I sit down on the living room floor leaning up against the couch while the dog places its head onto my leg. Seeing Fluffy stretch his limbs in contentment, watching how the tiny black hairs on his upper lip rhythmically twitch up and down makes me smile. I lift one of his front paws and massage it. “Fascinating, just fascinating, those animal feet,” I think to myself as I investigate each toe in thorough detail. The memory of how much I would have loved to become an animal scientist blows by. I spent many hours in childhood reading books about creatures, large and small, wild and tame, ugly and breathtakingly beautiful, always with a yearning thirst of wanting to find out as much as possible about each of them.
Doubt Cloud: It’s a waste of time to think about such impossibilities. It takes years in school to get there. Besides, I don’t think you are smart enough to learn all the things required for such a degree, and neither do you have the funds. Forget about it. It could never happen for you.
The clock approaches five. I take another fifteen minutes to detach from Fluffy’s cuteness, then leave.
Whip Cracker: Animals? Is that all you got to show for? Well, I get it – no one else giving a shit about you gotta suck. You work so hard and still can’t afford to have a life.
Flashback memories of my time in Stuttgart come to mind, standing amongst the flying cinders with the roof on fire. Thick, impenetrable smoke burns my lungs just like that time.
Whip Cracker: There is no hope for you unless you leap again.
Hot Shot: The hell with it all, love included. I’m gonna jump and this time, there will be no coming back for anyone. Fuuck men.
Whip Cracker: You can still save your pet service, but you need to return to escorting…return to escorting…return to escorting. You’ll make a much better whore this time around; especially now that you’ve got nothing left to lose…nothing left to lose…nothing left to lose…lose…you loser…loser…loser…LOSER.
I instantaneously snatch the paper off the counter and flick through it. One number stands out. I dial it. A woman with a heavy Ukrainian accent answers, introducing herself as Paulina. The distinct way she talks, highly guarded around certain type of questions, leaves no doubt—I’m dealing with the underworld again. I scribble the name of the checkpoint she gives me onto a piece of paper. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, and hang up.
Four in the afternoon the next day, I stand outside the coffee shop on Melrose in Beverly Hills.
Scaredy Cat: Walk away. I got the most terrible feeling about this.
A black 500 SE Mercedes pulls up. I see the tinted window of the front passenger seat roll down, revealing an attractive female with dark sunglasses behind the wheel. She signals me to approach.
Romy: Don’t go.
Scaredy Cat: You’ll be lost for good, if you get into that vehicle.
Tough Gal: Ja…it doesn’t strike me as a good idea…seriously.
The words manifest for a split second, but ricochet off of me the closer I get to Gate 666.
“There’s no parking anywhere. Hop on in,” the woman in the expensive-looking yellow designer dress spurs me on. I plunk down onto the soft tan leather seat on the passenger side and pull the Gate shut behind me. I admit Paulina looks awfully young for a madam. If I had to guess, I would say she isn’t much older than twenty-two. Her long copper hair hangs down straight, throwing a cork-like curl at the end of several strands. It charms her alabaster face, making her green cat-shaped eyes stand out even more. But despite the flawless beauty, I sense an immediate scrupulous dark energy emanating from her, especially now that she speaks with that breath of hell, the kind I witnessed in many other persons from the underworld before. The strange vibe makes the soft hairs on my arm stand up.
I want to escape but Whip Cracker’s nagging keeps me stuck to the seat. A noise behind me startles me. Out of the corner of my left eye, I notice the partition separate, revealing a man sitting in the backseat. I briefly look at him, but immediately turn my head back straight.
“Hello,” he says in a monotone type of voice. I return the greeting gesture without making eye contact.
“That’s my business partner,” Paulina informs me.
Scaredy Cat: Creeepppyyy.
The pair bombards me with questions; most of them, I can tell, are geared toward trying to find out whether I work undercover. I keep the dialogue at steady code six hundred sixty-six lingo. I sense them both relax quite a bit once I list some of my experience in the sex industry.
