Читать книгу The Anti-Therapist - Keaton Albertson - Страница 5

The anticlimatic trip to Boston with my counselor coworker deterred me from socializing any further with him or any of his psychobabble-spewing ilk. I learned that in order to associate with more normal persons, I would have to look outside of my clinical department of fellow mental health providers and become better acquainted with those who were not counselors. The support staff who worked in the housing units at the treatment facility were comprised of a diversity of everyday folks who, for the most part, were far more stable than the other treatment facilitators whom I shared an office with. Over time, I was fortunate enough to meet and befriend a group of guys who were complete bad asses. Cheeseburger was an enlarged, jolly fellow who brought with him to work a pleasant attitude for the patients and a healthy appetite for the cafeteria. Harley was a well-respected staff member who always treated others with dignity, had solid integrity, and a tragic flaw of being thoroughly honest at all times. One of the staff supervisors, Fleas, had a sense of life that I found endearing. He would come to work on his days off to scarf the free food in the cafeteria, readily steal office supplies for his own personal use at home, and slept in his office overnight when he had fights with his tweaker wife. As such, Fleas was and still is a great friend of mine.

Training conferences were a regular part of my career as a treatment facilitator. Oftentimes these conferences were scheduled out of state in distant cities that were far from my workplace. During the early years of my employment, I was sent to the far regions of the country to acquire various continuing education units that were pertinent to my job duties. Occasionally, some of the support staff would accompany the clinical personnel to these training conferences. It was during one such traveling experience that I first became acquainted with Fleas while en route to Kansas City. Prior to embarking upon our several-hour road trip across the Great Plains, I had to complete one last session for the week. The final patient to receive my miraculous treatment interventions on that late Friday afternoon was a chronic masturbator who was plagued with bizarre fantasies and correspondingly disgusting behavior.

~*~*~*~*~*~

FANTASIES OF THE QUEER

KEATON ALBERTSON: I’ve read the physician’s report and there doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with your urethra. Are you sure that you told the doctor the full extent of your symptoms?

PHALLUS FAIRY: Well, yeah, but he should have been able to tell that something’s wrong. I have to piss while standing to the side for god’s sake. My dick is crooked!

KEATON: [soft chuckle] What do you mean? You can’t hold your penis straight?

FAIRY: I have to! If I didn’t, I would piss all over myself, and the wall, and whoever else was standing next to me.

KEATON: Right, well, I’m not a medical doctor but from what you’re telling me it sounds as though you have something wrong with your shaft, not your urethra. But if you can urinate without pain or discomfort and if you do not have any accidents throughout the day or night, what is the problem?

FAIRY: My dick is crooked! It looks like a big fish hook! [gestures with index finger to make curved shape]

KEATON: It’s crooked all the time, permanently?

FAIRY: Well, it bends a little off to the side when nothing is going on but when I get an erection it’s way out there.

KEATON: That would explain why the physician didn’t take note of it then. There is no mention in the report of disfigurement.

FAIRY: What am I supposed to do? I can’t walk in there with a stiffy. “Hey, doc, check out my cock! I got a hard on for you to rub down.”

KEATON: Good point. You would have to have an erection for him to notice the “fish hook” as you called it. I could see how that would be a little unnerving to be aroused while the urologist was examining your penis.

FAIRY: Well, he was pretty hot. But I don’t even know why I think that. He’s a sand nigger. I’ve never liked those little guys before. I can’t even understand what they’re saying. And they’re all hairy and shit.

KEATON: I was going to ask you about that.

FAIRY: About what—I didn’t do anything with the doctor. We were in a public place!

KEATON: I realize that. Staff were present the whole time and they reported that you were appropriate for a change. What I meant was your fantasy experiences after you left the appointment.

FAIRY: [smiles briefly then shakes head] No. I didn’t picture him naked or anything. Eeew.

KEATON: You had another man touch your penis. You’ve fantasized over situations much more perverse and strange than that.

FAIRY: Well maybe a little bit. But I got it out of my head really quick.

KEATON: Why? What is it about thinking of your doctor in a sexual way that is disgusting to you?

FAIRY: It’s not really disgusting. It’s just gross. I mean… he’s my doctor.

KEATON: Yes, he is. And I’m not saying that fantasizing about your urologist is appropriate or healthy. But I’m curious as to how you could masturbate to images of children, animals, and various scenes of violence and feel okay about it but then get grossed out over thinking of another adult male touching your penis.

