When I took baths as a child, I would create James Bond-type adventure movies right in the bathtub. I didn’t use toys. My hands were my toys. Each hand was a different character. My right hand was the “hero” and the other was the “villain.” These “movies” were action-packed. My hands would have have fist fights. They would swim during underwater battles. The soap dish was a mountain cliff in Hawaii, and when the right hand was trapped by the evil left hand, the hero would jump off the cliff into the “ocean” below. As the hero swam away, he make his final escape by boarding his super-powered motorboat, which was played by my Penis. There was nothing sexual in any of this. My hands and my Penis were actors in a studio blockbuster.
My Penis retired from acting for several years, then — like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction — he made a dramatic comeback when I started this blog. My conversations with my Penis in this blog are not a joke to me.Â I see them as true, as I do most of things that I write about on this blog.Â Â At times, they might take place in an alternative reality, one different than the one where I went to Mamma Mia with Sophia.
I’ve always had the habit of drifting off into fantasy. Maybe I should talk about this when I go into therapy. Do I use fantasy to escape from reality? Am I still stuck in a world where James Bond still lives in a bathtub in Flushing, New York, and uses my Penis as a motorboat?
When I was twelve, my mind would drift off at the dinner table while the adults talked. As they blabbed, I would imagine the entire table levitating That’s sort of cute. But it’s not adorable to do this as an adult.
In a few weeks, I’m supposed to be moving out of “Sophia’s place.” How am I dealing with this? Am I looking for a new apartment? Have a made a decision about living in NY or LA? No. I’m completely avoiding thinking about it. So, what AM I thinking about?
You already know. How long would it take me to sleep with 50 women in all 50 states?
As Sophia might say, “Like a child.”
One of my fears about therapy is that I will actually have to look at things IN REALITY, something I try to avoid at all costs, like watching Regis and Kelly .
Yesterday, I called up a clinic about going to therapy with one of their therapists. Today, some intern called up and wanted to interview me — on the phone — to learn more about me before I came in for a session.
She asked me all sort of personal questions.
“Do you feel anxious a lot?” she asked.
“Sometimes… uh, maybe… not all the time, but sure, when something is going on that causes anxiety…”
I was not prepared for her questions, certainly not by some faceless intern, who I visualized as a pretty twenty-something brunette with tortoise-shell glasses. I don’t want her to think I’m a loser!
“How is your sex life?” she asked. “Are you happy with your work?” What can you afford to pay?” Are you taking any medications? Have you ever been hospitalized for a psychiatric problem?”
“Uh… it is… uh… uh… no, of course no. Sex life? Well, we are separated, but…. Work? You mean real work? Are you supposed to like work? Sure, everyone can be happier. I’m happy enough? What do you mean about happy?”
Later, during dinner at the Cheesecake Factory, Sophia took me to task.
“Why didn’t you just answer her the truthfully?” she asked. “You shouldn’t go into therapy if you are going to lie to the therapist.”
“I didn’t lie. I wanted to tell her the real truth. I’m just not sure what the “real” truth is?”
“You’re not going to tell me about this childish alternative reality nonsense again? Do you want to do therapy or not?!”
“Well, of course I want to do therapy. It’s just… it’s…it’s…”
Suddenly, our table started to levitate, floating in the air at the Cheesecake Factory. Sophia was so astounded by this amazing event that we never did finish the rest of our conversation.
And that’s the truth.