“Can you start this week?”
“Sure. I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know my availability.”
The meeting concludes. I exit the automobile and dash away. Severely haunted by the mental picture of an invisible hand snatching and dragging me back to hell for good, I spend the next five minutes hopping in and out of stores and alleys to clear my tracks. I safely reach my ride. I exhale.
Whip Cracker: You sign on for a shift with Paulina’s agency first thing tomorrow.
Okay, okay.
Morning comes. I pick up the receiver to tell the madam that I am coming on board. This moment, a barely noticeable almost angelic-sounding voice inside me whispers…DON’T. I am not clear what spurs me to entertain it, but I hang up the phone at once.
Whip Cracker: You’re gonna perish.
CHAPTER 22
The Upper Hand
The ache in my vaginal region instantly alludes to last night’s compulsive masturbatory activity. Eccchhh. I am not moving a finger today. Drowsily, I hibernate beneath the comforter, but the “committee” follows me ferociously. Now nearly everyone blathers in my ear at once.
Ragelina: The hell with men, relationships, and ‘Love.’ Let’s get fucked up!
Romy: I’ll take a dozen frosting-packed cupcakes in all colors, a super-sized pack of waffle cookies, and breadsticks for breakfast!
Lustania (demanding): Before anything…turn on the computer so I can surf the net for hard-core anal porn and other kinky shit.
Fantasia: Remember those bitchin’ photos in the men’s magazine when the two-bisexual chicks had sex with the male ‘blow-up doll’? That’ll make you come in no time.
Starlight: Damn…I must sign up for acting lessons—today. Before it’s really too late, and I’ll never get out of here.
Hot Shot: Five hours at the gym will make ya’ feel better, guaranteed.
Big Shot Mama: I say, marry someone in the limelight.
Scaredy Cat: What if all this is simply as good as it gets?
Whip Cracker: I keep telling you, your only salvation lies in becoming a porn star.
Avengelia: I think this all means I’m supposed to become a ‘Lesbian.’
Miss Vanity: Fake tits may not be such a bad investment after all, come to think of it, and Botox and collagen injections for the perfect upper lip…the kind men like. I think I’m finally ready.
Blushetta: And I’m ready for the convent.
Doubt Cloud: You really should kill yourself because you’re never gonna make it.
Everybody…for once…shhhuuut thhhe fuuuckkkk uuup.
It appears as if the walls are coming toward me at breakneck speed. Juiceless like a toy that ran out of battery power, I remain lying here waiting to be smashed momentarily. My ears tune in to the calming whisper voice in the back of my head that stresses something out there loves me and wants me to have a life. It strongly hints that I must change…today…right now—if I want to go on. With unheard of willingness, I jump out of bed and drop to my knees onto the beige worn carpet in the middle of the room. I sit back on my feet and lower my upper body to my legs, placing my forehead on the floor. Hands folded in front of me, I cry like a baby.
“Whoever is in charge up there…God Almighty, Higher Power, Greatest Force in the Universe…I don’t care. I’m tired of being sick and tired. I surrender. Please take over, and lift this merciless obsession with Ken. Show me, where you want me to go from here. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the
things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Amen.”
An hour goes by. The idea of visiting a location where those people get together that struggle with issues around fantasy, sex, romance, and more, behooves me. I show up at the target site several hours later. A woman that I noticed at another location a few times in the past is also present. Since she always struck me as friendly, I ask her if she’d agree to be my mentor. Luckily, she says yes.