FAIRY: Alright. He’s hot, okay. I think he’s hot. But I didn’t want to say anything because I really think that something is wrong with my dick and I didn’t want you to make me go see someone else. I’m not going to do anything with him. It was just a fantasy.

KEATON: Okay, well, I appreciate your honesty. And, in a way, if you’re having fantasies about your urologist, that is a form of progress. It’s an odd form of progress, but at least it’s a step forward. You’re doctor is an adult. And he’s human. That’s progress.

FAIRY: Yeah, but it’s still fucked up. You know that it’s not right.

KEATON: No, it’s not right. But I would much rather have you fantasizing over adult males, albeit persons who are in a helping role in your life and not potential sex partners, than raping little boys and engaging in bestiality.

FAIRY: [nods in agreement]

KEATON: Have you been journaling about your fantasies like we talked about?

FAIRY: Yeah. But I don’t think it helps. Actually, I think that it makes my fantasies worse. I wake up thinking about them and I write them down like you said. But then I get aroused while I’m writing them out and it makes it so that I have them stuck in my head all day.

KEATON: The assignment was two-fold. Firstly, I wanted an honest depiction of your thoughts so we can thoroughly chart your progress or note areas of needed intervention. And, secondly, I was hoping that by writing these things out fully that you could reflect on them later, when you were not aroused, and realize just how perverse they are.

FAIRY: I tried that and I just get a hard-on again and wind up masturbating to what I wrote down.

KEATON: What are your current fantasies, exactly? Are they any different than what we have talked about before?

FAIRY: [looks down in embarrassment] Yeah. …I’ve been thinking about my siblings lately.

KEATON: What about them? You picture them naked?

FAIRY: Yeah but no. I mean, they are naked but there’s other stuff going on.

KEATON: What kind of other stuff?

FAIRY: Sexual stuff.

KEATON: Are these fantasies or memories that you’re masturbating to?

FAIRY: Oh, it’s all fantasies! I never did anything to my brother or sister.

KEATON: Right. That much has been confirmed on the polygraph. But I was referring to memories of your siblings where you may have seen them engaged in some sort of sexual activity when you were younger, or undressing maybe…

FAIRY: [uncomfortable laugh] No, I’m pretty sure that I didn’t see any of this stuff before. It’s just a fantasy. It came from me.

KEATON: What is it?

FAIRY: [takes deep breath] Okay. This is a little sick, I know, but you told me to be honest.

KEATON: Yes.

FAIRY: I fantasize about my brother having sex with my mom. And my sister is in the same room fingering herself while she’s watching it.

KEATON: And what about you? Are you involved in this fantasy?

FAIRY: What? No, no, I’m not there.

KEATON: You don’t imagine yourself in this scene? You’re not involved?

FAIRY: [shakes head] No, no. I’m not in it.

KEATON: You don’t picture yourself having any sexual contact with your mother or your siblings? You’re just seeing this image somehow.

FAIRY: Right. Yeah, I’m not involved. [makes disgusted facial expression] My mother? No! I would never do anything with my mother.

KEATON: You just masturbate about her having sex with your brother…?

FAIRY: Yeah.

KEATON: So, to you, picturing your mother naked, having sex with your brother, is arousing. But the idea of you actually touching her yourself, in a sexual way, is somehow repulsive.

FAIRY: Well, yeah, I mean I came out of that pussy. I don’t want to be going back in there.

KEATON: Is the thought of your brother being naked and doing sexual things the arousing part of this fantasy? Because, after all, you are gay. I wouldn’t think that images of naked females, whether they’re of your mother or not, would be interesting to you.

FAIRY: I never thought of it like that. That could be true. But I also picture my sister naked too. She has these really weird-shaped titties and she’s down here… [makes gestures of female masturbation]

KEATON: Do you find that aspect of the fantasy arousing too?

FAIRY: Not really. She was pretty gross.I’m gay and I even thought those titties were gross. She had licorice-whipped titties. They looked like those gel packs with fish.

KEATON: I’m a little confused here. You said that the idea of having sexual contact with your mother is not arousing to you. And you said that your sister is not physically attractive. But yet you picture both of these females naked in a sexual situation with your brother.

FAIRY: Yeah. I know. It’s fucked up.

