I asked.  

        Oh yeah.  Talk nerdy to me, baby. 

        He immediately settled up with the barkeep and we took the elevator up to his hotel room, in which he had the hard copy of the scholarly journal in which he’d recently published a piece of peer-reviewed research and also joined the staff as an assistant guest editor.  

         I did not get around to critiquing his analyses. Or even reading it.  I did see it, however. 

       Liam was kinky as hell.  He was a masochist.  I’m not going to get too explicit, but I will report that I ended up beating him with the power cord to the hotel clothing iron and tying his dick up with the phone cord.  It was an academic conference, so I didn’t have any of my gear, you know?

      We finished up and made a date to get together again the following evening, after we finished attending our meetings and research presentations….

      I went back to my hotel room and crashed.

      The next morning, I fired up the Internet and decided to do a little research on Liam.  It wasn’t a Google-stalk…nothing inappropriate.  I was actually just going to look up his CV on his Department’s website so that I could learn more about his research interests and be better prepared to discuss them with him over dinner.  I was also going to read one of his articles and check out his quant skills.  

      I went to his Department’s website at Penn State…


      (can you see where I’m going with this…?)

      …..I couldn’t find him.

       A tenure-tracked professor, not listed by name anywhere on the Department webpage?

        Weird.  Very weird.  And the website was good and looked freshly-updated, as well. 

        His CV and mini-bio should be there.

        Weird.  So fucking weird.

        I started to dig.

        I couldn’t find hide nor hair of this guy.  No trace. 

        Then I remembered: the name of the peer-reviewed journal I’d seen in his hotel room last night!

         I went to its website and searched for an article by “Liam.” 

         No article.  What the fuck?

         I could access the entire journal through my university’s database.  I opened up first few pages and found a statement by the Editor in Chief…an introduction.

          In the introduction, the Editor in Chief welcomed the new assistant guest editor “Mike Fascist CheatingMcLiarPants.”

          I Googled this stranger, Mike Fascist CheatingMcLiarPants.

          And you KNOW what came up.  You KNOW what came up.  Gentle reader, I know that you know what I found.

           His name was not Liam.  It was Mike.  And like most competent liars, he mixed lies with the truth: he really was at Penn State…but not in the Department he told me that he was in.

           He was at the Law School.  Which explains the fact that he didn’t seem like an academic supernerd.  There are plenty of smart kids in law schools, but they are not like the Ph.D. kids.  They are a breed apart, like the med students.  

            Fascinated, I continued to Google.  

            He was married.  With a tiny kid.  

             Google.  Google google.  I have to tell you, I was not even mad.  I had no emotional investment in this person.  It wasn’t like with the Mathematician.  I was actually giggling and texting my friend all the updates as I learned more about Mike.  I wasn’t upset…I just felt like I was the victim of an epic practical joke.  And it seemed weird to me.  Weird, but funny.  Like something out of a movie.  I wasn’t angry.  Besides lying to me, Liam/Mike’s treatment of me was perfectly decent.

          Google.  Google google.

           I found a video of him.  An interview that he gave on his local television station. 

          I clicked it.

          It was an interview in which he defended Extraordinary Rendition   and the invasion of Iraq and waterboarding AND GITMO. 

           My arms broke out in gooseflesh.  I called my colleague down the hall and told him the Awful Truth.

            “I basically just fucked Alberto Gonzales!” I wailed. 

           Oh, the shame.  I don’t think that I’ll ever get over it.  

           I found the man’s politics much, much more troubling than his marital status (and for the record, he did NOT wear a ring or mention his family in any way). I’m not sure what that suggests about my moral character.  

            I cancelled our date, even though he wasn’t half bad in the sack.  I just couldn’t do it.  He voted for Bush.  Twice.  Gitmo?  Gitmo?  Really?  Do you know what a shithole that place is?  Even the soldiers can’t stand it there!

         And that is the story of my hookup with Mike, aka Alberto Gonzales Jr.

Parrot & Margo: Two Lonely Ladies!

       Parrot is freaking out again.  

       She constantly shreds the newspaper in her cage and chews on her wooden toys.  She is typically a quiet bird, but now she becomes agitated at the sound of traffic outside and she screams.  She knocks her beak against hard surfaces.  Knock…knock…knock.  Her eyes pinpoint and dilate, pinpoint and dilate.  

       I don’t try to touch her.  Usually she can’t get enough head scratches from me…but now I think that she’d hurt me.

