I have decided to keep my continued correspondance with my sister to myself (unless there is a really interesting exchange) because I don't like personal stuff. It's boring. When somebody tells you they want to tell you something personal, you can be sure it has nothing to do with you and that you are free to let your mind wander. It's like when they say, "I had an interesting dream—" cut them off immediately by saying, "—if it doesn't feature you sucking my cock, move on to something else...or suck my cock."
Personal stuff is only interesting if it's a secret being revealed, the more sordid the better and I think I have a doozy. I think Skeeter is going to do something nasty, if you know what I mean and I think you do. The question, and I had no compunction about asking it was, "Why?"
"Hunh?" he said as he continued to surf about the web on his iPad.
"Why are you looking at info on male escorts?"
He immediatly flipped off the machine, put it on a table far away from the chair (like that would make the information go away) and said, in a squirrelly, guilt-ridden voice, "What the hell are you talking about?"
"What's with the Craigslist and the other sites—what's happening here?"
"I don't see how something of this nature is any of your business—"
"—if it puts my household in jeopardy it IS my fucking business."
He sighed deeply and it looked like he needed to talk but was in a tug of war with all sorts of middle-class bourgeois sensitivities about appropriateness. Humans are so fucked up about sex it's not even funny. What makes these two so weird—Boo-Boo and Skeeter, I mean—is that they're queer and this place, from all I have learned, should be a big whorehouse with toyboys coming in on conveyor belts. But things here are very tame. However, there WAS something here and it was something I wanted to know.
He sighed again and said, "It's this appliance business. It's that and my still out-of-control libido and andropause, probably—"
"—but what about Boo?"
"I can't. I can barely face this myself—I'm not sure I, myself, could handle sex with...someone who has what I have...I can't force him to deal with it if I can't—"
"—and so the whores..." Another sigh from him. "Um...how do you know the whores would be able to handle it?" There was another long pause. "You've asked around..." Still spluttering, me. He nodded. "Have you hire—?" I spluttered some more. His look said it all. Oh, Jesus! This was reallllllllly weird. "And Boo? Does he know?"
"He thinks it's something I've got to get out of my system." I just stared 'til he felt he had to speak again. "He's aging more gracefully than I am, I think." Loooooooooooong pause again. I continued to stare. Again: "Also, no one I know knows what this...thing...does to me and to my head and he would never presume to talk me out of something when his head is not in the same place...when he can't even imagine that place."
"Yes, he's a good guy," I said. "Have you thought that—before you see a wh—you might consider seeing a therapist?"
"Too late for that—"
"—WHAT!—"
—Tomorrow. His name is Joe—"
"—his whore name or his real name?"
"Shut-up."
"This can only end in tears," I muttered.
"Not necessarily. It might do me some good...help me deal with this. Who knows?"
Well that was a fact, all right: Who the fuck knows?
No comments:
Post a Comment