KEATON: Yes, it is. But I wonder if your brother is the focal point of this entire thought process and not so much the females.

FAIRY: [shakes head] I never think of him like that.

KEATON: You masturbate to mental images of him having sex with your mother. I think that qualifies as thinking of him like that.

FAIRY: But I would never actually do anything with him!

KEATON: Do you want to?

FAIRY: No!

KEATON: Have you had the opportunity to?

FAIRY: No. He would kick my ass.

KEATON: So what if he were willing—would you then?

FAIRY: Hey, I’m gay but I’m not into incest. I don’t go around thinking about poking my brother up the ass.

KEATON: I’m interested to know what you consider to be incest. Masturbating to images of your brother having sex with your mother is most certainly incestuous.

FAIRY: But those are just fantasies, though. My fantasies might be fucked up but I’m not.

KEATON: These fantasies come from you—you imagine them. You can select any fantasy material that you choose. You can be anyone, envision anyone, and imagine any sexual scenario that you like. And within this great expanse of imagination, you choose to picture your mother having sexual intercourse with your brother while your sister is watching them, masturbating. Can you explain to me how you selecting these images from your mind while you are stroking on your erect penis someone vindicates you from being responsible?

FAIRY: [reflect for a moment] I’m not saying that I’m…well… I guess what I mean is that I’ve fantasized about weirder things than that. And I’ve never really acted on the fantasies. I’m not even sure that I could if I wanted to. But since I haven’t really acted on them… I just masturbate. And that’s not bad. Everyone masturbates…

KEATON: Wait a minute. You’ve fantasized about stranger things than your brother having intercourse with your mother? Like what exactly?

FAIRY: Pokemon characters… animals getting it on… dragons… aliens…

KEATON: Aliens?

FAIRY: I guess they’re aliens. They’re kind of half kangaroo, half alien.

KEATON: [confused look creeps across face] You have masturbatory fantasies about alien-kangaroo sex?

FAIRY: Yeah.

KEATON: And Pokemon cartoon critters?

FAIRY: Yep

KEATON: Okay. But this goes along with my original point. Out of all of the potential things that you could think about, fantasize over, and masturbate to, you choose to imagine scenarios that you think are wrong in addition to things that are impossible. Unrealistic things. Why?

FAIRY: I don’t know. It’s like these pictures just get into my head and I can’t get them out. I can be reading a book or something, trying to keep my mind off stuff, and I’ll read a certain line or something and they’ll just pop up. I try not to think about these things but they don’t go away. And I just wind up masturbating to them even though I don’t want to.

KEATON: We’ve talked about this before. These disturbing fantasies will not go away so long as you continue to masturbate to them. Each time you do that, you are making the cognitive-behavior link stronger. You must give the fantasies time to fade away. You can also look at it in terms of orgasm being the ultimate behavioral goal here. All the fantasies do is serve to get you aroused so that you can eventually reach climax.

FAIRY: Yeah… I was going to tell you about that too. I’ve been doing that a lot more lately.

KEATON: Doing what? Masturbating?

FAIRY: Yeah—but not as much as when I started treatment though.

KEATON: Have you been using objects again?

FAIRY: I’ve started using different things.

KEATON: Like what?

FAIRY: Like my socks. …And I fucked a sandal.

KEATON: [furrows brow] How do you fuck a sandal?

FAIRY:[makes jerking movements with hands against crotch] You know, just slam into the sandal back and forth while I’m holding it!

KEATON: [stares blankly forward]

FAIRY: What? I know, it’s warped but, hey, I ran out of shampoo. I fucked a sandal.

KEATON: And this was pleasurable to you?

FAIRY: Well, yeah, but it’s not like I have a sandal craving now or anything. I don’t go around thinking, “Mmmmm, give me that Jesus shoe!” [pants like a dog]

KEATON: That’s good. Okay, so other than the sandal escapade, have you been using any other objects?

FAIRY: I’m not sure.

KEATON: I don’t see how there could be any confusion involved. Either you are masturbating with your hand, which is part of your body, or not. If it’s not part of your body then it’s an object.

FAIRY: Well… what if it came out of my body?

KEATON: You mean semen or urine? We’ve talked about that before. You’ve been using your own bodily fluids for lubrication for quite some time.

FAIRY: Okay. But what if it’s not a bodily fluid?

