The Surgeon Investigates; Gives Me My Fix

     The Surgeon comes to my home.  Stands in my living room casually, as if the place was his, and removes his cufflinks and puts them in his pants pocket.  IMO, this is one of the most beautiful and erotic gestures a man can make in public (the others, according to your humble correspondent–in no particular order–are: shaving, rolling or pushing shirtsleeves up or down, putting on or removing neckties, lacing up shoes, putting on or removing scarves, and opening stubborn jars.  And carrying really heavy stuff–it’s like watching a special effect!). 

     Flash-forward thirty minutes.  In situations like this, thirty minutes is a long time.  A lot can happen in thirty minutes.

     “Where were you last night?  What have you been doing?  I know you’re not at a (Studio).  I know.  I checked.  What are you doing?  Are you dancing?  Listen–nobody but me gets to watch you undress.  I have been so upset.  You have made me so upset about you.  Why do you have to make me worry about you?”

     His hands go to his belt buckle.  Most exciting thing ever!  I have had love affairs with my partners’ belts, and I have known many of them very well.  The one that the Surgeon is slipping off is an old friend.  And now I’m torn–make a stand, or get my fix.  I must admit: I chose the latter.  

      Here is The Awful Truth: part of what the Surgeon was saying was what my father would say, if I had a healthy, responsible father. I am not a sentimental person, and I do not moon over childish fantasies anymore.  On some deep level, though, I still have a craving for this sort of relationship dynamic.  At least I am aware of it, so that I can protect myself.    The Surgeon is a terrible father.  I see the future of his children; I see it plain as day.  
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Update: 11 PM

      The Surgeon gave me enough money to pay my rent. I didn’t ask or mention it.  Somehow, though, he intuited it.

    I am relieved beyond measure, but I also feel conflicted inside.  I don’t have entitlement issues; I have the opposite problem.  I am neurotically independent.  I don’t take ANYTHING from ANYONE.  I moved out at 19, worked, lived by myself, never asked family for a dime.  
      When you take, you owe.  

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