Heart of the Lamb

IN THE DESERT

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”

                –Stephen Crane, p. 1895

My younger brother is a hunter, and when he takes a deer from the mountains in autumn I request that he bring me the creature’s heart.

This year he hunted a boar instead of a deer.  I would have been curious to have the pig’s heart (Lord knows the chops, bacon, and belly we’ve eaten from this animal have been excellent and far superior to any pork found in the grocery store), but I was working out of town during the hunting trip and forgot to ask.  Too bad.  He could have brought it in the cooler, like the huntsman delivered a boar’s heart in a box in place of Snow White’s.

I had to improvise, as I did in the years when I lived far away: I went to the butcher and purchased the heart of a lamb.  It cost $1.99.  I know heart is considered to be offal, but it still struck me as strange that an organ of such talismanic properties could be bought for so little.

I took it home and thawed it in a bowl of cold water.  Then I carefully removed the slippery, thin outer membrane cut away the pieces of fat.  The bare heart was dense and slippery, approximately the size of a tennis ball.  I took my sharpest knife and sliced it down the middle, butterflying it, and then put it in a metal bowl of icy saltwater for two hours in order to leech as much of the remaining blood out of it as possible.

I put it back on the wooden cutting board and cleaned the inside of blood clots and the rubbery tubes that connected to the arteries.  It takes a long time to clean and prepare a heart.  In my experience, only sweetbreads are as labor-intensive.

I seasoned it with coarse salt and black pepper, rubbed it with olive oil, and wrapped it in a pocket of tinfoil with a few cloves of garlic.  Then I left it in the oven on low heat for two and a half hours while I made a stew, goulash-style, with carrots and onion and a few chunks of high-starch potato to thicken the broth.  The tomato paste and paprika turned the liquid red.

When I took the heart out of the oven and unwrapped it, it no longer resembled a heart to me.  I had transformed it.  When I cubed it, the flesh did not resist the knife.

I put it into the stew and let it simmer.  By the time it was ready to eat, it was dark outside.  I had spent many hours with that heart.

I sat at my kitchen table and slowly, deliberately ate the life of the lamb.  Now it is a part of me.

Some Bitch Stole My Purse

UPDATE:

The Show Must Go On.   I’m going to San Francisco tomorrow, and I’m doing it on a shoestring.   The Greyhound bus ticket is $9 (at least they offer onboard wifi now, or so they say).   And, best of all, I found a last-minute deal on a 3.5-star hotel in Union Square for $91/night on Priceline.com.  This is wonderful, because usually I have to pay at least $220/night to get a 4-star in that area.

The hotel looks nice enough–the Tripadvisor reviews are good.  The room’s the size of a postage stamp (“boutique” and “European” are the euphemisms used on the website), which is going to be a challenge in a session, but hell, I’ve still got lots of bondage options, and if I can do BDSM in my bedroom, I don’t see why I can’t do it in a little hotel room.  I’ll try to look extra-beautiful and give a great performance, and if the room turns the clients off and they don’t come back, well, I still got their money, and there’re always more clients in the world.

I’m also saving a lot of money on gasoline and parking garage/valet.  Cuz I don’t have a driver’s license (I’m going to the DMV today, wish me luck).

I’m going to have to get up at 4 AM tomorrow.  My biggest fear is that Greyhound will be “you get what you pay for” and will be, like, two hours late, which will cause me to miss my first booking.

I also need to drop off my pet parrot, Abe, at Birdy daycare (the boarder).

Here are pictures of Abe.  I have lots of videos, too, and I’m trying to figure out how to upload them on the blog.  Cuz that is what my 8 readers all really want to see, I’m sure: parrot videos.

20151109_163030

 

20151109_163211
He likes to look out the window

 

First Snow
First snow of the season

 

*                                     *                                *

What a disaster.

Yesterday morning I got up early and went to the gym before my alcohol rehab support group.

I’d been there about five minutes.  The place was almost empty, because it was 8 AM on a Sunday.  Went into the locker room/bathroom, took off my coat and purse.

I left both on the countertop by the sinks.  I did not see anyone else in the locker room.

I went into a stall to take a leak, and when I came out 30 seconds later, my purse was gone.

