There are many issues I need to work through: fear of intimacy, distorted sense of self, narcissism v insecurity, loss of libido, continual need for approbation, fondness for blues music (should I write this post now or go to Kingston Mines?) fear of intimacy (did I say that one already?)...
Tonight I didn't even leave the hotel and had one my best nights ever. Truly. Confession time - I have an extremely low libido, in that I don't need to finish the night with a fuck for it to be successful - a simple wank holds me over till the next day. What am I, an animal?
I finished the Yalom book -The Schopenhauer Cure - in the restaurant tonight. There's a great line in that book - there are many great lines - when the psychotherapist, who is treating the sex-obsessed guy (the Schopenhauer clone), asks "What would you think your epitaph should be; 'He fucked a lot?' That epitaph would work for your dog as well," he continued...
Funny hey?, but profound in its Freudan (we would say now, not having read Schopenhauer) simplicity.
Schopenhauer anticipated Freud in saying quite straightforwardly that most of peoples' motivations are driven by their 24/7 drive to have sex. Male and female. We need to fuck. Sorry, I should say that *most* people need to fuck.
Some people don't. I am not talking about Christian 'holier than thou' types who deny their urges; they seriously need to fuck or to be fucked. I am talking about people *like me* who (also seriously) do not have overwhelming libidos. For a variety of reasons, truly, I am not all that sexually driven.
So therefore, it has been a revelation to me how much of the motivation of the men and women I have met in the past twelve years (since I left my adult son at home and became truly single) has been geared towards finding a fuck buddy for the night. It's what makes the world go around, that collision of pelves...
Confession time: I suffer from severe performance anxiety; always have. After the first slow tediously experimental fuck/extended foreplay, I used to get over it, to get hard appropriately, and by all accounts was pretty damn good. But for a REALLY long time I was scared of starting something due a genuine fear of failure... and even now, at 50, without pharmacological support - there, I admitted it - I am next to useless as a short-term lover. Except for blow jobs - why is that?
I guess I am in a confessional mood because of the book I finished reading tonight - The Schopenhauer Cure - so loved it, I'm even linking to it again. It is all about a dramatized group therapy session which (surprisingly) really sucks you in. One of the guys presents the author's conceptualisation of how a Schopenhauer clone (a twisted self-centred, misanthropic individual who can't make eye contact - should be in HR for Philips) would behave in a group therapy session. The author is a pioneering group therapist, by the way. I finished the book as the last course came - desert with a sweet, late picked Zinfandel - a RED desert wine!
I was at the PumpRoom - didn't even have to leave the hotel. The food was just superb. Broth poured over the crab salad. Fluffy frothy stuff bubbling under the pork. I enjoyed everything; the meal, two types of sublimely delicate dead pig; the wine, a delicious German Pinot Noir; the teasing of the waitress - "I want a dessert that describes my life up till now..." I said and dictated from the menu: "It's been Bitter-Sweet, Chocolate and Tart..."
Earlier she had come to me: "Is everything OK, is there anything wrong," she asked, not expecting a positive answer.
"Yes," I said.
She almost fell through the floor... I nodded slowly. "There's something terribly wrong with my wine glass. It's nearly empty."
I later apologised for upsetting her and told her that the whole meal had been a wonderful epiphany. And it had, honestly, although she had no idea what the fuck I was raving about.
After the meal I moved to the bar - and you have to imagine this place, low lit, swanky, sleazy yet up-market, Frankie-clone singing in the corner and playing the trumpet, the girls all 'dolls' - and as I sat down at the bar, next to me is an old, old guy. He picks me as an Aussie, keeps raving on about 'Heavenly Creatures', what a great movie it is, about independent movies in general, Lars von Trier's 'Dancer in the Dark' and 'Dogtown'. He doesn't care that Peter Jackson is a New Zealander and also made LOTR ("what?") and that von Triers is, what? Danish.
New Zealand movies? "Faggedabardit," he says. "Nicole Kidman is gorgeous." No argument from me there. I'm not in Australia anymore; I don't have Tall Poppy Syndrome.
