Ladies: Avoid This Man

     I can’t sleep.  

      Listen to me: if you are a professional switch or submissive woman, or even a non-professional switch or submissive woman in the Tri-State area, and you are reading this, you need to email me to find out how to avoid this man.

     You’ll never guess the blast from the past making the rounds here at Margo Manor…

       The Attorney.  Remember him?

       A woman approached me at work.  Her eyes were wet.  She looked scared.

       “Do you know (Attorney’s real name)?  He knows you.”

        I pulled her into one of the back rooms so that we could talk privately. 

      She sessioned with him.  A submissive session.  Outside of the Studio.  And he told her alllllll about me. 

      Why would he tell her about me, a year and a half later…?

      Apparently, I made quite an impression on him.  

      That’s okay.  He left am impression on me.  All kinds of impressions.  

      He made an impression on this woman, too. 

      He didn’t hurt her as badly as he hurt me.  She’s not a masochist.  Couldn’t take it.  But he rode her as hard as he possibly could.  She claims that she was sobbing and screaming at the end.  

      This woman is not a wimp.  She is a MMA fighter. 

     “He’s insane!  He’s like Patrick Bateman!  Right down to his suit and briefcase!”


      “And his stare!  His awful stare!”

      Yes.  The psychopath stare.  I’ll never forget it. 

       “He was like Ted Bundy!”


       This woman started to shake.  She started to cry.

      “He is terrifying,” I said.  “I’ve never met anyone like him.”  

      “He asked about you!” she said.

       “I believe it,” I said.  Otherwise, how would she know I ever met him?

      “I thought he could kill me!” she wailed. 

      “He could, but he won’t.  He’s too controlled.  Look at his professional success.  He can pull it together; pass himself off as normal.  He runs cold.  Not hot.”

        “I can’t do sub sessions anymore.  I can’t risk something like that happening again,” she said.  

          I’m telling you: the woman was terrified recounting this to me.  Pupils dilated, skin white.  And this was a week after the session.  She was traumatized.  

        “How long did it take you to heal?” I asked.

         “I still have marks, but they’re mostly gone now.  My MMA sensei at the dojo saw them and couldn’t believe it.  I told him that I fell down the stairs,” she said.

         He marked me for a month.  A month.  And his technical skill was incredible.  I’ve never seen someone so proficient with the tools.

        And how do you get proficient…?

        You practice.

        This man has hurt many, many women.  

        As I am typing this, the emotion that I feel is rank terror.  The hair on my arms is standing up.  I can’t sleep.  

        Do you want to know more?  Come sit on mommy’s lap.  I have a bedtime story for you…

        The Attorney told me that one time he flew from NYC to Little Rock, Arkansas to meet a woman he met online.  A submissive.  Not a professional. 

        He beat her in her ranch house.  It was all pre-arranged.  He’d made a special box for bastinado.  Constructed it in his garage.  A little weekend carpentry, ha ha.  The people at airport security took it out of his luggage and couldn’t figure out what it was, he said, laughing.  Like it was a joke.

        He beat this woman, drove back to the airport, and flew back home.  He flew halfway across the United States to torture someone.

         “And his wedding ring!  He didn’t even take it off for the session!” said the woman at the studio.  “I was screaming!  He shattered a yardstick on me!”

        Yes indeed.  He’s married.  Someone married him.  

        Probably a woman just like me.  

         I wonder what he does to her.

         Listen to me: if you are a woman reading this and you are dating or sessioning with dominant men/male Tops in the Tri-state area, you need to email me.  I will tell you how to identify and avoid this man.  I don’t have his last name…but I know enough to tell you how to spot him.

         He is a killer.  A stone cold killer.  And once he’s done with you, you’ll never forget it.  I had three meetings with him, and I still think about him every day of my life.  I’ve had a million clients, and I remember him the best. He is a predator, and cold like an insect or the inside of a refrigerator.  

         Oh, one more thing: the first time he hired me, he hired me as a domme.  There isn’t a submissive bone in his body, but he is a masochist, and when he takes it, you can’t hit him hard enough.  

       He has hounded me across the internet ever since I cut off contact with him. CollarMe, Fetlife, every ad I posted.  It is probable that he is reading this.  If he is, I’m sure that he’s smiling and jerking off.  All of those delicious memories, amirite?  It’s fun to scare girls, amirite?