       I think she’s going to lay an egg again.

       Parrot is lonely.  Parrot needs a boyfriend.  Parrot has sexual urges which torture her. 

         I feel you, Parrot.  I really do.

         Aside from the basketball player and the Navy crewman I picked up in the bar with my girlfriend, I have had no sexual experiences since Abduction Weekend.  Abduction Weekend was a hell of a ride, but I had no sex before that since the Mathematician.  My sex life sucks and I feel like I’m losing my mind.  I have primordial biological impulses that are not being satisfied.  This is making me miserable.  The only positive thing to come out of it is that I’ve been going to the gym every day to burn off the anxiety caused by the tension.  

        It’s almost time for Final exams and I can’t even grade papers.  That is how sexually frustrated I am (and Oh God, if my students’ parents ever read this, I will be canned for certain….oh dude, put that on my RateMyProfessors profile!).  Believe me, my students’ weekly 3-page essays are the most unerotic readings in the universe.  I still can’t concentrate.  I have to keep taking breaks to jump into bed.  I have weird dreams at night and I’m changing the sheets twice a week because I sweat and I’m the only one sleeping in my bed.  I want to burn my computer chair.  It’s fucking disgusting, what that computer chair has seen.  I keep scrubbing it with fabric cleaner and Fabreeze, I have such a guilty conscience, it’s like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story…instead of The Tell-Tale Heart, it’s The Tell-Tale Computer Chair.  

        It really says something when I’m looking forward to getting manhandled by some European tourist–a European tourist!  In a sweater!  A turtlenecked sweater!–this weekend because nobody’s laid their hands on me in forever.

        Yup!  Just me and Parrot, freaking out in our stupid little apartment with our sad little Christmas Tree!  Two sad females in the Lonely Hearts Club! 

         At least the bird doesn’t have a choice.  She has an excuse.  There are no Senegal Parrots flying free around Manhattan.  

        I watch UFC fights constantly in my free time.  I can’t stand meatheads and I object to violence on an intellectual level, but I become very excited watching the men fight.  I imagine that one of them was me (the loser, of course).  I imagine how helpless I would be.  I have experienced enough violence at the hands of men to be afraid of them.  The fear is mixed with awe.   

        Terror and awe.  Pain and awe.  Idolization.  Worship.  Service.  

    waiting waiting waiting

The Blowjob Wars

  Note: I almost didn’t post this, because it’s sexually explicit and it’s also, well, pretty fucking emotionally intimate.  I feel conflicted about sharing such a personal memory with the whole internet, but what the hell…look at my blog, that train has left the station.

      If you get triggered (or whatever it’s called) by reading about quasi-sexual abuse, you might find this upsetting, so proceed with caution.  This thing started out as a good-natured romp about blowjobs and got really heavy in a hurry.  

       Sorry I’ve been AWOL.  I had some personal stuff to take care of and I’ve been working overtime to make money for Christmas, and it’s the end of the semester.  If you wrote to me, thanks for your patience.

                             *                             *                          *      

    After work, I went out with a few girlfriends for margaritas and chips-and-salsa at a Mexican restaurant a few blocks away from the Studio (well, they had margaritas.  I had Diet Coke). 

      The conversation turned, as it invariably does, to the topics of men and sex.

      Stevie gave us an update on the spousal conflict in her household: The Great Blowjob Wars of 2013

      “We were having a great morning on Sunday, cuddling and drinking coffee in bed!  And then we started to hug and get a little frisky, you know, and we kicked the cat off the bed, and my kid was at her father’s house for the weekend, so we finally had some privacy…

      I’m finally looking forward to getting some action with my man–it’d been over a week!–and then…then he has to go and ruin it begging for a blowjob!”

       The Blowjob Wars, they wageth on.  

        “He knows that I hate to do it!  So why does he keep asking me?  He’s obsessed with it!  But I’m not going to suck your dick, dude!”  Stevie wailed, and ordered another margarita.

         “He’s probably obsessed with it because it’s become such a big deal in your relationship.  That, or he told his friends that you don’t like to do it, and now they’re giving him shit about it.  Guys put a lot of pressure on each other about their sex lives.  Even grown men who ought to know better,” I said.

         “I’m sick of fighting about this,” said Stevie.  

          “Can I ask you something?  And please don’t take this as a reproach; I don’t think you should have to do any sex act that you hate.  But I’m curious: why don’t you like it?”