My newly-acquired guide and I get together this evening and determine which behaviors I will from now on commit to abstain from. In other words, the things that constitute the type of activities that would make someone’s life utterly unmanageable if participated in again. The day writes October 19, 2001, the day that I willingly put the reins to my life into the hands of the highest force in the Universe, a force I know nothing about, a Higher Power that I for lack of long explanations, decide to refer to as “God.” As compliant as only the dying can be, I vow to adhere to the following principles:
No relationships with people that qualify for being unavailable, including guys that are married, engaged, separated, or otherwise, taken; men that are not entirely unencumbered and verily unable to be fully present for something new; and no relationships with people who make another substance their God
No sex unless I have entered a truly committed relationship
No answering or placing ads that connect with the underworld or are based on motives to either deal myself or use others as my drug
No relationships with the motive to benefit financially
No contacting Ken by means of driving by, calling, emailing, or sending letters, etc.
Two weeks go by. Today, my mentor starts me on the first writing assignment. It is said that if worked on diligently, those commonly assigned exercises will bring about remarkable changes to a person’s life. She further recommends that I refrain from dating until I finish a written inventory of the people, places and things I resent…that I stick with the women for a while.
Enviola: A bit of a stretch—but…okay.
We establish a basic routine that inspires me to greet each new day on my knees, turning my life and will over to this higher force out there that supposedly has my best interest at heart.
“Here I am…humble at your feet. I am yours, save me,” I recite this morning, continuing with “God, I offer myself to thee, to build with me and to do with me as Thou wilt. Relieve me of the bondage of self that I may better do Thy will. Take away my difficulties that victory over them may bear witness to those I would help of Thy power, Thy love and Thy way of life; may I do Thy will always. Amen.”
The concept that I no longer have to move this vehicle across the earth plane alone inflates me with hope. I often hear fellows in my groups mention that this so-called Higher Power has a reputation of being more powerful than anyone or anything in the solar system; that it can heal me if I truly seek it. “Sign me up.”
~~~
A new day arrives. By the onset of evening, the torment of withdrawing from old ways of coping is so great that I ask the upper hand to take me. My request being ignored, I eventually fall asleep two hours later only to awaken sweat-drenched from a nightmare at 2:00 a.m. My veins tingle with maddening tenacity, especially in my upper extremities. In an attempt to shake the irksome feeling, I sit on my hands for a minute or so, but no go. Fretfully, I pace from wall to wall. Ideas such as giving my hair a buzz cut right here in front of the mirror using the scissors that wink at me from atop the office desk, or jumping off the third floor balcony, or maybe even both, seek my approval.
The uselessness of returning to the pile of rubble I left behind trickles into my awareness again, instantly I coerce myself into picking up the telephone and speak with someone from my groups. Over the course of the next five minutes, I talk to a woman who dang well understands the severity of my affliction. It makes me feel better to a large degree, but once disconnected, the dragon of misery tackles me again.
Romy: If this stuff was working, then how come I still miss Ken more than ever?
“This too shall pass,” it says in one of the books I yank off the shelf. It sure needs to pass soon or else. On my knees again, I speak aloud every prayer I know, devour one more page of the soothing words inside the daily spiritual reader in my hands. Finally, the uproar wanes. A comfortable stillness takes over, and I eventually fall asleep. Phhhh.
On awakening this morning, I notice a new “committee” member amongst the clan…one with a familiar calming voice, just like the one who kept me out of trouble not too long ago. For lack of a better title, I name her Saint Franziska.
Franziska: It’s a good sign that you are able to acknowledge my presence now. After all, I tried for decades to get through to you.
From caring about people who suffer, to fishing insects out of swimming pools so they can dry off, I simply can’t get enough of Franziska’s kind and nurturing ways.
As the weeks carry on, and more and more data through diverse mediums finds me, Franziska acquaints me with the concept of Ahimsa, a Sanskrit term that relates to harmlessness, and non-injury. Avidly yearning to saturate my burdened soul with as many clean, decent vibrations as possible, I greedily imbibe all that comes in, keeping what is useful and ignoring the rest, gradually allowing myself to venture into veganism, a lifestyle I find serves as a perfect additional component on my journey. Every so often, I catch myself passing secret inner smiles, usually in the moments that make me realize that I do possess quite a bit of loveliness inside.