KEATON: What are you talking about exactly? Be clear.

FAIRY: This is just gross. I feel like such a freak.

KEATON: You’re here for treatment. There are no value judgments here. Although your self-perception should definitely be explored later. What are you masturbating with now, other than your socks and the helpless sandal?

FAIRY: My own shit.

KEATON: [pauses] Your own shit.

FAIRY: Yeah. See! I knew you would think it was gross.

KEATON: It’s not something that I haven’t heard before. It just seems odd to me that you would consider your feces as an object.

FAIRY: Well, it is! At least how I use it, it is.

KEATON: How do you use it then?

FAIRY: I stick my turds up my ass.

KEATON: Say again. You what?

FAIRY:[pantomimes movement while speaking] I reach down into the toilet, grab my turd, and shove it back up my ass like this.

KEATON: [raises eyebrow and clinches mouth in disgust]

FAIRY: So wouldn’t that be an object?

KEATON: Sure. [clears throat] So, uh, how many times have you done this?

FAIRY: I just tried it a couple times. It didn’t work out too well.

KEATON: Why is that?

FAIRY: Because the poo was all squishy. It fell apart. It wouldn’t go back up my ass the same way it came out.

KEATON: [glances at watch] Okay. That is quite enough for today. We’ll resume discussion for next session. But in the meantime I want you to put forth some effort in avoiding masturbation, any form of masturbation, to your inappropriate sexual fantasies. Alright? And keep the journal going. I want these fantasies documented.

FAIRY: If you say so. So I’ll see you next week then? [extends hand for a shake]

KEATON: [looks down at patient’s hand, moves aside, and opens office door instead] Yes. Same time next week. The secretary will have your appointment card.

FAIRY: [withdraws hand] Alright. Have a good day then. I’ll talk to you later.

KEATON: Yeah. You too. See you next week. [reaches for bottle of hand sanitizer]

~*~*~*~*~*~

I woke up to the sounds of the early morning news emanating from a weathered television set at daybreak. Fleas had already taken a shower and was getting ready for the upcoming workshops. He had turned the television on inside our shared hotel room, opened the window blinds, and allowed the early morning sun to bake through my ruffled bedspread. We had traveled to Kansas City the night before by van, along with several other of my colleagues. Although Fleas had clearly recovered from the scenically abhorrent journey from our home, I was more content with lying in the hotel bed for a few more hours, despite the questionable integrity of the sheets wrapped around my body. After several moments of yanking the bedspread over my head to block out the sun’s rays and cursing at Fleas for getting up so early, I finally decided to rise.

After much self-prodding, I finally gathered up my toiletries and a fresh set of clothes and hobbled into the bathroom for a quick shower. I looked around the sink area for a clear place to set down my garments and shaving bag. Not finding sufficient room on the vanity to arrange my things, I turned toward the commode. It was there that I saw a meaty turd staring back at me, floating adrift on the browned and sullen waters of the porcelain bowl. “Dude!” I yelled out through the bathroom door. “You didn’t flush—what the fuck?” My exclamations were met with laughter from the other side as my amigo chuckled over the dookie present that he had left for me. (Fleas later insisted that he purposely did not flush the toilet as to avoid the shower temperature from going out of whack. He insisted that he had planned to flush the smelly monstrosity after getting out of the shower but had forgotten to do so.)

With my morning hygiene procedures completed, I linked up with Fleas and the rest of my coworkers inside the hotel ballroom to begin our seminars. The bulk of the day was largely consumed with the attendance of the required workshop training sessions. At the conclusion of the training day, I discussed with my newfound compatriot some of the options that we had available for our nocturnal entertainment. I advised Fleas that the best place to score some play with some hot chicks would most likely be at the local nightclubs. I was confident in my swooning capabilities but I thought that maybe I could utilize Fleas as a wingman in case I ventured into unfriendly female airspace.

After considerable deliberation, my conspiring coworker and I decided to visit some of the downtown venues to go trolling for strange. An hour later, Fleas and I had walked to a local hotspot deep within the bowels of Kansas City. We selected one particular nightclub that appeared to be pulsating with poontang and were greeted at the entrance by the doorman. Entry was denied. We tried to get into other dance clubs that surrounded the first and were further denied. Fleas was wearing a hockey jersey at the time and we soon learned that such attire, as we were repeatedly told by each consecutive doorman, was considered gang related. Furthermore, the nightclubs that we wanted to enter actually had a dress code that required some sort of fashion sense that neither Fleas nor I had prepared for prior to arriving in town. With our plans in disarray, we resorted to alternative means of titillation.