       Do you know what he wrote to me after “The pizza was fantastic!” that served, like a bucket of icewater in my face, to wake me up, and see him for what he was (though a woman who was not fucked up would have recognized him right away)?

      “If you want to serve me, this is your assignment: think of the worst possible punishment you could administer to another female.  Describe it.  Blow by blow.  Implements used.  If it pleases me, I will do it to you.” 

         Escorts probably don’t have to worry about him.  He’s not interested in sex, though he can orgasm.  He is obsessed with violence.  

        He’s out there, ladies, and he’s young, so he’s going to be doing this for a long, long time.  Email me, and I’ll tell you how to steer clear of him.  
       If you want a little walk down memory lane, click his tag label.

       I’d post more photos of the marks he left on me–the photos would turn your hair white–but he has copies of the pictures and if he’s not reading this, I don’t want him to find me via a google images search.  Just fucking trust me.  

      P.S.  And you know what else sucks?  It sucks that I can’t go to the police and mention this to them.  I wouldn’t try to get him arrested, because he didn’t do anything wrong to me, other than humiliate me a bit when he rejection and pizza quip.  Everything he did to me was consensual.  But…it would be good if he was on the police’s radar.  I wouldn’t have to convince them of anything.  The photos of my injuries would speak for themselves.   It was epic.  Truly. 

But I can’t do that, because I’m a sex worker.  

I can’t believe I emailed him photos of my mangled hide.  He loved them.  Torture porn.  I’m sure he’s got quite the collection.  He hangs out on some dark corners of the internet.  

Work Marathon & More Gloating

     My lease is up at the end of July.  I want to renew it, but my landlord is very irritated with me because I’ve been late with the rent for the last four months.  It’s possible that he’ll be disinclined to renew, in which case I am going to have to offer him some sort of incentive, because I simply cannot afford to move right now.  Cannot afford it.  If I get kicked out of here, I might as well pack it in and move back in with Mom.  

     And on that note, I’m about to jump in the shower and go to the first of the day’s two jobs.  This is day 11.  

      Sometimes I really miss having the Surgeon around.  This is one of those times.  I know he was sort of a psycho, but he could also be a good man to know.  When I was with him, I had access to his influence.  He knew how to get what he wanted.  He gave me some good advice; showed me how things work.  

      A few days ago I was feeling very frightened and it occurred to me that I could probably call on him again.  I don’t have anyone I can ask for help right now.  I’m used to being on my own–have been on my own most of my life–but sometimes it gets scary.  Like now.  

       Then I thought: he would be nice to you at first, and then he would punish you

        Been there, done that.  Because I left him two or three times before I actually did it for good, you know. 

        Well, moving on….what else do I have to say that is interesting?  Since I’ve been working so much, I really haven’t been enjoying life very much.  I’ve been thirsty sometimes, but I’ve managed to stay away from the booze.  I haven’t done anything interesting because I haven’t been able to spend any money.  

         Wait, this is sort of funny!  Guess who popped his head out of the ground like a little prairie dog?   Our favorite Margo-rejecting, blowjob-enjoying sadistic Attorney!  Dude called, emailed, and text-messaged me this week!  HA! 

         The text message was first.  I didn’t recognize the number at first, because I erased him from my telephone.  I almost responded to the text with “Hi, who is this?”.  Fortunately, I waited and looked the number up in my records, and saw that it was his.

        I re-entered it into my telephone under the name: “The Pizza Was Fantastic!”  So now, whenever he calls, that is what comes up on the screen.  

       If only I could get a robot voice to say the line, I’d download it as an mp3 file and make it his personal ringtone.  

       Gloat!  Gloat!  Gloat!  Get your immature unladylike gloat on!


Miss Margo Gets Her Gloat On

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

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

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

     I invited him to my home.  

     He showed up with his bag, as promised.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        (note to readers: the pizza will return)

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

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

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

        No response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        I did not respond.

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

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

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

          Nope!  That would be beneath my dignity. 

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

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


    The Attorney rejected me.  

      I’m a bit stunned.  This is the second time I’ve been dumped in my life.  

       Why?  Am I insufficiently beautiful?  Too poor?  The weird occupation?  

       I know I ought to be relieved.

       My hide hurts a lot.  

The Intimacy is So Ephemeral

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   The last few days have been pretty turbulent.  

     I was hired by an awesome fellow who, interestingly, actually seemed to give a damn about my life.  It was surprising, for me.  But fun.  We talked and talked like birds in a tree.