          “It feels degrading.”

           “Really?  You think so?”


           “That honestly never occurred to me,” I said.  I felt mystified.

           “How do you feel about it?”

            “I like it.  It makes me feel powerful.”

            It’s true.  It does.

            The Blowjob Wars wageth on…but they do not wageth on in Margo Manor.  

             I have spent some of the happiest time of my adult life sucking cock.  In fact, I’d be dissatisfied in a relationship where I couldn’t do it.  One of my Exes could never reach completion that way, and it was a constant source of disappointment for me (I never told him that, of course.  Saying that would be insensitive.).  

          I have no idea why I like it, but I do.  When I am around a man I find sexually attractive, I invariably start musing about what it would be like to suck his cock.  I think this on the subway at least once a day.  I think it when I see actors I like in movies.  I never, ever fooled around with professors in my Department–that I a boundary I have always strictly observed–but I have given some of them about a million imaginary blowjobs.  I swear to God, if I knew that I could do it without getting myself in some very dangerous situations, I would run around dispensing blowjobs all day, like some little demented Blowjob Fairy.  

         I don’t get bored of it in a relationship, either:  my boyfriends get blown practically every day unless I’m sick or we’re having a fight (and the Surgeon got it even if we were having a fight).  I was sucking the Surgeon’s cock on a regular basis, right up till the bitter end (ha! lame joke!). 

         I can’t begin to tell you how many times I sucked that man off.  When I try to make a guesstimate, my mind quails.  My brain doesn’t have the computing power.  I spent a goodish (and, for the most part, very happy) portion of our relationship crouched on the floor, in between his legs.  In cars.  In stairwells.  Behind restaurants, at night.  By my bed.  By his bed.  In bathrooms.  At the desk.  In front of the television.  In a million hotel rooms, from New York to San Diego.  

        He would give it to me as a gift when he was happy with me.  He would use it to punish me when he was angry with me.  He would use it to correct me when he thought I required discipline.  He would lecture me while I sucked his cock (and, often, when he fucked me).  A little reprogramming session.  It’s actually sort of amazing, you know, how effective that was as a pedagogical technique.  You’d think I wouldn’t have been able to think about anything else when I had a dick in my mouth, but, actually, I was able to focus on his words quite well.  Perhaps it was the arousal that such proximity to his penis would invariably provoke within me.  It was like a spell.  

        The mouth is not for speaking.  It is not for eating.  It is for sucking my dick.  You were put on this earth to make my cock feel good.  The most important job in your life is to keep me happy.
       The only time I ever resented it were the times I was angry with him–usually with significant justification, as the man was pretty much selfishness personified–and I would be expressing my grievance, and he would stop, turn around, and open up his pants.  And then just stand there.  Waiting expectantly. 

        Because we both knew what that meant: Argument is over.  Shut up.  Come here.  Suck my cock. 

        Isn’t that what men say to each other when they’re angry?  ‘Suck my dick?’  Well, that’s what he was saying to me, figuratively and literally, and there were times when it felt like a slap in the face.  It would infuriate me (as, I’m sure, it was intended to).

        But, more often than not, I would do it.

        Because of the mandate to obey.  

        It’s a complicated feeling, to take an insult like that, and deny your own righteous rage, and participate in your own oppression by cooperating and humiliating yourself.  And it is.  Humiliating.  Because you know, while you’re doing it, that a dignified person with healthy self-regard would say something along the lines of: How dare you trivialize my feelings and my complaint by interrupting me with a blowjob request?  Who the hell do you think you are? 

        Yup.  It hurts, to suck cock under those circumstances.  Which was the point.  It was supposed to hurt.  Pain is crucial to the sadist’s enjoyment.  And you know what sort of man the Surgeon was.

        I would stop talking, and drop to my knees, and crawl across the room.  Asking myself, at every step, if I was really going to do this to myself.  If I was really going to reward his insult by giving him what he wanted

         With every step I crawled, the room was filling up with tension.  I couldn’t look him in the eye.  It was too fucking humiliating.  I couldn’t raise my eyes above the open fly of his trousers.  His hands were in his pockets, and I wondered if they were clenched in anticipation, as he waited to see if I was actually going to go through with it.  The rage and shame were breathtaking.  And they were increasing, second by second.  My blood was rushing in my ears.  