Fleas told me that he could shoot a strong game of pool while we discussed some potential auxiliary plans for the evening. I had grown up with a billiards table in my parents’ home so I was not unfamiliar with a rack and cue. Fleas suggested that we should go barhopping and try on the locals for a few games of pool and perhaps score with some native hotties in the process. After concurring upon a new course of action, we walked away from the highfalutin nightclubs and quickly located some nearby bars within the same downtown area. We were pleased to find no doormen at the bars. There were also no dress codes. In fact, upon entering the first cum-stained joint that we discovered, Fleas and I immediately went from having an underdressed status to an overdressed status in comparison to the other patrons. We stayed for a few minutes to peruse the meat market of local hussies and then moved on to the next establishment.

At some time approaching the midnight hour, Fleas and I walked into one particularly seedy watering hole where we found a solitary billiards table. Adjacent to the 6-holed felt was a small chalkboard where patrons could scrawl their names to indicate that they wanted to have the next game. The victor of the challenge was allowed to keep playing at the table so long as he kept winning. The current table captain had a partner with him and was only having teams of two challenge him and his buddy for possession of the table. Fleas placed his name on the chalkboard together with mine and, after the dominating pair had trashed three other teams ahead of us, we became the next challengers.

Fleas had not exaggerated to me about his proclaimed skill at 8-ball. In fact, he proved to be far better than the table captain. Combining his skill and my showmanship, we quickly conquered the former crew and took possession of the table. Several teams subsequently challenged us once Fleas and I brandished ownership of the occupied felt. We managed to fend off each of them and maintained our staked claim.

After a couple of hours of beating up the locals at their own game, the chalkboard was cleared and no one challenged Fleas and me for the billiards table for quite some time. We sat and conversed, taunting anyone who walked by for a quick game. In short order, a duo of high-heeled honeys came strutting up to our table and asked if they could play us. The two women were clearly intoxicated and did not seem like much of a challenge. Fleas and I quickly agreed to play them so that we might enjoy a little eye candy while we waited for a real team to show up.

The girls were absolutely terrible at playing pool. When they were not talking on their cell phones, they were chatting it up with some limp-dicked bastards at the bar. I had to remind them on several occasions throughout the game that it was their turn to shoot. The girls would giggle, give a weak attempt at trying to strike the cue ball, and then prance away from the table to engage in more social meandering. The game itself was far from entertaining. However, when either of the two girls would bend over to attempt a shot, the revelations of their low-cut tops were well worth the wait in between their delays. After a few minutes of this routine, Fleas and I decided to extend the game just so that we could catch some more glimpses of our opponents’ luscious bosoms. They were apparently not interested in talking to us so we reluctantly assumed the roles of voyeuristic lurkers.

Extending the game only postponed the inevitable. The girls lost without sinking one ball from off the table. Surprisingly, as the eight ball was still making its way down the ball return from Fleas’ final shot, the girls chimed up and offered to play us again. “Sure!” my comrade and I both replied with shit-eating grins. The girls wanted to break on the next round and even offered to throw twenty bucks down on the game. “Sure!” we both replied again with anticipation of more bosom exposures.

I suspected something was awry when one of the girls placed the communal bar cue back on the wall and acquired her own cue from a nearby carrying case. With a raised eyebrow, I glanced at Fleas, and then back down at the cleavage from the other side of the table. My suspicions were confirmed the moment that the first girl made an incredible break, immediately sinking two balls. She continued on her swath of the table with surprising skill and accuracy. The inebriated behaviors of the two females disappeared, their cell phones had been put away, and the lame assed drunkards on the periphery were ignored. Before it was Fleas’ turn to act, the majority of the girls’ balls were resting in the ball return, cleaned off the table in less than three minutes. But the slut shooter finally missed a crucial shot, allowing us an opportunity to retaliate.

“We just got hustled,” I said to Fleas outside of earshot from the hussies.

“No we didn’t,” Fleas replied. “We haven’t lost yet. We can take these bitches.”

“It’s really going to suck ass if we spent all this time dominating the table just to lose to a couple of queef stains.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Fleas whispered back, as he confidently approached the table.