      I also fell off the wagon.  Yes, yes I did!  Have no fear; I climbed back on the horse first thing in the morning and have been booze-free  ever since.  Hell, I just fed more cookies to crispy burnout alcoholics.  I need to examine why I did this–without a doubt–but I am not going to torture myself over it.  7 days drinking in almost 10 months…?  Progress, not perfection.  

      Out by July, Out by July.  Writing and research (or even flipping burgers), not sadomasochism.  

       Today I consented to be used again.  I was ridden very hard. 

        The intimacy is so ephemeral.

M. Margo Has a Caller

Update May 04  7 AM

     Let me wrap up what happened yesterday.

     I couldn’t get personal with him on the phone because I was feeling sort of stunned that this was actually happening, and because I had no privacy–there were probably a half-dozen other people around, including Frau Farbissina.  

       The conversation was very brief.  I got zero useful information out of him.  He acted very friendly, like nothing was the matter.  I wanted to ask: what the hell do you think you’re doing, tracking me down here…?  Cause you know, I never told him I was working at the Studio. 

       But then I got confused and second-guessed myself.  Well, you are at work.  When you are at work, people pay you to provide services.  He wants to pay you for your work.  That is perfectly normal.  Perfectly normal!

      The other part of my brain shrieks: there is nothing normal about this situation.  

       Confused part: is it possible that I misjudged this man and the emotional tone of our previous interaction?  Because it felt really personal.  You knew he was fascinated.  You knew he wanted to have a personal relationship with you.  Were you wrong?  Did you make that up?  Maybe you were all wrong, and it wasn’t personal at all for him.  Maybe all of that was a projection.  Maybe he just wants to hire a pro for a service, just to kick out the jams.  Like trying a new hairdresser!

      Other part of my brain:  Margo, you ain’t no hairdresser and this behavior is dangerous and inappropriate.  

       Confused part: men get crushes on you!  Happens all the time! Students!  Their dads!  Random guys you meet in here!

       Other part of my brain: Yes, but that doesn’t freak you out.  

       I retreated to the locker room, concentrating furiously.  Confused!  Confused!

        I have to get out of this.  How?  Frau Farbissina will skin me alive.  

        Well, wait–fuck it.  I do not owe her, or the studio, an explanation.  I’m not on a salary.  I make them money and cost them nothing.  In fact, if you count the random chores I do, and all of the training I give new girls, they benefit from my presence even when business is dead.  

       What’ll you tell him?  Something brief, face-saving, and impersonal: I’m retiring.  If pressed, proffer the fictive boyfriend.  

         *                                *                              *                  *

  This morning I went to the gym and then to my favorite agnostic AA meeting.  I couldn’t go out to lunch with the others afterward because I had to run uptown to cover the day shift at the Studio.  

      I was in back drawing on the liquid eyeliner when the manager called for me.  I thought I was going to get yelled at because she SOMEHOW failed to read that I changed my schedule today (I cut my shifts by more than 50% and the management doesn’t like it), but she wanted to tell me that some new guy booked a three-hour appointment with me. Outside.

     “Three hours?”  Three hours is a long time.  I’ve been hired for two hours before, and one time a person wanted me to attend the opera with him, but three hours outside is pretty unusual. I’ve heard of inebriated rich men coming in at 1 AM who stay until the sun comes up, but I’ve had very little personal experience with them–only the most acute financial distress can compel me to work nights.  “What does he want to do for three hours?  Did he say?” 

      “He asked for you specifically.  He wants you for a masochist.  I confirmed that you do that.” 

      “Oh wait, hold on,” I said, alarmed.  Why was I volunteered to do God-Knows-What for God-Knows-Who?  What did this entail?   “You know that I am very, very selective about doing that professionally.  We don’t even know this guy.  I haven’t interviewed him.  I haven’t said that I’d do anything.”

      Frau Farbissina appeared in the doorway.  “What you theenk?  You theenk you gonna cost zees place six hundred bucks?  After you cut all your hours?  People calling for you, I say you hardly coming in.  Makes me look like asshole!” 

      “But I haven’t even talked to him yet.  I don’t even know what he wants.  Where the hell does he want me to go, anyway?”

      “Ask heem!  He on the phone right now!”

       “He’s on the phone right now?

       “I didn’t theenk you dumb blonde!  Yes, he iz on phone!  Go talk!”

