“Look, we should probably go,” Sconce finally stated after a few moments of awkward silence. He then looked squarely at me. “Oh, and you owe me three dollars, by the way.”
“What the hell for?”
“For your part of the tip.”
“The tip? What the hell? You’re tipping that guy three bucks to bring over our hamburgers and be late with my swigs? I had to ask him four times to give me a refill.”
Sconce scoffed. “No, I’m not tipping him just three dollars. I already gave him nine dollars and three of that is yours. We each paid three dollars for the tip.”
“I didn’t pay him shit,” I asserted.
“I know,” Sconce said. “I paid him for you since there was a combined bill. Now you owe me your share.”
“Dude, our bill wasn’t even twenty-five bucks and you tipped that gimp nine dollars?”
“That’s right. He was a good guy. He seemed nice. Do you know what waiters make?”
“I don’t give a greasy shit what they make! If they don’t like the wages, they can go get another job. Look, man, let me explain something to you. Generally speaking, I don’t tip a motherfucking dime. But, when and if I do, two conditions must apply. First, the service best be above and beyond the norm. That means, whoever my server is, they best be Johnny on the Spot with my swigs. If I have to ask for refills and whatnot, no tip. Second, my server best be a female and she better be cute—preferably with large cones. If she’s not hot, I’m not tipping. Our server was a dude. And he sucked balls. I had to ask for refills. That means, I ain’t paying you or him dick.”
“You owe me three dollars,” Sconce maintained. “I already tipped him.”
“Yeah, that’s right. You already tipped him. I didn’t. You assumed that I would agree with your bullshit tipping philosophy and I don’t. Your mistake, pal. Take your three bucks and go buy yourself another good book to read back at the hostel.” I stood up from the table. “Now, if you homos will excuse me, I’m going to go clubbing. While you two are holding hands with the Aussie bastards and enjoying your faggot reading material, I’m gonna go bury my face into some of New England’s finest titties.” I abruptly turned and strolled out of the eating establishment, leaving the two wet rags moping in their mediocrity.
II.
The anticlimatic trip to Boston with my counselor coworker deterred me from socializing any further with him or any of his psychobabble-spewing ilk. I learned that in order to associate with more normal persons, I would have to look outside of my clinical department of fellow mental health providers and become better acquainted with those who were not counselors. The support staff who worked in the housing units at the treatment facility were comprised of a diversity of everyday folks who, for the most part, were far more stable than the other treatment facilitators whom I shared an office with. Over time, I was fortunate enough to meet and befriend a group of guys who were complete bad asses. Cheeseburger was an enlarged, jolly fellow who brought with him to work a pleasant attitude for the patients and a healthy appetite for the cafeteria. Harley was a well-respected staff member who always treated others with dignity, had solid integrity, and a tragic flaw of being thoroughly honest at all times. One of the staff supervisors, Fleas, had a sense of life that I found endearing. He would come to work on his days off to scarf the free food in the cafeteria, readily steal office supplies for his own personal use at home, and slept in his office overnight when he had fights with his tweaker wife. As such, Fleas was and still is a great friend of mine.
Training conferences were a regular part of my career as a treatment facilitator. Oftentimes these conferences were scheduled out of state in distant cities that were far from my workplace. During the early years of my employment, I was sent to the far regions of the country to acquire various continuing education units that were pertinent to my job duties. Occasionally, some of the support staff would accompany the clinical personnel to these training conferences. It was during one such traveling experience that I first became acquainted with Fleas while en route to Kansas City. Prior to embarking upon our several-hour road trip across the Great Plains, I had to complete one last session for the week. The final patient to receive my miraculous treatment interventions on that late Friday afternoon was a chronic masturbator who was plagued with bizarre fantasies and correspondingly disgusting behavior.
~*~*~*~*~*~
FANTASIES OF THE QUEER
KEATON ALBERTSON: I’ve read the physician’s report and there doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with your urethra. Are you sure that you told the doctor the full extent of your symptoms?
PHALLUS FAIRY: Well, yeah, but he should have been able to tell that something’s wrong. I have to piss while standing to the side for god’s sake. My dick is crooked!
KEATON: [soft chuckle] What do you mean? You can’t hold your penis straight?
FAIRY: I have to! If I didn’t, I would piss all over myself, and the wall, and whoever else was standing next to me.
KEATON: Right, well, I’m not a medical doctor but from what you’re telling me it sounds as though you have something wrong with your shaft, not your urethra. But if you can urinate without pain or discomfort and if you do not have any accidents throughout the day or night, what is the problem?
FAIRY: My dick is crooked! It looks like a big fish hook! [gestures with index finger to make curved shape]
KEATON: It’s crooked all the time, permanently?
FAIRY: Well, it bends a little off to the side when nothing is going on but when I get an erection it’s way out there.
KEATON: That would explain why the physician didn’t take note of it then. There is no mention in the report of disfigurement.
FAIRY: What am I supposed to do? I can’t walk in there with a stiffy. “Hey, doc, check out my cock! I got a hard on for you to rub down.”
KEATON: Good point. You would have to have an erection for him to notice the “fish hook” as you called it. I could see how that would be a little unnerving to be aroused while the urologist was examining your penis.
FAIRY: Well, he was pretty hot. But I don’t even know why I think that. He’s a sand nigger. I’ve never liked those little guys before. I can’t even understand what they’re saying. And they’re all hairy and shit.
KEATON: I was going to ask you about that.
FAIRY: About what—I didn’t do anything with the doctor. We were in a public place!
KEATON: I realize that. Staff were present the whole time and they reported that you were appropriate for a change. What I meant was your fantasy experiences after you left the appointment.
FAIRY: [smiles briefly then shakes head] No. I didn’t picture him naked or anything. Eeew.
KEATON: You had another man touch your penis. You’ve fantasized over situations much more perverse and strange than that.
FAIRY: Well maybe a little bit. But I got it out of my head really quick.
KEATON: Why? What is it about thinking of your doctor in a sexual way that is disgusting to you?
FAIRY: It’s not really disgusting. It’s just gross. I mean… he’s my doctor.
KEATON: Yes, he is. And I’m not saying that fantasizing about your urologist is appropriate or healthy. But I’m curious as to how you