The battle ensued. Fleas was on top of his game and sank several balls right away. He then disappointingly missed his next shot. The second girl followed suit of her partner and blasted back. But she too eventually choked up. I knew that I could not compete with the two female hustlers so I elected to engage in some dirty pool warfare once it was my turn. Rather than attempting to sink any of the balls from off the table, I employed questionable tactics of nudging the cue ball very close to the other balls, thereby making our opponents’ next shot quite difficult.

Despite my poor sportsmanship, the table was soon cleared and all that was left to sink was the final eight ball. It was Fleas’ turn. The black sphere was hanging very close to the far corner pocket. Fleas could make it with his eyes closed. I felt that the game was ours and the hustlers would soon be defeated. I strode up next to Fleas as he was bending over his cue to evaluate the shot. While he took careful aim, I stared down the females in anticipation of their pretty faces turning to agony as they witnessed their inevitable defeat.

Just as Fleas pulled back to make his poke, the girls turned to face each other and began a long, passionate, open-mouth, tongue-on-tongue kiss, embracing immediately behind the corner pocket of the pool table where the eight ball was lingering. I stared in fascination. Fleas looked up from the black target and became entranced over the blissful sight, just as he released his arm. The misplaced cue cracked against the cue ball, spinning it off at an angle far away from the eight and causing a scratch into a different pocket. Giggling, the girls stopped kissing each other and relished in their shady victory with ludicrous high-fives and playground screeches. Fleas remained motionless, slumped over his cue, completely frozen in form. I continued to stare at the girls in fascination.

Ten minutes and twenty bucks later, Fleas and I found ourselves walking away from the bar, still in shock and arousal over what we had just witnessed. We strolled down the sidewalk together for several minutes in silence. My partner finally broke the verbal reprieve half way back to the hotel room.

“Did you see that?” he asked rhetorically.

“We just got hustled,” I said.

“Yeah but that was really nice.”

“We just got hustled,” I repeated.

“You know, those are the types of girls that you could easily hook up with at a bar like that,” Fleas postulated. “All it would take is for a guy to go there a few times, like a few weekends in a row or something, get to know them a little bit, and they would go home with him.”

“Dude, they wouldn’t even talk to us,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but we don’t live here. It’s the first time they’ve seen us. We’re strangers. I’m telling you, we should go back there tomorrow night and try to talk to them.”

“I’m not worried about tomorrow night,” I said. “I’m worried about right now. We didn’t get in any of those downtown clubs. But we went to a few bars, which was cool. We smoked a few fools and got the table, which was cool too. But now we’re walking back to the hotel. I don’t know about you, man, but I need some cones. There has got to be a strip club around here somewhere.”

“How are we going to find one?” Fleas asked. “We don’t know where anything is around here and we don’t have any transportation.”

“I got this covered, man. We’ll find the sleaziest bar in sight and ask the dirtiest bastard in there for directions. He’ll know.”

Within a few blocks of walking, we found what appeared to be a biker’s bar. Fleas and I looked at each other and silently decided not to enter out of fear of causing an uncomfortable scene. A short distance away, we found another nightclub. The doorman was a younger man. Getting desperate, we asked the guy where a strip club might be located.

“Oh, right down the street there’s a good one,” the doorman said. “It’s about seven or eight blocks away though.”

“That’s fine,” I replied. “What’s the door fee?”

“It’s something like fifteen or twenty bucks.”

“Twenty bucks!” I blurted out. “I just spent twenty bucks to watch some girls make out back at the bar while we were playing pool. I’m not spending another twenty bucks on pasties and G-strings.”

“The place is all nude,” the doorman explained.

“Say no more.”

While en route to our place of debauchery, Fleas made a pit stop at an ATM along the street. He gave his wife a quick call on his cell phone and asked her about the status of the family bills. Fleas then instructed his wife not to write any checks or spend any money on groceries until he got home. He then made a significant withdrawal from the ATM with which to pay for some hookers.

Once Fleas and I found the glittering lights of the strip club, a lady through a blackened ticket window advised us that the door fee was nineteen dollars, which included our first drink. The cashier then asked if we wanted to tip our dollar in change and make it an even twenty. I begrudgingly handed over my Andrew Jackson and Fleas forked over his family’s grocery money.