         I reached up and unbuckled his trousers.  I saw, out of the corner of my vision, that he was staring at my face intently, but I didn’t look up.  I couldn’t handle eye contact.  I recognized his belt.  It was a gift he’s brought for me at Bloomingdale’s.  He’d beaten me with it many, many times.  My chest was so tight I could hardly breath.

         I reached into his pants and freed his cock.  He was hard.  Hard as a rock.  He always was on these occasions.  It’s quite a power rush, to make someone do something you know they don’t want to do.  I know.  

        It was the final second.  Time for the moment of truth.

        I went to work.

        It didn’t take long.  The situation was too tense.  He came so hard that he screamed and bend over double, crushing my small skull in between his hands, the fingers twisted in my hair.

        Did I swallow it…?  Do you really have to ask?

        “That was incredible,” he said.  Yes, yes it was, for all kinds of reasons.

           “I love you.  Go make me a drink.  I’ll take care of you when I can manage again in an hour,” he said. 

           I did.  

            He was happy again, in a good mood.  Smiling.  Order had been restored.  Margo was back in her place.  

          Everything was right with the world again.

         And that is my blowjob blog post, which turned out to be a hell of a lot more complicated than I thought it would be when I sat down to compose it.


     I just had to post this.  I only wish I could give it a wider audience.

     He confessed to doing it and offered her thousands of dollars to shut her up, so I really don’t care about hurting his reputation.  

      He comes to New York and he hires fetish workers, not regular escorts (or so he claims).  And he gives his real name.  

      He would have passed my screening process and I would have had a session with this guy.  I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Clean-cut middle-aged married white guy, in town on business.  My bread and butter, friends.  My bread and butter.  

       Jesus Christ.  And I thought the Attorney and Chopin were bad.  This creep even LOOKS like the Attorney, though the Attorney is younger than 40.  FML.

       Everything about this horrible narrative rings true to my personal experience about what a bad client would do, right down to shoving her tip money in her mouth and claiming he didn’t sexually assault her because his cock was not involved.

       The next time some asshole complains that I won’t let him tie me up securely unless there’s another woman in the room, I’m going to send him straight to this website.    UGH.

My Date with Jay, Believer in Women’s Lib

      I found an email from a men named, let’s say, “Jay,” in my inbox recently.

       “Hi Margo!  It’s Jay.  Remember me?  I was wondering if you’d like to reconnect.”  

         No, Jay.  No, I would rather not reconnect with you.

          I wrote back: “After that magical first date, why wouldn’t I?”

          “Great!  What are you doing this Thursday?”

          It’s a good thing my desk was covered with books and papers, because I was just about to slam my forehead on it.

           Let me tell you the story of my date with Jay.  It wasn’t the worst date I’ve ever had (that would be a tie between the guy who took me to a car show as a “romantic surprise” and another guy who actually told me, over dinner, that he was looking for a girlfriend again because he was tired of seeing escorts.  Yes, he actually said that!), but it was memorable. 

          I met Jay through an internet dating site.  He worked for the New York Public Library system.  He was cute.  His letters were well-written and displayed a little humor.  We batted a few back and forth and then agreed to meet for a spur of the moment dinner.

         “I know a great pizza spot!” he said.

          Pizza!  Pizza sounded like a good idea.  Something casual, where if the date went poorly, we could both get the hell out with a minimum of discomfort. 

           But…I was expecting someplace were we could, you know…sit down.

           I walked past the place twice while looking for it.  It was not a cozy little family Italian pizza place.  

            It was one of those hole-in-the-wall places where you go for a slice at 2 AM after you’ve been drinking all night.  I’m serious.  It was practically a hot dog stand.

           Okay, well….

            Then I met Jay.  Jay was a grown man with a Master’s degree.

            Jay was wearing cutoff jean shorts with holes in them and a pair of flip-flops.  And his feet were gross.  Seriously.  I am talking yellow Frito-talon toenails.  My parrot has better looking feet than this guy.

            I don’t get it.  I shaved my legs for this?  I shaved my legs, put on a pretty sun dress, and did my hair nice…and Jay could not be bothered to put on pants. 

          But wait, there’s more!

          Well, I was already there, so what the hell.  We each ordered pizza and a beer (this was before I quit drinking).

         Jay turned to me and said: “I always go dutch with dates because I believe in women’s lib.”

          There you have it, ladies.  A hundred years of political activism to obtain civil rights, all for equality with men at the $2 pizza stand.  

