Takes all Kinds

 

 

She was the tiniest whore I ever fucked. Hard to tell how old she was. Out there you never know with all the makeup and dim lighting — caked up and standing in the shadows you find them. And even when they’re indoors delivering the goods you can’t always be sure. I’ve done 60-year-olds who passed for 30 when you saw them out there on the street. Conscientious workers nevertheless. Performed like 30-year-olds. Of course you would have to at that age if you wanted to stay in business. But, as I was saying, you can never be certain, and I have, no doubt, made some dodgy calls at the lower end of the scale. Not intentionally, for Christ’s sake — I am not into that sort of thing. I’m just assuming that through the years they haven’t all, technically speaking, qualified as bona fide consenting adults.

Dr. Russo?

No, I don’t think that’s good. I take pride in setting high moral standards, and besides, I have kids of my own. But really? Should all the responsibility be on my shoulders when it’s so easy to be duped — specially if you’re in a rush? I believe that there should be some sort of control, some sort of authority who steps up to the plate in these matters. In Germany they have licenses, and check-ups and so on, and they are generally more organized over there.

Dr. Russo?

Anyhow, this one was no teenager. Could have been in her thirties or even forties for all I know. She was just so, so tiny. When she took off her heels I almost backed out. She wasn’t technically a dwarf — which would be under four foot ten as we learned in med school — but close to that. Certainly not a case of Achondroplasia. She had nice proportions — only miniaturized. Anyway, I’m not griping. She did her job all right. Kept up her end of the bargain and at the end of the day that’s what counts.

There is a limit, you know. There is a limit to how much a person can take. The lies. The cheating.

She was from Eastern Europe. They’re primitive peoples, the East Europeans. Materialistic as all get out. Kill their mothers for a Goddamn Lana Marks handbag or some Gucci crap. That’s what communism did for them. But at her height, let’s be honest, she picked the wrong profession. Whores shouldn’t be that tiny.

I don’t care if they’re taller than me — within limits, of course. And the tall ones do seem to do well. I once did a six-foot-fiver. I had to check first if she wasn’t a man. Asked to feel her crotch before I made the deal. None of that Bois de Boulogne kinky stuff for me, thank you. She was cool with that. A pro.

Dr. Russo, i am here against my will. I didn’t ask for this. We need to get on with our own separate lives. Separately! Separated!

She might have been a basketball player. They do have professional women’s basketball now, you know. Got their own league. Maybe she did play basketball. I didn’t ask. I’m not there for the conversation.

My job doesn’t pay me to take time off for this.

For a man in basketball, six-foot-five is short. It’s a regular freak show — basketball. If it weren’t for basketball all those guys would just be side-attractions in a circus. Those Chinese guys . . . like, Yau Mau or Sun Ming Wing or whatever their names are? And they breed them that way. Did you know that? Where will it end?

Really? Since when did you have a paying job?

I’ve never had Chinese— not that I know of. I’ve had Vietnamese, and Nigerians, and Japs and Thais. Lots of the latter. I was in Pattaya for two weeks once. One week would have been plenty! You’ve got to have stamina for a stint like that. But I don’t think I’ve missed out on that much not having had Chinese. You’ll find the same basic routines and equipment wherever you go. The world’s a lot more homogeneous than most people realize. Like they say over there: Same-Same.

Why are you so aggressive?

Ah ha, who is calling who aggressive?

Same-Same. I’ve been doing couples counseling now for over 20 years and I can tell you a thing or two about same-same. Same-same bullshit day after day. Same-same jealousy, deception, avarice, envy. Like these two in here right now. And they think they’re unique. They think they’re special.

The right term is compulsively abusive.

Total crap. That’s all you can come up with?

The Chinese speak lousy English, not that it would matter. If I haven’t already made it clear — you’re not there for the chitchat. One of the worst things that can happen is doing one who can’t keep her flapper shut. Like that Las Vegas hooker who wanted to talk politics the whole time? Kept jabbering away. Said I should vote for McCain ’cause he’d been tortured. Would never stop. I mean, like, who was being tortured? That evening should qualify me for some political office.

Screw you!

I have to listen to a lot more than my fair share of self-serving blabber as it is. It’s the downside of my job. But at least then I’m the one getting paid. I’ve learned how to handle it, though. I’ve got my Moleskine notepad. I’ve got the Montblanc Meisterstück Laura gave me on our 30th. From the clients’ end of the table, it might look like I’m taking notes — transcribing their failure as coexisting humans, while actually I’m spending my time profitably, recollecting and writing down those succulent little moments that make life interesting. Like doing that tiny ‘midget’ from Poland.

He is totally not the man i thought i married, doctor. The man i married was thoughtful and considerate. The man i married cared for me.

Incidentally, the correct term for people with growth deficiencies is ‘dwarf’, not ‘midget’. Midgets are these two self-righteous misfortunates sitting across the table from me now. These are mental midgets who, one can assume, kept themselves consistently plastered while dating, and high on who knows what hallucinogenic when deciding, against all logic and reason to — why not, what the heck — tie the knot.

We are talking about hell — basically from day one, doctor. And we are talking about some financial maneuvers bordering on embezzlement.

So totally not true. All of it. A result of your pathological paranoia.

Asshole

Shitface

You’re so fucked

At this point I must intervene and remind my clients that indecent language will not be tolerated in my sessions. Unless we keep a civil tone and show courtesy and respect towards each other we won’t get anywhere. I ask them to behave like grownups.

That is asking a lot of her, doctor. When we first met she came on like she was an intellectual. Claimed to love music and art and the classics. Now her life is just facebook and twitter and those other . . . Whatever they’re called .