Walking inside the gentlemen’s establishment was like stepping into a different plane of the universe. The music was loud, the interior was nice, the employees were friendly, and the stage was of a majestic quality like I have never seen before.

“Dude, they got a shower!” I spouted off to Fleas, nudging him in the arm and pointing to the suspended shower cage that was dangling above our heads.

“Uh-huh,” Fleas responded with a smile.

“Alright, look,” I said. “I don’t want to tell any of these chicks my real name, where I’m from, or what I do. They are on the job. They are here to make money. Lots of idiots come into places like this and lose their whole wallet thinking that some hooch is talking to him because she likes him. I don’t know about you, man, but I’m Steve from Chicago. Import-Export.”

Fleas and I pulled up seats at a small table and begin to freeload. Neither of us approached the stage but, instead, sat back and watched the action while the other patrons wasted their money on the strippers for us. The announcer, who looked and sounded like someone introducing a Las Vegas swimsuit competition, stated that the girls could not get “all the way nude” unless there was at least thirty dollars on the stage. Until that time, the girls apparently just danced around topless. Although I wanted to see all that I could see, my cheap ass was content with having spent my twenty-dollar door fee and I was planning on just sitting back and soaking up the scenery for the rest of the night.

As song after song played and several strippers came and went without getting “all the way nude” on the stage, the girls began to filter through the crowd, running their manipulation scams upon the onlookers. One particular female, whom I found entirely unattractive, came strutting up to our table and engaged in some small talk me.

“Hi, I’m Sweet Pea, what’s your name?”

“I’m Steve,” I said, hoping that she would go away so that I could continue freeloading off the better-looking trim.

“Well, Steve, is this your first time here?” the stripper asked in a penchant voice.

“Yeah,” I mumbled without looking at her. “I’m from Chicago.”

“Really, Chicago? What are you doing down here?”

“Just business. Import-Export.”

Sweet Pea paused for a minute and then looked at Fleas. “Who’s your friend here?” she asked me while offering my compadre a sultry look. “Does he do import business too?”

Fleas extended his empty palm toward the stripper while dragging on a cigarette with the other. “I’m Keaton Albertson. I’m a treatment facilitator.” Fleas then shot me a shit-eating grin.

I darted a look of disdain at my chum, unamused that he had assumed my identity. The skanky hussy proceeded to engage in small talk with Fleas, completely unimpressed with his admission. As she did so, I made it a point to turn away from her, not giving her any reason to address me any further. Minutes later, the stripper strutted off after realizing that neither of us was going to give her any money for a lap dance or further entertain her soggy conversation. I then confronted Fleas over his flagrant violation of our established prostitute interaction policy. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“That was good shit,” Fleas asserted. “You should’ve seen the look on your face.”

“You need to stop that shit,” I explained. “I have a reputation to keep.”

Fleas and I spent another hour or so inside the strip joint being money-grubbing voyeurs. After failing to see any totally nude dancers perform on the stage, we finally left for our long walk back to the hotel. Along the latter part of our journey, I suggested that we find a place to eat so that we might acquire some sustenance prior to returning to our room. We then initiated a thorough search of the area, eagerly looking down every cross street that we came upon for signs of a restaurant that was still open at the late hour.

We had completed most of our walk back to the hotel before I spotted the illuminated window of a small eatery. Fleas and I quickly averted course and made tracks toward the establishment. Upon our approach, we took note of the neon shingle that read, “Skokie’s – Best Subs in Kansas City” and proceeded inside. Despite the early morning hour, the diner was surprisingly packed with heads, dark heads, of the African variety. I must have frozen in the doorway because Fleas looked back at me and quickly said, “Get your ass in here, don’t embarrass me.” My moment of pause dissipated and I cautiously followed Fleas inside the all-black restaurant. We saddled up at the bar, obtained some menus, and perused through a long list of sub sandwiches that were available to order. We placed our requests for some sub basket combo meals and then found a seat at a nearby table.

After a few minutes of waiting for our food, the bar tender, who I assume was Skokie himself, brought over to Fleas and I our sandwiches. We hungrily started grinding away on our subs while curiously glancing over what appeared to be a dance floor, which I thought was an odd interior design for a diner. Once the nutritional properties of the food started to mingle throughout my bloodstream, my mind began to operate properly and my senses began to perceive things that I had previously neglected. The jukebox in the corner of the restaurant was pumping out some distorted form of jazz music and I noticed a middle-aged black guy, dressed like a 1930’s mobster, dancing next to it. He twisted and wiggled down very low to the ground until his buttocks nearly touched the tile. The gentleman then jumped up, squealed like a school girl, and hugged another man who was sitting at the bar.