         I couldn’t even get offended.  I mean, the slice and the beer was only $4.  I just thought it was funny

        “You have a pretty smile!” he said.

         Oh, Jay.  If you only knew why I am smiling…

          Well, I ate the pizza and made an excuse to get away immediately afterward.  I said that I had to make some important phone calls for work. 

          I must admit, though, that as he walked away, I took a photo of his shorts and flip-flops with my cell phone.  I did not think that my girlfriends would be able to understand the decrepitude of the clothing without ocular evidence. 

          When I showed my friend, she snatched the phone out of my hand to look up close: “What was he doing before the date?  Washing his car with a garden hose?  And he made you go dutch on a slice of pizza?”

            “Jessica!” I said sternly, shaking my finger at her, “Jay did it for a noble cause.  Jay did it for feminism.  Jay is an enlightened, progressive man!”

          One of my friends thought it would be a fun practical joke to buy a pair of khakis for Jay at the thrift store and mail them to him at work with a note saying “Every man should own at least one pair of pants,” but I thought that was overkill.  

         Now clueless Jay seems to actually think I would like to go on another date with him.

         I wrote back: “Will you wear pants and real shoes this time?”

        He responded: “Of course!  It’s cold outside!”

         Why did I quit drinking, again?  OK Cupid should give every new member a bottle of scotch or a lobotomy.  There is no other way to survive it.

Meet Shlomi Natan Guzi, my Crazy Internet Stalker

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Update: oh yeah–this is one of his ISPs.  I’ll post the others shortly.

Shlomi Natan Guzi typically uses Chrome and WinVista.  

Here’s another:

                        *                                *                     * 

     I’ve already discussed my crazy internet stalker.  Last time I mentioned him on my blog, I threatened to expose him to the internet public if he didn’t stop contacting me.

      That scared him off for a few weeks…but Shlomi Natan Guzi, of Tel Aviv, Israel, is a compulsive fuckwit with no self-control: he started emailing me again a few days ago.  

      I told him to go away again and again.  I gave him over a half-dozen chances.  I just wanted his relentless, insane, pages-long, disturbed, idiotic, paranoid emails to stop.  

        I think Shlomi Natan Guzi is a masochist.  A real masochist.  I think that he craves to be destroyed.  

       Nate, Nate, Nate…grab your ankles, Nate.  

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This is Shlomi Natan Guzi’s useless cock.  He sent me lots of cock shots.  I’m messing up the image until I know for sure that it doesn’t violate bloggers TOS.  Please email me if you would like a PDF or JPEG of Shlomi Natan Guzi’s worthless penis.  

Oh, he describes his idiotic penis thusly: So, it has come to this: Displaying myself like some piece of meat. Girth 5 1/2 X 7. If I was 6 feet tall, it would be at least 8 for my genetics. The curve makes it fill out every crevice, as if it was wider though.”   

Barf! Barf! Barf! Barf!  BARRRRRFFFFFF….!  I wouldn’t touch your penis if it was the last dick on earth, you crazy fucktard!

Shlomi Natan Guzi’s useless peen…more pics to follow! ALL OF HIS COCK SHOTS WILL BE ONLINE!

    This is Shlomi Natan Guzi’s drunkard father, who is a retired jeweler.  Nate was arrested for domestic assault on his dad, as you all will read in the emails I’m about to post online.  Nate, Nate, Nate…would your dad like having his image posted on the internet like this, Nate…?  Especially since you live in his household rent-free, you overgrown man-child? 

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This is Shlomi Natan Guzi’s cousin, Nicole.  She is a reflexologist living in NYC.  He says that her father is a slumlord, and owns property in Brooklyn.  I can’t vouch for that, but that’s what Nate says.

      Nate expresses his intention to marry her (Nicole) in several emails.  I’m sure she will love to read all about it (sarcasm).  Because what girl couldn’t do better than Shlomi Natan Guzi?

     Nicole, I must admit that I feel a little badly about posting your image on the internet.  Nate gave it to me.  I know you didn’t do any wrong by me.  Please email me if you read this and want it taken down. 

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This is Nate’s sister, with her children and his dad.  I decided not to show the childrens’ faces.  Nate says lots of unkind things about her and her ex-husband, as you are going to see….

     This is the invitation to some event Shlomi Natan Guzi claims to have recently attended.  I’m not quite sure how he could have done that, since he’s on parole and usually parolees can’t leave their country, but who knows.  Maybe it’s different in Israel.  