He is 78. Lives a few block up, been coming here for 30 years. Is covered in bling, several heavy gold and diamond bands on his wrists. He is in several of the pictures on the wall of the restaurant and is still on the prowl. One of the pictures shows him with gorgeous woman, 20 years younger than him (then). He says the picture is 10 years old. I wonder if it is the last time he had sex. "Faggedabardit," he says. He was once a make-up man, a beautician.
He sends me over to a girl whom he had earlier moved up near to in order to chat up. "She says she likes you," he says to me. I move over, but can't take the shit-eating grin off my chops. I get nothing but back. I have no skill at this shit.
I drink on, not upset at rejection, it is my forte, chat with a few others by the bar. A guy with an Indiana Jones hat and John Lennon glasses saying kicking out "that little prick" John Howard is the best thing Australia could have done. He works in Green energy resourcing but is an unabashed supporter of greed as a business motivation. He sees no conflict in this.
I finish my third Cointreau (or am I drinking Drambuie by now?), shake everybody's hands including the Yale lawyer with commitment issues who is chatting up the non-legal-work lawyer, the other old guy who just turned up and with my 78 year old guru and I start to head off.
As a parting question I ask him for advice on life's purpose, for the benefit of his mature wisdom. Why are we here?
"This is it," he says. "This is it. Now, geddardaveer!" he says, waving down with his hand.
That was it. I got out of there. But I hope I don't forget about it.
One the top five nights of my life. The other four are under review. I never moved more than 30 feet from my hotel room (not counting vertically), but it was brilliant.
OTHER MONKEYS SAID
Red desert wine to die for, http://www.wineglobe.com/20403.html
Pick some up with you are in the US.
Ironic - I was just playing a Christy Moore CD which included the song...
To the City of Chicago
As the evening shadows fall
There are people dreaming
Of the hills of Donegal (obviously not what you were dreaming about?)
...a voyage of survival
across the stormy sea...
- Sounds like you had a very memorable night - interesting characters indeed! Food looked great too - yum
PS: I clicked on your highlighted words "blow jobs" and was met with large bold-printed letters stating "Service Unavailable"? - those damned 'Christians' again no doubt...
Dan - would try to get some for you but I can't bring it into the airport through immigration and customs. Something about the "b" word.
Mariah - LOL, actually I think it is those undamnable Buddhists in Thailand!
Was a great night, but if I had had my eyes open to wotson in Chicago, I would have gone to the theatre to see a two-hander of 'Turn Of The Screw'. Supposed to be VERY spooky.
there's something in this post that reminds me of your beautiful post about your father...
Dagg - yes I felt very much the same way. No-one can ever fill that gap or make up for the incredible void (acknowledged or not) of never having known their father or their mother. E@L -I agree with Dagg - that post about your father was very moving. And maybe you're still searching for the answers your Dad would have given you if he'd 'been there'... My situation is similar, and I try to guess what my father would advise or say, based on the knowledge I have of him from family and friends. I find that helps a lot.
He was a quiet man. His brother in law, my late Uncle Ed (who lived to 92), was driving along Murray St in Colac and saw my father walking on the footpath. He tooted the horn of his truck and yelled out across the road, "Hey, Harry!" Dad merely nodded slightly and raised a hand to touch the brim of his hat in acknowledgement. He didn't speak it seems, he certainly didn't call back.
The symbolism of this remembrance is key.
It's what did me in when I first read the "some things I sort of know" piece, Mariah.
E@L, I think there's a story in there...
Mariah: I should have said "moralistic" or "religiose" rather than "Christian"... There's was a thing in the Chicago paper today about fathers taking daughters out to purity dances... Mmmmm.
Dagg: My uncle used to dine out on that story, but never in a harsh way, just to point out my dad's contrasting nature in a rather uncouth country town...
I would've probably screamed out G'day myself and invited Uncle Ed for a drink somewhere...
Anyway, what's with all this "father searching" psychoanalysis? I'm not paying you guys for therapy, so just geddardaveer!
hey, you brought up psychoanalysis in the first place, sister.
Yeah, but lemmetellya, I'm not paying your exhorbitant rates! Cheeeeese!
I think I see what you mean Dagg: - the symbolism, the descriptiveness, etc.?
Of course I was focusing on E@L saying "As a parting question I ask him for advice on life's purpose, for the benefit of his mature wisdom. Why are we here?"
Thus the 'psychoanalysis' (a free consultation E@L!)