I turned my eyes to Fleas and observed that his gaze never left his food, me, or the table. Obviously he had made some disturbing observations of his own. “Remind me to tell you something after we leave,” he said quietly.

Scratching the stubble under my chin at the strange spectacles around me, I continued chewing on my yummy sandwich until I haphazardly looked over to see two dudes making out in a darkened alcove. One of the guys was an older fellow but his partner looked young enough to have definitely been asked for identification at the bar. Through my facial expression of disgust and horror, the older guy caught me staring at him and momentarily stopped kissing his younger companion. He scowled and stared back at me. I swiftly looked away and tried to refocus on my meal. I could not. My eyes continued to wander about and I noticed other oddities amongst the patrons: close body hugs, booty slaps, some strange hairstyles here and a bright yellow suit there. Then it hit me.

“Dude, there’s some seriously weird shit going on in here!” I said to Fleas across the table. “There’s not a single female in this place—not in the bar, not over in that dance area, not outside, nowhere. No chicks. And I think we’re the only white guys in here too.”

“I know,” Fleas mumbled with a mouthful of sandwich. “Just eat your food and let’s get out of here.”

The next few moments were spent rushing through what could have been a great Skokie’s sub. Instead of enjoying my meal, however, I became increasingly more aware of the fact that not only was I one of two white guys in the entire pillow-biting establishment, but I was also accompanied by my male coworker whom was most certainly perceived as being my chili ring partner. Fleas and I rapidly finished our subs and then quickly left the eatery without leaving a tip. We briskly walked down the sidewalk, bypassing several individuals who were loitering about outside offering us uncomfortable glares. Once we reached the corner of the building, we both took off in a homophobic sprint back toward the hotel.

“What the hell, man?” I said to my crony, once we began slowing down. “You just took me to a fuckin gay bar!”

“You found it,” Fleas retorted. “You wanted to go there. Plus, we would’ve looked like assholes if we got up and left. And I nearly killed you when you froze at the door. Didn’t they have any black people in Utah?”

“I almost got raped in there,” I laughed. “Did you see how them dark brothers were staring at my lily white ass? You know I’m a sexy beast. They definitely wanted me.”

“I kind of figured that you were a fag,” Fleas replied. “Those poofs made some good subs though.”

“Hell yeah they did. They probably jizzed in yours—added some man glaze to your buns.”

In the midst of our traumatic debriefing while walking back to our hotel, a semi-tractor cab pulled up beside us into a nearby parking lot. A man exited the cab and walked into what appeared to be a warehouse with an illuminated beer sign near the top of the roof. The sounds of loud bass could be heard from the street.

“Do you hear that, dude?” I asked Fleas. “That’s a club over there. Come on—let’s go check it out. Maybe this one doesn’t have a dress code!”

Leaving Fleas behind, I ran over to the front door of the building after the truck driver had walked in. Without entering, I peered through the glass of the front door, allowing Fleas some time to catch up to me. Inside I saw several figures dancing in the middle of a darkened floor, momentarily filtering in and out of vision within the strobe lights and pulsating colors. As Fleas came walking up to the door to join me, I noticed that all of the dancing figures were males… and that they had their shirts off… and that they were dancing in a circle… with each other. Again, there were no females to be seen.

“You want to go in there?” Fleas asked me. “That’s a gay club. Are you some kind of fruit or what? You make me eat at a gay bar and now you want to go to a gay club?”

“Fuck you, man. I didn’t know that was a gay bar back there and this club looked normal from the outside!” I said in defense. “Is all of Kansas City candy-striped gay or what?”

The journey back to the hotel was spent in loud laughter with Fleas making fun of me and I jousting back at him in turn. Although I was unable to score with any hot babes that night, I relished over the fact that it was not I who had to go home to my starving family after I spent grocery money on strippers and sandwiches. Nevertheless, my training conference experience with Fleas afforded me the opportunity to make friends with a non-counselor coworker. And any night of adventure with Fleas was better than the limp-dick activities taken on by the likes of Gypsy and Sconce.