        I picked up the phone.  “Hello, this is Miss Margo.”

        “At last!  You know, you’re a very difficult woman to get ahold of.  I hope that everything is all right with you.”  

        “Uhh, who am I speaking with?” But I knew, gentle reader.  I remembered the voice. I knew, but I was still surprised.  Taken aback, actually.  I’ve been prepared for the Surgeon to pull a stunt like this–he’s done it before–but at least he was, like, my quasi-boyfriend (because that makes inappropriate and harassing boundaries violations okay, right?).    

         “You don’t remember?  I thought I left more of an impression on you.”

          Oh, yes.  He left an impression on me, all right.  All sorts of impressions.  


       (Will finish this later; I gotta run)

Momma’s In the House

     My mother is coming to visit me, so I probably won’t be able to blog again until Sunday.  

      I’m glad that she’s coming.  I love my Mom and because I only get to see her a few times a year, our time together is very important to me. Her visit will anchor me and entertaining her will keep me busy.  She’ll also keep my mind off my problems and prevent any backsliding in my resolve about remaining out of touch with the Attorney (I feel pretty resolute about that, but I still have had dreams about him).  

      I have to admit, though, I’m a little concerned because I can’t work while she’s here, and I can’t afford to lose the money right now.  I can’t take phone calls to book appointments for my secret job. I also can’t attend AA meetings while she’s here–she doesn’t know that I attend them. 

       Preparing my apartment for her visits–“Family-proofing” it–is a bit of an ordeal: make sure ALL of my S&M gear is on lockdown out of sight, get all of the addiction and psychology books off my shelves, wash my phone in case someone uses it for anything, check and double-check that nothing remains out that could provoke unwanted curiosity: “Margo, when did you go to Toronto..?  How was it?  Why didn’t you tell me?”  

       If the weather is nice on Friday, I’ll try to take her to the Cloisters.  I’ve never been.  Also the Empire State Building and the jewelry and diamond market on 47th Street.  We probably won’t buy anything there, but for Honkeys like us, it’s super fun to walk around and watch.  Note to self: must go before 3 PM on Friday.  Hahaha–that would be funny–to show up on Friday night and have it be crickets and tumbleweeds around there.  Why isn’t anything open…?  

      Another bonus…sort of: my mother will scour this place clean until it reaches a shining, hospital-sterile cleanliness.  She will probably start doing this an hour after she walks in the door.  There will not be a dustbunny underneath the couch and escapes her eagle eye.  

     I thought of that today–the Attorney is so meticulous that I would never, ever be able to keep the house perfect enough for him.  

     There would always be something wrong.  


The Spell

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This neglected houseplant did not survive my encounter with the Attorney.  It cannot  be revived and  must be euthanized.  BETTER IT THAN ME, BUDDY!

       Well, that was fucking terrifying.  

     Or perhaps I should say, is fucking terrifying, because it’s not completely over yet.  

      I haven’t been blogging for the last few days because I have been obsessed, in spectacular and unhealthy fashion, with my encounter(s) with the Attorney.  

     Obsessed is a strong word, but I believe it is accurate and fitting. As in, obsessed to the exclusion of everything else.  As in: wait, what the hell did the last page of this article I’m reading say, again?  As in: if I don’t take my dirty clothes down to the laundry mat, they will magically clean themselves!  As in: my houseplants are magical houseplants that do not need water!  As in: the news (even with my beloved studmuffin Brian Williams) is nowhere near as interesting as fantasizing about my future relationship with this individual I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT.  As in: blog…?  Email?  Communication?   What?  I was supposed to bake cookies?  What?

        Basically: I wish to be alone with my bottle of Scotch.    

        My friends are freaked out.  Something’s gotten into you.  

        It’s been like watching a train wreck in slow motion, except that I haven’t experienced any horror or revulsion.  I saw it happening!  I fucking saw it happening!  I knew it was going to happen before it happened!  

        The Attorney has emailed or text messaged me every day since I saw him.  Every day.  He communicates with me even when I don’t respond, which is, like, the last four days.  

         Did I mention that I’ve known him for approximately four hours?  

         My analyst said that he sounded like a highly functional sociopath.  She also said that I probably wouldn’t stay away from him.  I was still unaffected.  

        It hit me this afternoon, when he texted me, yet again (his tone is always flirtatious): imagine what it would be like to break up with this person.  Imagine trying to divorce him.  Imagine a custody battle over children. 

