After our 480th session came to a close at the end of the first day, I decided to go out on the town to see what kind of effect my newly gleaned insights had on my relationships with the local Tiffanys. I had to get out of the frying pan and into the fire, as it were, and The Gringo was probably the best place to start.
The acquisition of knowledge can be a double-edged sword. As I walked through the lobby of the hotel, I found that my view of the world had changed. I was painfully aware that looking for Tiffanys had become a job, and that my mind, and heart, was hopelessly preoccupied with China.
I had been a good student at Columbia and always got my assignments in on time. If my reason for coming to Rio was to fuck as many prostitutes as possible, I was going to do my homework and turn in the term paper, or in this case give the oral report. But my heart wasn’t in it. My face wasn’t hot and I didn’t experience skin respiration when I thought of Tiffanys.
I was like a ghost walking through the lobby. I didn’t even stop at the concierge desk to speak to Adolphe. Soon enough, I was filled with still more trepidation. There are many rough barrios in Rio, and I’d heard that there were some occasions when sex tourists were susceptible to being mugged — for example, when they got stinking drunk in the Copa and someone slipped them a Mickey and rolled them. More commonly, their minds were so consumed with desire they were unaware of dangerous characters who leaped out of doorways with machetes and lopped off their protruding sex organs. The more passionate they were, the more likely they were to be relieved of their money-clip or even their penis by a Tiffany who also happened to be a serial castrator, a Jack the Ripper in reverse. I didn’t want to get sidetracked, let alone victimized, by extraneous carnal desires. I had to stay focused on one question: could I allow myself to seriously contemplate the notion of having an affair, let alone a full-blown relationship, with my analyst? I was reminded of the predicament faced by the Duke of Windsor, who abdicated the throne to marry the woman he loved. Of course, I didn’t have to abdicate anything, but I sensed in myself the willingness to go to similar lengths. Perhaps what I was thinking about was abdicating my role as patient in order to become China’s lover for the remainder of my vacation in Rio.
I found myself watching the sunset from the Copa, wondering if China played with herself after a long day of seeing patients. I could only imagine what a woman who thought nothing of exposing herself to her patients would do when left to her own devices. I suddenly felt jealous of her fingers for being able to climb their way into the orifices I longed to fondle. Seeing that she was part of the army of therapists who devote their lives to fighting the repression of human instinct, I could only wonder about the extent of the liberties she took with her own body. I imagined her throwing off her little skirt, turning up the volume on her television, and wildly finger-fucking herself while she watched the Brazilian team slam home another penalty kick. She reminded me of Pussy Galore and Lotta Vagina and the rest of the great cinematic heroines named for their phenomenal private parts. I stared out at the sea, whose surface was as calm as glass, noticing a few stray Tiffanys emerging from the surf in their string bikinis. The lazy Rio afternoon would give way to a torrid night of sex for hire, and all I could think about was bursting into China’s room to demand emergency therapy.
I would tell her that I loved her and would be willing to pay twice her usual rate if she would only consent to breaking down the barrier of therapeutic discretion and turning our suggestive talk into action. I felt that she held a power and knowledge that would be unleashed in me if only I could stick my penis into her. It was like siphoning fuel from a car.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I was caught off guard when an elegantly attired gentleman, who, with his thin moustache, bore an uncanny resemblance to Salvador Dali, came up to me and asked if I was staying at the hotel. After I informed him that I was indeed a guest, adding that I had obtained observer status at the analytic conference and had even begun my own analysis, he discretely pointed out that I might want to consider slipping into a pair of trousers. I explained to him that I would return to my room as soon as I recovered from the separation anxiety I was feeling from having to part with China for the night. The gentleman, not conversant in the language of psychoanalysis, probably thought I was upset at being separated from a set of expensive dishes. When he looked at me like I was crazy, I reassured him by saying, “That’s just an American joke. My pants are being pressed. I’m sure house services must have returned them to my room by now.”
I did an about-face and headed to the elevator bank. I figured I might as well go back to my room, but I was suddenly troubled by the thought that my analysis was preventing both China and me from attending the conference. This was as good a reason as any to knock on the door of her room, especially since we had both just missed the lecture on erotomania.
I firmly expected China to be surprised, if not annoyed, to find me standing at her door. But I had rationalized my behavior in such a way that I felt perfectly comfortable telling her that it was a life-or-death matter, even though it was obvious to anyone that missing a lecture was no justification for arriving pant-less and unannounced at your analyst’s office-cum-hotel room.
In my overwrought state, I became distracted by one of the many Tiffanys who roamed freely in the hotel corridors. Her microskirt and lizard-skin platform high heels gave me a momentary case of vertigo, so when I knocked on the door of room 1169, I was sure it was room 1269. After knocking once with no answer, I tried again with a little more insistence. Finally I heard footsteps, and before I knew it a Tiffany, buck-naked except for her high heels, appeared at the door and asked nonchalantly in heavily accented English, “Are you here for the orgy?”
In the background, I could see a Tiffany who reminded me of Eurydice in Black Orpheus, sitting on the face of an older man. Even though I couldn’t see much of him, I made a quick guess that he was an American Midwesterner. He looked like a beached whale, with his hairy stomach flopping off to one side as he lay on his back.
For a moment I thought that I might have interrupted one of China’s group sessions. Most analysts don’t conduct group therapy, but China wasn’t exactly orthodox. Any analyst who shows her vagina to a patient doesn’t fall into the classic mode. I asked if anyone had seen China. The black Eurydice must have thought I said “vagina” since she replied, “There’s plenty of that here, honey. Why don’t you just go into the green room and take off your clothes?”
It was only after I entered the suite that I noticed the video equipment and realized that I had walked onto the set of an S&M film, in this case a remake of Lubitsch’s The Blue Angel, replete with a masochistic professor and nightclub vamps. The professor was being played by the guy with the hairy stomach. In this version, the Marlene Dietrich character sat on his face. I had never aspired to be an actor, and while I was attracted to the bevy of young Tiffanys, I didn’t entertain the possibility that I could successfully audition for a role. In addition, my reality was beginning to burn a hole in my pocket. After all my abortive attempts at consummation, I needed to pay someone for sex or therapy, or both. The lure of any fame or fortune I might have inadvertently experienced as a porn star paled in comparison with the pleasure I derived from paying for sex.