      Nate wanted me to meet him there in a hotel room, as you will all soon be reading…

      Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Hear that, Nate?  That’s the sound of me laughing.  For realz.  

      Meet you…in a hotel room….NOPE.  You got fired by a sex worker, Nate.  I’ve sessioned with half the dirtbags in New York, but I would not be in the same room with you if you paid me.  How does it feel to be fired by a sex worker, Nate…?  Never mind, don’t answer that!

     Oh, by the way, Nate, everyone at your bank is going to get a copy of your insane emails, too.  

      ….including Dagnija Seglina, whom he claims is the account manager at his bank.  

        His emails contain multiple references to his account manager.  He wants to have sex with her, even though she is married. You will read all about his bizarre fantasies shortly.  He sent me her photos.  Sorry to post your photos online, Dagny.  Email me, and I’ll take em down.

        Oh, she is getting all of your crazy e-mails, too.  I have her email address.  

        I shall be considerate, and send them to her in a zip file so they don’t clutter her email box.

        Nate, I like how you said that you acted as a tour guide for Dagny and her husband when they visited you….

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Dagny with Husband.  Nate really hates her husband.  Nate says he would like to physically assault her husband, as you will be reading allllll about shortly….

    Here is a cut-and-paste of some of Nate’s professional correspondence.  I have no fucking idea why he forwarded this to me, but then, I have no fucking idea why he’s emailed me hundreds of times, either, especially since I asked him repeatedly to stop doing so….

      Poor Rihards Struka.  He’s going to get all of Nate’s crazy emails, too.  Sorry, Herr Struka. 

Dear Shlomi,

It is important that the beneficiary recipient is you and beneficiary 
bank is Dukascopy Bank. If this is indicated correctly, we should 
receive it. Are you able to obtain swift message copy for this transfer? 
In this case we could try to track the money.

On 10/1/2013 11:26 AM, wrote:
> Hash: SHA1
> Dear Rihards,
> Here’s the deposit slip in hebrew, but it’s self-explanatory in
> that the amount was for 16,000 USD.
> Best regards,
> Shlomi Natan Guzi
> On Tue, 01 Oct 2013 11:13:23 +0300 “Rihards Struka”
> <> wrote:
>> Dear Shlomi Natan Guzi,
>>     Dagnija is out of the office, therefore I am writing you. We
>> haven’t received any funds in the past week from you. Could you
>> please provide a copy of the payment order?
>>     Best regards,
>>     Rihards Struka
>>     Account Manager
>>     Skype: rihardsstruka
>>     Tel.: + 41 22 799 48 59 (direct)
>>     Tel.: + 41 22 799 48 88 (office)
>>              Dukascopy Bank SA
>>              ICC, Route de Pre-Bois 20
>>              1215 Geneva 15
>>              Switzerland
>>                               tel: +41 (0) 22 799 4888
>>              fax: +41 (0) 22 799 4880
>>              DISCLAIMER

    Annnnd….I think that’s enough for now.  I have to work on getting the Tumblr and WordPress sites up so that I can post alllllll of Shlomi Natan Guzi’s emails online.  It’s going to take most of the night and allllll day tomorrow, I am sure….

      This is his last email to me, sent this morning.  It’s only a cut-and-paste, but you’ll all be able to download and distribute his emails in pdf and jpeg forms soon enough (and I know you can’t wait!).  

       Also, please keep in mind that I have no relationship with this person and have asked him repeatedly to stop contacting me.  He has repeatedly stated his intention to move into my apartment and be my sub…ha, ha…ha…ha

Why are you so tough on me? If you wanted me to stop emailing you, you would have said so 6 months ago or something, but no, you planned all of this, and it was your intention to destroy me and have some case build up. You want me to come over and be your sub for 3 months or what?  

I just got through the last meeting with my probation officer, and I can leave the country now, but due to the ACA act, I can only stay for less than three months. I have no criminal record in the states, and the domestic violence bullshit(I was defending myself, for I’d never attack a defenseless person) is my only claim to being a criminal. If you’re interested, just name your terms, otherwise go ahead and do what you intend to do. It’s your prerogative.

     Yes, Nate, it is, indeed, my prerogative. 

Failing the Geography Exam

      People in Alcoholics Anonymous are not supposed to discuss what they hear in the meetings with anyone outside of the meetings, but this happened after a meeting, so I think it’s fair to talk about.  I’m changing a few details to protect the subject’s identity. 

