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:
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).
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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!