therapy notes, part two

I guess it's time I started to address The Bastard and my issues surrounding him. That's what my court ordered therapist, the prick, told me again this afternoon. Of course I don't agree with him. I seldom do, but then again he is my court ordered therapist, the prick. Subsequently he reports to the judge on my "monthly progress" from our sessions.

My court ordered therapist, the prick, holds my fate in his hands. I need to play the game. If I don't play the game, he'll tell the judge I'm not playing along. The judge has told me in no uncertain terms that he'll make sure I have adequate time to sit and think about my behavior if I don't work and play well with others, and yes, it will go on my permanent record. This whole situation makes me feel like, like a fucking little kid again, in a world where the grown-ups have all the power.

Mostly I just sit in these sessions and smile and nod and play along and quietly fantasize about banging his receptionist. Man, is she ever a looker. I am quite certain my court ordered therapist, the prick, spends most of my sessions fantasizing about doing the same thing.

How do I know he shares my fantasies? Well for starters, she's fucking hot. He may be balding, squatty, poorly dressed, reek of cheap cologne and cheaper cigars, but he's still a man.

And well, I've learned a thing or two about human nature. I've had to. I may have been born single, filthy rich, and insanely attractive, but you don't stay that way unless you're smarter than all the idiots in this ruthless world trying to scam a piece of your pie.

My father, The Bastard, despite his best efforts to follow in his own father's meglomaniacal philandering footsteps, managed to teach me a thing or two. Somehow a couple of moments of almost half-way decent parenting makes his faults and failure as a father seem all the more tragic.

"Eyes don't lie."

"People lie with what they say. How they say it never lies."

Damn that court ordered therapist, the prick. He's putting my father's voice inside my head.

The prick wants her, I know he does. I can see it in the way his eyes leap to her chair behind the reception desk when he first opens the door and steps out of his office. I can hear it in the subtly salacious way he speaks her name when he talks to her.

The difference between him and me is that he doesn't have a fucking prayer. As for me, well. . .

There is another little piece of advice my father, The Bastard, once shared with me. I find it very handy in many life situations:

"Arrive early. Chat up the receptionist."

He initially meant it as business advice. It was a way to better know your opponent while negotiating a deal. The receptionist knows her Boss. She knows her Boss's likes and dislikes. She knows her Boss's schedule. The receptionist knows her Boss's secrets. In business as well as life, knowledge is power.

He also used it as a way to score some extra tail. He still does, The Bastard.

Let's just say that's one of the ways I too am following in my father's footsteps. I always arrive 10 - 15 minutes early to my appointments with my court ordered therapist, the prick. I chat up the receptionist. I talk to her like she is a person. I talk to her like I care. Yeah right, like I care.

She's tells me she's 29, but they always say they're 29. I'm fairly certain she's off by a couple of years. She's a single mother with a seven-year old daughter. Her ex-husband is a maintenance man at a local apartment complex. Of course he's behind on the child support. They got divorced about four years ago after she found out he was maintaining slightly more than the resident's apartments. What a stupid fool to let such a hot piece slip through his fingers. Ah, I guess it's true what they say, "no matter how fine she is, somebody somewhere is sick of her shit."

After the divorce she had to drop out of college, she was a sociology major, and took this full-time job to support herself and her kid. She plans on going back and finishing someday. She likes her job okay, but isn't really fond of the prick. She sees the way he sometimes leers at her.

I know I shouldn't have done it. I realize that I am potentially acting against my own best interest. I may have just unduely complicated my life. That just made the temptation all the greater. I have a long history of doing the wrong things for the wrong reasons.

But I am my father's, The Bastard, son.

From chatting her up I learned that her daughter spends Tuesday nights at Grandma's apartment so that she can get a night of respite. She most always goes to happy hour with some of the other girls from her pilates class.

I "accidentally" bumped into her while she was hanging out at the bar at a trendy Tex-Mex restaurant. I hung out for a while, flashing my platinum cards and buying rounds of 'ritas for her and her friends. I offered her dinner and we went to some cheezy local joint that's barely a step above Chili's or Carraba's or one of those other painful franchises that pollute suburban freeway frontage roads.

After that, a couple more drinks in a corner booth of a yuppie martini bar. Ah, alcohol, the great "no" inhibitor.

From there it was short work to talk her into sneaking into the office and doing it on the chair my court ordered therapist, the prick, sits in while he subdivides and analyzes my life.