“…in which strongly-felt ethical and altruistic impulses are perpetually warring with extreme sexual longings, often of a perverse nature. Acts of exhibitionism, voyeurism, fetishism, auto-eroticism…are plentiful.”

Recently, Tony has begun seeing a therapist. This is not in and of itself a bad thing. However, when you are using an assumed name and/or stolen identity it creates a few ethical dilemmas. Especially when you like to use the therapy sessions to test out material that you hope to deliver someday at cocktail parties. Overly-wrought memoir intended to shock people; or perhaps to gain their sympathy.

Tony thrives on ethical dilemmas. This is what he told me about today’s session:

“It’s so funny because she has to appear so interested in what I say while she tries to find the thematic elements that connect my stories. If only she realized that so much of it has to do with the fact that I just really like talking about myself and it is just easy to talk about sex.

So, like I was saying earlier she was really hung up on trying to deconstruct my need to always dress up. If I had a dollar for every time I heard her say, ‘So I see you wore your tuxedo again. Interesting…’ Today’s theory was about how I craved attention and validation from the world. That I’m trying to compensate for some ego-slip or insecurity. And somehow compliments and sexual gratification from others help me feel more at ease with myself. I threw her a curve, though, and told her about all of the self-gratification in my life.”

At this point in the conversation Tony could have cared less whether or not I was paying attention and did not pause for any comment or remark that I might make. In fact, he walked out of the room, drowning in the delirium of memory and talking out loud.

“I still remember how obsessed I was with touching myself. It was actually easier than dealing with others because I was horribly insecure about my body and prowess. So my fantasy life just exploded. That and my reading of medical texts and books about puberty to learn more techniques.

My favorite was the pillow. I actually learned about this from some boys at camp who were making fun of another fellow for ‘humping’ his bed. I couldn’t figure out what they meant so I just tried many variations until I came up with my own that seemed to work. Now, I suppose in the beginning I thought of this as practice for when I was finally old enough to be with another man. But all of my joy from this lonely play eventually eclipsed my desire to incorporate anyone else.

I wonder if it would have been different if I had actually engaged in the normal exploratory group-play that was described in these books I was reading. Apparently boys spend a lot of time doing this sort of thing to each other. But alas, I lived alone in Lonesome Town and I never learned to forget.

So this all culminated in a late-night walk on my parent’s farm. Well, I guess late-night walk makes it sound innocent, and it wasn’t at all. I had been in my room reading something spicy and became overwhelmed with the need to procreate. Or, another way of putting it would be to say that I was tired of the pillow. So out into the night I fled.

It had rained all day so the ground was moist. Muddy. Pliant enough for me to muck out a hole in the earth. It was out by the barn where we used to build fires. I dug my hole and in it I lay. Lay with my own mother. Mother earth that is.

This sloppy event would have simply been another example of me spending too much time alone if I hadn’t gone back up to my room and described it in detail in my journal. And writing about it in my journal could have simply been an excuse for some bad metaphors and an embarassing future read if I had left it at that. Instead I ripped out those intimate pages and mailed them to my friend in England. Why? Not sure. It was an impulse and a strong one that I couldn’t deny.

The end result was akin to a wet dream. My friend wrote me back and told me that all of the confessions and revelations I had written and sent had had a profound effect on her and that I had a great gift for weaving words. She thanked me again and again for allowing her ‘to read such important things.’

From then on I’ve had an insatiable desire to tell my stories. I also started wearing this tuxedo, you know, to complete the image. Not that it is related in the slightest so don’t get any ideas!”