Let’s talk about this. Let’s talk about who made me do my breasts and then afterwards said it had to come out of my savings. Let’s talk about that, chuck.

That’s a lie. The breast implants were your idea.

You’re the lie, you’re just one big lie . . .

Breast implants? I once had a guy in here who told me that his wife had deceived him: She hadn’t let on that her tits weren’t “real” and he hadn’t discovered that until after they were married.

So, like, what in the fuck does that matter? What is he complaining about? He couldn’t tell the difference until he saw the scars? So what? Not real? Blubber or silicone — why should he care? What does that tell us about men? It’s this sort of crap that made me a feminist.

You’re worse than ridiculous.

Listen up! We men go around all day with our doodangles totally concealed. Little porky-dorky weenies or bilge pumps — or what the hell, we could have a tarantula in there — no one’s gonna know. Tinker toys or boas — it’s our secret. Get it? Men never have to compete publicly with their dicks. Women, on the other hand, are expected to strut their stuff and exhibit the goods 24/7. Females are not only forced to struggle against what time does to all of us, they must always be in competition with each other to boot, while we guys can just sit back and enjoy the show. Those muslim ladies wrapping themselves up like mummies are not as dumb as we think.

Dr Russo? Dr Russo, are you listening to what i’ve been telling you? This is all such a waste of everyone’s time.

And so here we have this dude who falls for his woman’s XXL jugs and though he can’t see or feel the difference between the blessings of science and the fruits of nature, when they finally get around to doing it with the lights on, he notices some scars and feels cheated. Makes me ashamed to be a man. Makes me wanna puke.

Why don’t you tell the doctor what it’s really about, chuck? Why don’t you tell him about that cocktail waitress . . . Or that girl in lucky’s . . . Or why not melissa . . . My, so disgusting, best friend.

And while I’m on the subject, let me just say that nothing is more overrated than big melons. As a matter of fact, the whores with the whoppers — and remember this is coming from a guy who should know what he’s talking about — tend for the most part to be lazy and complacent. They think just ’cause they got those water balloon knockers they don’t have to put in any effort — just slap those mobys on you and pocket your dough. Take a tip from Dr. Russo: The smaller the breasts, the more sensuous the woman. That’s right. That’s the bottom line.

Like Yolanda in Tahiti. She couldn’t have filled an A-cup, but, oh boy, was she dynamite. Sweet little almond joys she had. On principle I don’t do repeats. As a happily married man I’m not looking for relationships. But if I ever was tempted to do reruns, Yolanda would be right up there at the top of my list. She claimed to be the great granddaughter of Paul Gauguin. Who knows? But she was one hell of an artist in her own right. Of course it’s not everyday you find yourself in Tahiti.

That is so totally crap. What this all comes down to is the money, and the house, the cars . . . These are issues for lawyers— not therapists.

Such sorry sods. Does their marriage sound like a lost cause to you? You think? Perhaps, but it’s not for nothing that I get the lion’s share of court-mandated couples counseling in this city. Take a guess on who’s got the highest rate of ‘saved’ marriages in the state — or make that the entire midwest? That’s right, you nailed it — your humble servant, Dr. Benjamin Russo, M-D.,Psy.D.,Ph.D, You can Google that if you like.

Dr Russo? Dr Russo, are you listening to this? Do you hear how so obviously there is no point in going through with these sessions. Can’t we just tell the court that we went to you for the stipulated time and that nothing came from it.

I patiently explain that I am being asked to break the law, which I simply will not do. Their failure to attend court-mandated therapy would put them in contempt and net them substantial fines. Besides, they might just be in for a surprise, these two. I’m a winner, you know. I’ve got the knack —an uncanny knack. It’s not on account of my medical degree. It’s not because I did my psychology studies under that old fart Mahoney (he is so overrated). It’s because I was born with a gift.

Such bullshit.

I’ll do my best to make sure these two stay together. And I rarely fail. They deserve each other. And face it, they wouldn’t do any better a second time around. New partners — new squabbles. I’ll let them talk it off for a few sessions. Get the venom out of their systems. Let them complain and bitch until they’re totally bored with their own garbage. And then I’ll put in the fix. Doctor Russo will prevail. Oh-oh. They’re back at it.

Grandstanding narcissist.

Pathological liar.

Sanctimonious, arrogant bastard.

Session’s ending. Time to get these people out of here. First, I sell them a copy of my book, “The Perfect Match: Love and marriage in the 21st Century” — two copies, because at the moment they’re not capable of sharing things. I put it on their bill. And now for some parting advice:

Alright, our first session is over. I want you two to go home and think. I want you to think hard. I want you to search your hearts. Search your souls. For just a few moments, put aside the negative, the critical, the debilitating. Put aside the ill-will, drudge, and disappointment and think instead about what brought you together in the first place — the magic that once attracted you to each other. Recall those qualities. Those qualities that made your lives spent together more rich and fulfilled than your lives lived separately.

But, dr. Russo—

No, now it’s your turn to listen to me. Lift yourselves up, Allison and Chuck. Get out of the mud. Steer your course above the storm, above and beyond the squabbles and trivialities that are plaguing you at this moment, poisoning your minds, polluting your sense of reason. Remind yourselves of the good times, the joy and satisfaction, the fulfillment and pleasure you’ve shared. Together. As a team!  Look for the love that, deep inside, you both know still lingers on—still aglow somewhere, yet for now hidden by your frustration, smothered by your anger. Do that for me, Allison and Chuck, and I’ll see you here again at the same time next week.

 

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