Sunday, August 12, 2007
That 70's Day
I suppose it isn't such an original observation anymore, when noting the hypocrisy and just plain weirdness that lurks behind America's white picket fence. Soccer moms who run chic escort agencies on the side, white collar dads who stop off for a quickie at the truck stop with a trucker and of course the Valium stealing teenagers that lead double lives almost as complicated as those of their parents.
On my fourth session, I found myself traveling up the lit walk way of a lovingly tended lawn, complete with a Volvo station wagon in the driveway. The lay out had the flatness of a Monopoly game and the house looked like a game piece. The bark brown sprawling ranch home reminded me of a 70's middle school. Before school shootings took root in our popular culture. You know. During a more innocent time of key swapping, swinger parties.
The man that answered the door ( the chimes rang to the obligatory and dreary tune of Big Ben)blended seamlessly into the avocado green & harvest gold tones of his plaid home. He had a beard & it wasn't one of those little, frenchified, self conscious chin patches. This was an honest to god, tied dyed & color me blue sort of beard. The kind that food gets caught in and the possessor never seems to notice. Well...it wasn't like I was going to kiss him. He was a divorced and week end dad. I could tell he was lonely.
His name was Chuck and his little peccadillo was to have needles, push pins to be exact, driven right through his man nipples. The long ones. He supplied our session with his own (Later, he gave me a plump, red pin cushion as a memento. I still use it to this day.)preferred brand.
He had e-mailed me a rather scripted request. I was to wear a nurses outfit with white platform shoes. Now if you recall, I was just starting out and there was no way that I was going to drop about three hundred dollars on an outfit for a POTENTIAL client. So instead, I put together an ensemble that I thought had a certain elan of its own. I wore white cotton boy shorts and a matching sheer & severe bra. Luckily due to Boris's earlier generosity, I was also sporting a gleaming pair of white, opaque stockings. I borrowed a pair of white go-go boots from my manic, club kid neighbor down the hall. Off the net, I bought blue hospital scrubs, a jaunty paper nurses hat & long see through plastic gloves. It came to a whopping investment of $14.99. Over it all, I had worn my trusty trench coat. I pulled my hair in a high, harem girl pony tail and put on a dash of shiny, space age pink lipstick. Bye, Bye Miss American Pie.
Chuck had thoughtfully laid a clean sheet on the floor of his living room and piled the plaid sofa cushions in careless heaps. It looked like a child's sleep over and he had put out a bowl of noxious, orange cheese puffs. Which I adore above all things. He had me at the Cheetos. As I came to know Chuck, I found that he was a great aficionado of jazz. He helped flesh out my collection with obscure performers like Georgie Fame, Kimiko Kasai and Bud Shank. He played a vinyl record of a performer called Professor Soul. We cracked open a Heineken and got down to business.
He stretched himself out on the sheet, wearing only his
tidy whiteys. When I had removed my trench coat, I saw a flicker of disappointment in his kind, baggy brown eyes. I knew he was expecting a nurses outfit. I slowly untied my scrubs and let it drop to the floor. My little sail boat of a nurses hat, was pinned at a coquettish angle. I pulled on the elbow length, plastic gloves with my teeth as I smiled at him side ways. His face suddenly flared with enthusiasm and he laid himself out on the sheet. He crossed his arms gently across his stomach and waited patiently. He knew I was a virgin to this.
I pinched one of the long pins between my suddenly nerveless fingers and knelt before him like a sadistic Geisha.
I suppose it isn't such an original observation anymore, when noting the hypocrisy and just plain weirdness that lurks behind America's white picket fence. Soccer moms who run chic escort agencies on the side, white collar dads who stop off for a quickie at the truck stop with a trucker and of course the Valium stealing teenagers that lead double lives almost as complicated as those of their parents.
On my fourth session, I found myself traveling up the lit walk way of a lovingly tended lawn, complete with a Volvo station wagon in the driveway. The lay out had the flatness of a Monopoly game and the house looked like a game piece. The bark brown sprawling ranch home reminded me of a 70's middle school. Before school shootings took root in our popular culture. You know. During a more innocent time of key swapping, swinger parties.
The man that answered the door ( the chimes rang to the obligatory and dreary tune of Big Ben)blended seamlessly into the avocado green & harvest gold tones of his plaid home. He had a beard & it wasn't one of those little, frenchified, self conscious chin patches. This was an honest to god, tied dyed & color me blue sort of beard. The kind that food gets caught in and the possessor never seems to notice. Well...it wasn't like I was going to kiss him. He was a divorced and week end dad. I could tell he was lonely.
His name was Chuck and his little peccadillo was to have needles, push pins to be exact, driven right through his man nipples. The long ones. He supplied our session with his own (Later, he gave me a plump, red pin cushion as a memento. I still use it to this day.)preferred brand.
He had e-mailed me a rather scripted request. I was to wear a nurses outfit with white platform shoes. Now if you recall, I was just starting out and there was no way that I was going to drop about three hundred dollars on an outfit for a POTENTIAL client. So instead, I put together an ensemble that I thought had a certain elan of its own. I wore white cotton boy shorts and a matching sheer & severe bra. Luckily due to Boris's earlier generosity, I was also sporting a gleaming pair of white, opaque stockings. I borrowed a pair of white go-go boots from my manic, club kid neighbor down the hall. Off the net, I bought blue hospital scrubs, a jaunty paper nurses hat & long see through plastic gloves. It came to a whopping investment of $14.99. Over it all, I had worn my trusty trench coat. I pulled my hair in a high, harem girl pony tail and put on a dash of shiny, space age pink lipstick. Bye, Bye Miss American Pie.
Chuck had thoughtfully laid a clean sheet on the floor of his living room and piled the plaid sofa cushions in careless heaps. It looked like a child's sleep over and he had put out a bowl of noxious, orange cheese puffs. Which I adore above all things. He had me at the Cheetos. As I came to know Chuck, I found that he was a great aficionado of jazz. He helped flesh out my collection with obscure performers like Georgie Fame, Kimiko Kasai and Bud Shank. He played a vinyl record of a performer called Professor Soul. We cracked open a Heineken and got down to business.
He stretched himself out on the sheet, wearing only his
tidy whiteys. When I had removed my trench coat, I saw a flicker of disappointment in his kind, baggy brown eyes. I knew he was expecting a nurses outfit. I slowly untied my scrubs and let it drop to the floor. My little sail boat of a nurses hat, was pinned at a coquettish angle. I pulled on the elbow length, plastic gloves with my teeth as I smiled at him side ways. His face suddenly flared with enthusiasm and he laid himself out on the sheet. He crossed his arms gently across his stomach and waited patiently. He knew I was a virgin to this.
I pinched one of the long pins between my suddenly nerveless fingers and knelt before him like a sadistic Geisha.
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