My purse that had my wallet and my sex work cell phone.

I panicked, of course, and ran out of the bathroom to see if I could find anyone carrying it out.  The gym is huge, but I didn’t see anyone.  I ran past the front desk and out to the parking lot, looking for someone getting into their car or walking away.

Nothing.

I dashed back inside and told the front desk that my purse had been stolen and asked them if they’d seen anyone just walk out.  They said no.

(I am willing to bet you anything that it was a staff member of some sort who stole it.)

I went back out to the parking lot and looked around, and then back to the locker room.  I looked underneath my coat.  I looked under the sink.  I looked, for no reason I can discern, in every single locker, and then I went out to the floor and approached everyone in the gym.

Then I went out to my car and sobbed.

I fucking hate thieves.  There is no reason for anyone older than, say, 14 to be stealing anything but food. Being stolen from is the worst feeling in the world, a mixture of helplessness and violation.

But let me tell you why having my purse stolen is especially bad:

First, the phone.  It’s an expensive phone that hasn’t been paid off yet.  I needed a work phone to keep things discreet and separate.  I wash the phone on a regular basis…delete phone logs, text conversations, stuff like that.  But…it has my client list in it (no last names, just first names or the affectionate or UNaffectionate monikers I think up to describe the guys), with phone numbers.

More importantly (from my viewpoint) I have the numbers tagged that have been abusive, timewasters, no-call-no-shows, drunk/inebriated, blacklisted.  That way I can recognize them on sight when they reach out to me and IGNORE THEM.

I’ve also used that phone to take pictures of clients who want a photo as a souvenir, or who as for a photo of me as a souvenir.  I never let them photograph my face, and I try to delete the photos after every session…but what if I didn’t delete them all?

I take pictures of my hotel rooms, pictures of sightseeing in SF…there’re lots of videos of my pet parrot in there, because I watch the videos at night when I’m on tour and sad and lonely.   So now this THIEF has video of inside my apartment.

But wait, it gets worse.

On Friday, I did my banking and paid for all of my monthly bills at once, because that’s how I like to do it.  Then I took out some cash to pay for Abe’s boarding at birdy daycare while I’m on tour, and the month’s alcohol rehab support group.

And I also took out the money to pay for this week’s tour to San Francisco.

I do that because I keep a separate bank account, at another bank, that I use for anything Biz related–ads, hotel rooms, BDSM gear.  I take the money out of my main checking account and deposit it into that other account.  I only check that account from my home PC.  I’m very secretive about it.  Like, I don’t want to accidentally leave my online banking browser open on my tablet and have my mother see it and ask what all the hotel bookings are for.

I should have gone to the other bank to deposit it immediately, but I procrastinated and just took the money home with me.

So, in addition to getting my wallet, this thief also got all the money.

My savings is tied up in a CD.  I have $10k and I can’t touch it. I have almost nothing left in checking after paying the bills.  I’m strapped, and I need to go to work, and I have no idea how I’m going to do it.

Anyway, one I was done sobbing, I filled out a lost-item report in the gym and then went to the cell phone store and had them turn off my phone and disconnect the number.

Went to the police station and filled out a police report (I almost didn’t do that, because it means claiming the sex work phone…but it’s not illegal to have phone numbers).  I know I’ll never get anything back, but I wanted to make a paper trail.

Then I took my guns and all of my gold jewelry and started touring the pawn shops.  What depressing fucking environments.  I mean really, really depressing and sad.

Everything that I have of value is hawked.  Oddly, I feel saddest about my revolver.  I’ve had that thing for 15 years.

It’s not enough.  I have enough money to get to SF on the train (because I can’t drive there without a DRIVER’S LICENSE and the only ID I have is my passport) and a day and night in a hotel room.  I have three sessions lined up and I’m trying to get another.  If they all come through, I can extend into the next two days and meet the sessions I have scheduled for those two days.

If I get cancellations or no-call-no-shows, I am fucked.  If anything goes wrong, I am fucked.

The only reason I am not completely freaking out is that at least all my monthly bills have been paid (except for food.  Ha! Ha!).

I want to find the bitch who stole my purse and beat her head in with a rock, caveman-style.