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Finally, I know what may help, but it is not flying, chasing her down, or confronting her. I need to fix me.
I message the NYC shrink that I used back in the day. I try to word the request with grace, but it is hard. I erase my overly complicated message, and I simply ask her for an early morning session.
It has been five years since I’ve discussed my situation, and how fucked up I am.
She is the only person I’ve ever opened up to, and I have no idea if my abandonment issues are textbook, or far from it.
Last time, we worked out my intense craving for being with women, was not sex addiction. It was more a quest for validation.
Even if I would never let women into my heart, I wanted to be valued. It took another year, before I finally learned to control myself. I had basically become hooked on sex and fucking.
I got so used to fucking, it was almost all I did, every evening.
My desperation to be loved sickens me, now that I know what it is. I am disgusted. Angry. And ashamed. I am no good to anyone.
As I pace, I realize I need someone to talk to.
For some reason my dragon tattoo itches again, and I remove my white shirt. I rub my back, and tattoo against the stone eagle statue and I calm.
I then close my eyes as the memories flash. The pain. The torture. The tears, and the blood.
Alfred drivesme downtown the next day. I rarely work in my company’s office, and I prefer my penthouse. In saying that, being alone at home feels wrong.
As I read legal documents for the movie deals, we weave through NYC traffic. We are not travelling far, but the traffic is a bastard.
I catch Alfred looking at me a few times. I love the guy, but I am in no mood for a lecture. I know I’ve done wrong, because I’m broken. The last thing I want, is an argument.
Even if a heated debate may release some of my toxic energy, I need to stay away from that kind of thing. The old man is a gentleman.
“She came back, and asked me to take her to the airport,” he says in his elegant accent.
“You did the right thing.”
“She’s a good woman,” he says.
“She is,” I say. “Just too good for me.”
We drive in silence, and he looks in the rear vision mirror. “You’re too hard on yourself.”
We share a look, and it is bold of him. “Well, you just gave yourself a raise.”
We both laugh, and it’s good to let some energy loose. It is the most we have bonded in a year, and it is healthy.
42
LORENZO
I sit in the pristine uncluttered space, and I start the thousand-dollar session with my psychologist. After some delicate small talk, which neither of us is clearly here for, she asks why I feel I needed to come.
I do not mince words, and I call it what it is. I explain my weird quest in my twenties, to be wanted by so many women, was under control.
Also, the byproduct of that, and my sexual cravings, is under control.
I tell her, I no longer have to claim a different woman, each night, to feel like I am worthy.
I explain I still enjoy making women come, but I do not get into anything too kinky. I then tell her, the kicker. That I metthe one, and that there is only one woman for me.
My psychologist is surprised, delighted and happy. As we talk, the conversation seems to flow.