Several months go by. Another “committee” member, one presumed dead, pokes her head in today.
Pristina: Whew. This is scary, but hey…I am going to give it a shot. Looks like things are finally shaping up around here?
Franziska: Yeap. No more need to bail for exile. Everything’s gonna be just fine from now on.
Pristina: Got a lot of catching up to do. There is so much to learn.
Franziska: No worries, I’ll help ya.
Progress, Not Perfection
I am on my way back from my mentor’s house after several hours of reading to her and discussing my writing assignments. A bit drained yet otherwise in high spirits, I stop by one of the horse stables and take Casey, the enchanting gray Arabian gelding, out for a short trail ride. While galloping him down the sandy brush lined road, I discover Ken to the left of me as he strolls along on top a bay thoroughbred. The quite familiar pleasantly itchy feeling inside my stomach sets in again.
Romy: Aww…my Sweetie. I must talk to him.
Slowing down and pulling over to be side-by-side with him sounds like a very good idea.
Tough Gal: Do you really feel strong enough to deal with this right now? You worked so hard on getting where you are these days.
Memories of the past year’s unbearable pains permeate my jumbled head.
Franziska: If he is truly meant to be in your life, there will be nothing you can do or do wrong that would prevent you from being together, not even if you’d ignore him now. You will eventually be able to discern the gifts that God grants you for the keeping beyond any doubt. It certainly won’t feel like you are pushing a boulder up a hill 24/7.
Slightly relieved, I canter on, but not without uttering a rushed “Happy New Year.” Ken returns the well wishes.
“How come you won’t talk to me?” he hollers as I scurry forward.
“I’m kinda in a hurry. Sorry.”
Back at the barn, I feel that big, fat lump in my gut grow to enormous proportions.
Romy (crying): This business of giving my honey the silent treatment just doesn’t add up. It’s pure torture.
Franziska: I know, dear. You gotta stay strong, you hear?
Getting back to my house, a euphoric recall instantly provokes more of intense craving for Ken. I start bawling for the next twenty minutes. Somewhere in between, I pull one of the metaphysical books off the shelf and read. Still unable to shut up my head, I fall onto my knees and recite the Serenity Prayer…roughly tw
enty times in a row. I pick up another book and desperately glide my eyes across bits and pieces of promising words of wisdom and hope. My lids weigh ultra heavy the more I read. Eventually, I snooze off.
Later this month, I am approaching the entrance to the supermarket this afternoon. As I get closer, I see Ken about thirty feet away entering the store from the portal on the opposite end. Our eyes briefly meet, but once inside, I watch him walk off without making the slightest effort to seek me out.
Romy: Follow him. I must know if he still has feelings for me. My life depends on it.
I position myself next to him at the Deli Counter.
“Hi, Ken.”
He smiles. The rest of the store’s interior drops from my vision.
Romy: All I ever long to see, as far as I’m concerned, is right here in front of me.
“Can I treat you to a tea?” Ken offers as we approach the register together.
Tough Gal: Wake up…Hello…anybody home?
Romy: Don’t listen to her. If there’s one thing I am truly sure of, it is that Ken loves me.
Franziska: The truth always has a way of rising to the surface. We shall see.
“Let’s go,” I blurt out.
Ken and I stop by the coffee shop around the corner. He suggests bringing the beverages along and have a chat by his truck. We order and make our way over to his ride. My heart beats fast as I watch him positioning himself sideways on the driver’s seat, letting his feet dangle outside. We just ogle each other for a few seconds. My insides feel like I’m participating in a game of tug-of-war. I do know one thing though, I love him…still.
Romy: I’d give anything to be in his arms again.
“Can I have a hug?” he asks, pulling me closer without waiting for the answer. Feeling his heart beating as I wrap my arms around his neck sets off tidal waves of rapture inside me.
Dealing Flesh Page 26