The First Time I cheated on my wife, I was in Spain. I took my son to Barcelona after he graduated from high school. I wanted it to be a bonding experience and he agreed because he would only have to put up with me for five days. Then, he was going to go off and do the Euro-rail adventure with his friends. O.K., it was also the dad in me. I wanted to help him get acclimated to Europe. The pick pockets, how to make sure not to lose your passport and have your things stolen while in a hostel, what to do if everything gets stolen, the women, the respect for food, the cafe, and don't start smoking.
I don't know when as a father I became useless to him, but within in the first day it was clear he didn't need me. He graced me with his presence. I asked him if he wanted to go around and practice finding a hostel. He laughed, "Well, I don't know. There are only eighty-five hostels in the guidebook and I speak Spanish and you don't.""Well, it also says in the guidebook that they speak Catalan and are very nationalistic." "Thanks for the history lesson Dad." That was Barcelona. Gaudi, Las Ramblas, Catalan, the hotel pool, Barcelonetta, Sitges, and more Gaudi. He wanted to go to Mallorca or Ibiza and since it was only a ferry ride, I agreed. After breakfast, he said he was going to go check on tickets, which meant that he was finished with me for the day.
I was in my forties. I had a successful practice, a healthy marriage, an overvalued house, and a beautiful son. My wife and I took planned yet romantic vacations. We were members of MOCA, LACMA, The Hammer Museum, and every other cultural organization in Los Angeles. I was on several boards of miscellaneous community projects. We gave money to charity and had sent our son to an excellent private school. I sat by the pool with my Cuba Libre and thought about my patients. If they could see me now, lying here, lost all by myself, alone, unneeded, not wanted, rejected, abandoned by my son.
There were many lessons my patients taught me throughout the years that I did not heed. I would have liked to have thought of myself as a person who learned from the mistakes of others, but I failed. It's like the gun scenario. I could tell you if someone put a gun to my head, I would secure their weapon and blind them with a quick poke to the eyes, but in that moment, who really knows if I would be capable? Would I remember how much I prepared and practiced for that single scenario?
Men in their forties came into my office in one of three states. Either, they had never been married or they were cheating or had cheated on their wives. Keep in mind that I am sure there are plenty of men who do not fit into any of these categories, but these were not the ones marching into my office.
The men who never married always had a slue of reasons from an overbearing mother, an emotionally absent father, to fear of commitment, fear of rejection, fear in itself and very well thought out sociopolitical arguments against oppressive institutions. Many of them had been in long term relationships managing to remain on the skirts of intimacy, never giving too much of themselves, and therefore never receiving true love. Yet, they wanted prescriptions for Viagra and confessed that they drank alone and smoked too much pot. Some were pornography addicts. They all objectified women in bars, on the street, women friends, and any female that entered into their field of vision, including the ones they said they "loved."
After all of their friends got married, moved to the valley and started families, it dawned on them that something might be wrong. They had become that guy, the husband thief. He comes around on Sundays, steals your husband for a few hours, erases his mind with video games, and drops him off all stoned and horny. While the husbands go back to their real lives, the thieves go home to more of the same.
After a few drinks the panic sets in and the next day they're in the GP's office or my office with an ongoing, ever changing undefinable ailment. They were all hypochondriacs. This bump on my lip, my sore elbow, thigh cramps, knee problems from that time I got tackled in high school, back problems from touch football, must be a low grade flu, foot problems, which in Chinese medicine can affect every part of the body, including the blood and digestive tract. Every time a patient said they thought it was time to get a colonoscopy, I would try to talk them out of it. "It's too early for that." "It's never too early to check for polyps." "It's an invasive procedure and you have no history of cancer in your family." "I could be the first." I nod my head and think, I have a better chance of arguing with a crazy person, than I do a hypochondriac. Some of these men got so many colonoscopies, I started to think they enjoyed the bend over, bear down, and cough. To put them at ease about their repeated visits to the Dr. I would say, do you know why you have to turn your head to the side? Why? So, you don't cough on the doctor. Some days, that was all I said from nine to five. It did cross my mind that perhaps some of these men might be gay. Maybe I misdiagnosed them. Maybe they weren't hypochondriacs. Maybe they were sublimating homosexual desires via colonoscopy. Nahhhh, too Freudian. And asking would certainly lead to the destruction of their libidos. Also, I had gay patients and none of them were obsessed with Dr.'s before they came out. So, what was it? Depression. Some asked me for antidepressants and I would prescribe knowing inevitably that it would lead to more libido problems. The more the anti-depressants set in, the less sexual desire, which leads to even more panic, video game playing, pot smoking, and drinking. But just like the colonoscopy, I didn't want to argue. I wanted to help them and there is only so much you can do in an hour. Argue or agree and try to get more information. Which would would you choose?
The married men were different, very different. They were just like me, considered to be successful. They loved their wives and were "good guys." These were the kind of men who were just as disappointed with David Letterman's behavior as were my women patients. Then, they entered into their forties. They spoke about how hard they had worked, their houses, their wives, the expensive schools their kids attended, their careers. It was all planned. They had planned out their lives early, picking a lucrative career path and started saving to have a family from the beginning. Their wildest times happened in college, but even then they were concerned about grades and graduate school. Thoughts of the future led these men through life, and eventually to my office. It had all worked out as planned. What was the problem?
