So My Therapist Says we should be developing a relationship: a psychological, emotional, erotic, romantic relationship that I can use as a learning tool to improve my chances in the outside world. A seldom used French phrase heard only in the provinces leapt immediately to mind: "Est-ce que vous êtes out of your fucking mind?"
I explained that while I appreciated the theory behind his suggestion, I was not inclined to "let go" and indulge in a pseudo-relationship for $110 an hour that included neither dinner nor an orgasm. I think I called him a whore. I'm sure I called him a whore. I definitely called him a whore. "What in God's name would make you think," I asked aloud, "that I'm going to go down that road with you and then turn it all off when the little clock dings and I write my check?"
"Oh the money," My Therapist Says, "...that's just a boundary." I laughed - and not politely.
"You only ever hear that line from the person taking the money," I said - virtually obliterating the entire psychoanalytic profession in one derisive swipe. I might also have said, "Boundary, my ass." I'm sure I said that. I definitely said that. "Just like you only hear ugly people say 'Beauty is only skin deep' and only rich people say 'Money is no object'," I added. The money is just a boundary. Fall in love for 50 minutes once a week. Indeed.
He tried to bait me by suggesting that he was more than happy to keep things blithe and glib. "Like 90% of my patients", he said. Now, I am bright, but I confess I am not the sharpest tack in the drawer. More than once, however, I have found it helpful to take the advice of the 90% and leave the 10% swingin' in the wind. This is one of those rare occasions where I can find some small solace among the majority. And it's likely to stay that way.
Until I can wrap my apparently resistant brain around the notion that I am to all but fall in love with My Therapist for 50 minutes and $110 a week, we are going to continue to enjoy one another's glib and blithe presence or we will not enjoy one another at all. I finally just asked, "Are you hitting on me?" He dismissed the question out of hand. I am no egotist (although I think I was called a narcissist at least once today), but I think I'm onto something here. The lady on the Sopranos never tried to get Tony to fall in love with her. I either mis-heard something or we have what the Portuguese call "un failure to communicate". Either way, I am not having anything approaching an erotic or romantic relationship with anyone who is taking my money and setting the timer to 50 minutes. Not as long as I'm ambulatory, leastwise. The very notion. I was not raised among parasols and juleps, but I do have my notions of propriety. That suggestion breached every lovin' last one of them.
He said something about me trying to protect my mother. I gasped and laughed at the same time, which will send the fluid in your throat directly into your sinus cavity and is not fun. It was out of the blue and apropos of nothing and caught me so off guard that I did minor bodily harm to myself just reacting. I was still in the throes of "romantic, erotic relationship" when he heaved that one at me. I thought one of the two of us had gone off the deep end and I knew I was still standing on dry land. He talked about the perfect connection we all look to mamas for as infants. I added that nobody gets that. He concurred and suggested we continue to look for it in life, which is reasonable, but classic Freud and not this year's news. Plus, it's debatable as to its relevance - especially among gay males. I do not long for a titty because I did not get one. I promise. And I have references.
I mentioned that I consciously seek out men who I perceive to be obviously "flawed" in some way because I can feel some camaraderie among the imperfect of this world. That's where I got the label "narcissist". And I thought I was just being reasonable in dating chubby guys and maximizing my chances for a date on any given Friday night. I'm "narcissistic", the contention goes, because I look for men to whom I can feel superior, he misinterpreted. Actually, I just look for guys who are bigger than me because, while I'm being concerned about how large my nose looks in profile, they're likely aware that their abs are tucked away under 20 years of Doritos and Budweiser. And that's OK. I'm imperfect, you're imperfect. Now we can have sex - or a relationship - or whatever and just have all the physical imperfections balanced out up front. It's not about feeling better than them. It's about feeling equal to them. But if it makes him happy to hang "narcissist" around my neck, that's OK by me. I am still not being goaded into a "romantic, erotic" relationship with this man for as long as I am paying him.
I do admit that were there no money and no 50-minute timer involved, I would go out with the guy - at least once. He seemed offended that I laughed at the notion. That strikes me as odd if I'm in the 90% who apparently prefer blithe and glib to playing house for money. I'm guessing I'm not the first one to decline this particular offer. Psychoanalysis be damned. I am not letting some man in my head to toy with my love buttons - let alone go down the erotic path - and then send me back out into society to pine about it for 6 days and 23 hours. How desperate do I seem to him, anyway? The very nerve.
He also insisted that I was in love with The Rooster. Now THAT'S offensive. Just because I remain marginally pissed over how that shook out does not mean I was, ergo, in love with him. I get this mad without being in love. Ask anybody who ever worked for me. Ask anybody I ever worked for. Ask anybody who ever knew me. I can get - and stay - this mad for a very long time without ever having been in like, let alone love. I told him that The Rooster owes me an explanation - not because of any commitments involved - but because I am an adult (whether the Rooster so-identifies or not).
So all in all, we went a few rounds today. I like to think I won at least 2 out of 3. "The money is just a boundary." I told him I was going to write that one down. And I did.
Three times.
Hear the cock crow?
