A Day in the [very odd] Life, Pt. 2

5:00pm: Sign onto MFC for another “strip-me” countdown. Little tips here and there from a few regulars, but nothing major.

6:00pm: A user whose name I have never seen before spontaneously tips me 2500 tokens for a Skype show:

UserX: i’ll l you

UserX: doyou doskype

UserX: imon now, yu busy

In spite of the man’s 2^nd grade typing skills and somewhat impatient behavior, I agree.

6:15pm: Log onto Skype. The stranger’s webcam opens – all I see is utter darkness, and then, a scarcely illuminated face... a hand... a cigarette.

“So, what do you want to do?” I ask.

“Oh, just talk. Maybe fucking.”

The light turns on, revealing a muscular, dark-haired, and unexpectedly handsome man who couldn’t have been over 30. A white uniform and cap hang on a valet in the corner of the room. I soon learn that he is a psychiatrist in the Navy.

“This my one last hoorah on MFC before I begin my fall fast, which will end on Halloween,” he continued.

“Well, I’m honored,” I replied, a bit bewildered by his fast, “But why me, exactly?”

“Because you remind me of my anima.”

“Your enema?” I asked. Stranger things have been said.

“No, anima – the female expression of inner personality in our unconscious mind. Our selves are composed of female and male qualities. It’s amazing when you meet your anima – the sex is just fantastic, but relationships can be pretty rocky. Haven’t you read Jung?”

“No,” I muttered, mildly embarrassed, but more than anything, confused.

“Do you want me to read your cards?” he abruptly proposed.

“As in, tarot cards?” I asked, surprised to hear these words uttered from the mouth of a military psychiatrist –from the South, no less.

“Yeah!” he replied enthusiastically, “I was trained by a Master.” As he reaches over the bed for his deck of cards, I realize that the man is buck naked.

“Breathe deep, from your diaphragm. Feel your chest lift—1, 2, 3, 4, 5. And now, slowly exhale for 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Continue to breathe this way throughout the reading,” he coached me. He shuffles the deck and places five cards on the bed. One by one, he explains the meaning of each card.

“At the present,” he began, pointing to the Hanged Man card, “you feel like you are stuck and do not know where to go in life.”. My past, he explained, was driven by success, dedication, and perseverance. The “future” card seemed to represent some kind of feminine energy, which, when dealt to a female, portends abundance and openness. The foundation card was rooted in knowledge and intellectual pursuits. The theme card – I think it was The World – suggested accomplishment and fame.

“This is the most positive reading I’ve ever given!” he exclaimed.

How I wished that these cards, vague as they were, were true. Still, even I recognized that open-ended readings such as these merely permit us to interpret their messages through the filter of our own hopes and fears. But then again, isn’t that the nature of life itself?

“Let me go get some more vodka,” he said.

I don’t remember all of what happened next. We talked about antidepressants (he prescribes, I take), paganism, relationships, books. After telling him more about myself, he said, as plainly as someone might talk about their new toaster, “You are the most interesting person I have ever met.”

“What?”

“Really.”

While I know better than to put any stock in the words of tipsy, rambling men, our conversation engendered a strange aura of intimacy. Still clothed, I felt more exposed than ever, as though instead of my garments he had peeled away layers of an emotional callus – the one we all develop to protect ourselves from the world.

Our ninety minutes were nearing to an end.

“What do you really want in life?” he finally asked.

“I want to go to sleep and never wake up,” I answered accidentally, sheerly out of habit. 

“Never wake up?” inquired the naked psychiatrist.

“No, I mean, I’m just really, really tired and need to sleep for a long time,” I corrected myself. I am not suicidal as much as I am plagued by a self-destructive, fatalistic internal monologue that awakens when I become too relaxed.

“We didn’t end up fucking, sorry...” I  changed the subject. “Did you still want to?”

“Do you?” he asked.

I knew that I was in no mood to masturbate to this person onscreen. Rather, more than anything I wished that I were laying on his bed, feeling his strength hovering above me, smelling the warmth of his aftershave mixed with vodka and cigarettes. But, I reminded myself, that is not why I am here. That is not what I am doing. I am here to entertain this man because it is my job.

“Sure, let’s do it,” I replied quietly.

“Good!” he smiled, “I’ll send you some more tokens on MFC and then we can meet back here on Skype in 15.”