      After the meeting, I went out with a few people for fellowship at a local diner (I swear to God, AA people keep this diner afloat. Every meeting in a 4-block radius–which is a lot of meetings–goes to eat at this diner.  Cheap food.  No booze.  Unlimited soft drink refills.).  

       The meeting had been pretty intense.  The Holidays suck for everyone, but for the addict in recovery, they suck donkey balls.  Lots of people relapse this time of year.  

         I was talking with a fellow who’d recently fallen off the wagon.  Luckily, his relapse was brief, and he came back in pretty good shape.  

        I like this person.  He’s funny, and he’s given me a lot of support over the last two years, including my 90-day chip when I finally earned one.  I even have his phone number, which is okay because he is a pure homosexual (you wouldn’t know it from looking at him, though.  He gets a lot of attention from women.  I thought he was attractive when I met him, and was startled to learn he was gay.  Though, to be fair, my gaydar is terrible.). 

       At the diner, he was talking about what it was like to come out as gay to his parents:

       “I really didn’t want to do it, because I knew that they wouldn’t approve.  I knew they suspected already, though.  See, one time when I was 14, there was this…incident with another boy.  My father called me over in his office and said: If you’re gay, you can tell me.  You just can’t expect me to look at you the same way anymore.

       I jumped in my seat, startled.

       “That’s not okay!” I yelled.  People stopped talking and looked at me, because I am the last person to yell in public.  I have a very calm and polite demeanor.  “It’s not right that he did that to you!  Because I know what that’s like!  It’s bullshit that he said that to you!  It changes you!”

        Because what he said brought back a memory.  A memory that I would have been perfectly happy to have never remembered again.  A memory I would be happy to extract from my mind, if such a thing were possible.  

        One day when I was 11 I was sitting with my father at the kitchen table.  He was reading the newspaper.  He was looking at the back page, where the weather reports are printed.  There was a long column of international cities and their daily weather reports, in Fahrenheit and Celsius. 

      My father decided it was time for a quiz.

       “Where is Amsterdam?  In which country?” he asked.


      “Good.  Brussels?”

      Uh-oh, I thought, and then said the three words that you absolutely did not want to have to say in my father’s house: “I don’t know.”

       He winced audibly.  Then: “I see.  Why don’t you know?”

       I was fucking 11 years old.  I hadn’t taken Geography in school yet.  

       I had to say the verboten words: “I don’t know.”

       He moved on to the next city, and I knew that I was trapped.  Moscow, Paris, Cairo, Hong Kong…he went right down the line.  I correctly identified about one in three.  Every time I got one wrong, he would become angrier and more disgusted.  My father’s contempt knew no bounds. The room was filling up with tension.  So was my body.  My throat was so tight that I could hardly breath.  You know that sensation you feel when you are a child, that pain in your throat when you are afraid?

       It felt like I was in that chair forever.  Terrified.  My hands were clenched in tight little fists.

       When we reached the end, he folded up the paper and threw it down on the table.  

        “It is important to know these things, Margo.  People who don’t know these things are stupid.  I do not like stupid people, and I do not like to be around stupid people.  You can’t expect me to think of you the same way after this.”

         “I’m sorry,” I squeaked.  

         “You should be,” he said.  

          Then he stood up and walked away.

         And then he didn’t talk to me for two days.  I do not exaggerate.  When he prepared a meal (I wasn’t doing the cooking yet, and I wasn’t allowed to eat any food that wasn’t given to me.  When I learned that other children had free access to the pantry and the fridge, I was stunned: You can eat whenever you want?), he’d put my plate down in front of me and then walk off to eat his dinner somewhere else.  I ate at the table alone.

          When I approached him and tried to talk, he ignored me completely.  As if he didn’t hear me.

         As if I was a ghost.

         Which, I guess, I was.  In a manner of speaking.  Little ghost Margo, trapped in the haunted house with Daddy.  Now I work in a haunted house. 

        I took the newspaper and a dictionary (he had a globe on his desk, but I wasn’t allowed to touch his things) and spent all day learning where the cities were.  I memorized every one.  I have an excellent memory when I’m not drinking.

        I wanted him to ask me where the cities were again, but he never did.  

        It was not the first test he gave me.  Or the last.  He was a true sadist, my father.  

       And that is why I yelled to defend my friend in the diner.  As if I could shield him.  

       Or myself.