        I thought of my father.  I thought of John.  I thought of the Surgeon, who, unbelievably, was the least weird and dangerous of all.   

        My perspective was instantaneously adjusted.  Three stalkers! Can I get four…?  Four stalkers…?  Going once! Going twice! 

       NO THANK YOU!  I’ll be damned if I go in to this quagmire and emerge three years later (and 100 years older), freshly damaged (and probably not sober) and barreling towards middle age.  

      Fuck that, man.  And if anyone thinks I’m exaggerating, you don’t know stalker controlling dudes.  Men like this don’t just let you walk.  They punish you for it, and punishing you becomes their default recreational pastime.  God help you if you have a kid, or even a house.  Or a futon.  John harassed me for months, after a restraining order, about a fucking pair of gym shoes. 

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

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    Yeah, yeah, I know I gained 8 lbs–so embarrassing–it’s the psychiatrist and his Dread Diagnosis.  Fear not!  I shall have protruding hip bones by bikini season.  After all, what else should one focus on in this life…?  ESPECIALLY if one hates to go to the beach!


As my Francophone Canadian friend would say: “Wowy wow wow!” 

     I only told three people–outside of the blogosphere–about this.  All three were freaked the fuck out.  

     To tell you the truth, I am sort of worried that I am not upset.  I feel uncomfortable, because all the skin on my torso hurts, but not upset.  

       And yes, it hurts.  Hurts hurts hurts, hurts hurts hurts.  I am definitely not wearing a bra today.  The worst of it should last about 24 hours more.  

       I am curious.  Fascinated, actually.  

       I feel great.  

      What’s up…?  Am I deluding myself…?  Is this some subconscious defense mechanism?  

      Anyway, there was quite a bit of yelling.  I was worried that a concerned neighbor would knock or call the cops.  It is not characteristic of me to make noise–screaming is humiliating.  

      While he was preparing himself, I went to the sink to rinse my hands and fetched a bottle of water.  Then, because of the way the mirrors are set up, I could watch him from outside the room.  

     He placed his tools on the dresser in perfect symmetry.  His nice shiny shoes were put under the dresser, each one containing its corresponding sock.  

      He turned on the air conditioner.  Pain makes you sweat.  

      I went into the room and looked at the things he’d brought for us.  

      “Oh wow,” I said.  “You’re not kidding around!”

      It was some serious artillery, let me tell you.  Must have cost a pretty penny. I have some expensive stuff, and I know quality when I see it.  I seized immediately upon a wide leather strap, eyeing it with foreboding.  That strap is going to be trouble, I thought, and I was right.   

     “Where can I not leave marks?” he asked.  “Show me.” 

      I gestured.  Any place where they might be visible in a skirt and button-up work blouse.  

      “Close your eyes,” he said.  

      I did.  

     He slapped me upside the head.  

      I dropped like a safe. 

     And then we were off to the races.  

     I safed out once.  That would make the third time in my life it has happened.  It was the strap.  I knew that fucking strap was going to give me problems.  

     I have to tell you: Personally, I don’t think that I’d have the balls to perform bastinado on a person where money had changed hands, either giving or receiving, unless it was specifically requested of me.  I mean, that is some personal shit.  

     The Attorney had no such qualms.  He had no such qualms at all.

     He respected my boundaries–in the strictest sense of the word (what is law school good for? ha, ha): he didn’t do what I told him that he could not do.  

    He did everything else.  

    At the end, he said, “This is against my personal interest, but I have to tell you: you could be charging a lot more for this.  A lot more.”

      “Well, I don’t do it for just anyone,  I’m pretty particular,” I said.  A woman has to have some standards, after all.  

     “That’s the hardest I can go.  Any harder…it’s not…it’s not my thing.  I’ll keep your number.  It’s almost impossible to find a person who can go through all of that.  This was a very special occasion for me.”  

     He put his cell phone back in his pocket.  The blue eyes searched my face.  

     “You were into it, to.  That’s so unusual.  So unusual.”  

       This quote is presented without comment.  

      After he left, I turned my phone off and took a nap.  Then I limped to the bus stop.  My mind felt empty.  

      It felt great.  

      It is imperative that I never see this person again.  

      I need a nice, normal man who is not a psycho.  

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

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

                       *                  *                  *                     * 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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