The problem was that as they made their way through their forties they started to feel entitled. After all, they had been so good all of those years, so faithful and hard working. They wanted a taste of Mr. Hyde. Who was this Mr. Hyde and what did he desire? Was it anal sex? A prostitute? A drunken night out giving the finger to future repercussions? A cessation of their responsibilities? A shift from Clark Kent to Superman?
Most of their identities were based around their roles, professional, husband, father, and this was healthy, but it wasn't enough. They wanted a prize, a reward for all of their hard work, kindness and goodness, but the kind of prize they wanted wasn't being known as the "good" guy, a good man, good old Mr. so and so. Feeling good about themselves, having a clear conscience and knowing they were good people in their heart was for pussies. The prize they wanted could only be attained if they stopped thinking of the future. The thrill of the gamble, the rush of uncertainty. The if I died tomorrow would anyone ever find out what I did and would I regret it? They felt gypped. The straight and narrow only led to more straight and narrow. What do you get for being a good boy? More of the same doldrums of comfort. These men were not depressed, quite the opposite. These men were awakening to mortality and just like in Steel Magnolia's, they didn't want to die.
Unfortunately, these repressed desires came at the expense of their wives and their families. I would try to suggest simple getaways like a weekend away with the fellas. The patient laughed in my face. "Why would I want to do that, so I can sit around with a bunch of guys and talk about my mortgage and my kids poop?" "What about a solo vacation, an African Safari?" "Right, not only would I feel guilty about not taking the kids, but I don't think I would survive being surrounded by other families. How would I convince my wife that I should go on a singles African Safari?" I felt stupid. I didn't have any good ideas. Also, I was only in the beginning of my forties and many of these men were a bit older. The best suggestion I could think of was, "take your wife on a vacation and rekindle the romance?" "Right you know how that ends, she gets a five-hundred dollar purse and maybe I get a blow-job."
And then I started listening. They didn't want their wives. They didn't want their kids. They didn't want their houses. They didn't want their status cars. They wanted to feel alive. And what makes a man feel most alive is lust! Heart pumping, fidgety, fantastical fantasy filled lust! To lust and to conquer is the birthright of all men. They deserved to live and who were they to laugh in the face of genetics? They were finally ready to admit that they had a desire to impregnate as many women as possible. No, they didn't want to have children with random women, but they did want to have sex with all of them. Sex they fantasized about in the shower, but never mentioned or were too scared to talk about with their wives. Wild, animalistic, superman sex. Goodbye Clark Kent and Dr. Jekyl! This wasn't about love. This was a primal need. And what made my job difficult was to keep my opinions to myself. It was not my job to tell them what was right or wrong, to remind them of their responsibilities, to make decisions for them. I nodded my head and listened. Their arguments were very convincing. They earned this right to women and to life. I thought of puberty and the cliche of the mid-life crisis. Mid life crisis is an older form of puberty. What makes it so difficult is that it's like living through puberty again, but with status and money and the possibility of causing serious damage to the lives of others. Well, I guess wherever you do end up, that's between you and god, or you and yourself, or you and whatever you believe in. Actually right now, these feelings are between you and your shrink. That's me and I don't have the answers.
As the session continued, we entered into the danger zone. There was this office assistant, or that cafe girl, or the unforgettable airline stewardess tits that popped out of her blouse when she leaned over to pour drinks. Images of women burned into the minds of these men, fodder for showers, taken to bed with their wives. It was both an awakening and a regression. I couldn't help but feel sad. I wouldn't want my wife to talk about other men using those words. Also, I felt disgusted when older men objectified women in my office. It didn't matter if they were married or single. I felt like, you know, after the age of thirty-five that's not cool anymore and you're beginning to sound like an old pervert. Women are people. I would expect or tolerate that kind of language from a twenty-five year old or maybe even a thirty year old, but you're forty something and in my office talking about tits and asses. Would you like it if someone talked about your daughter, your wife, or sister using that language? But I never said anything. In my professional opinion, this was how men bond. In those moments, they didn't want me to be their Dr. They wanted me to be one of the guys, and so I obliged. "You remember when you discovered pussy, right?" Oh, how could I forget? It was one of the most beautiful, lovely, experiences of my life. It was a metamorphosis. I changed from a caterpillar to a Monarch butterfly. "Yeah, pussy right. Can't live without it."
I don't know when as a father I became useless to him, but within in the first day it was clear he didn't need me. He graced me with his presence. I asked him if he wanted to go around and practice finding a hostel. He laughed, "Well, I don't know. There are only eighty-five hostels in the guidebook and I speak Spanish and you don't.""Well, it also says in the guidebook that they speak Catalan and are very nationalistic." "Thanks for the history lesson Dad." That was Barcelona. Gaudi, Las Ramblas, Catalan, the hotel pool, Barcelonetta, Sitges, and more Gaudi. He wanted to go to Mallorca or Ibiza and since it was only a ferry ride, I agreed. After breakfast, he said he was going to go check on tickets, which meant that he was finished with me for the day.
I was in my forties. I had a successful practice, a healthy marriage, an overvalued house, and a beautiful son. My wife and I took planned yet romantic vacations. We were members of MOCA, LACMA, The Hammer Museum, and every other cultural organization in Los Angeles. I was on several boards of miscellaneous community projects. We gave money to charity and had sent our son to an excellent private school. I sat by the pool with my Cuba Libre and thought about my patients. If they could see me now, lying here, lost all by myself, alone, unneeded, not wanted, rejected, abandoned by my son.
There were many lessons my patients taught me throughout the years that I did not heed. I would have liked to have thought of myself as a person who learned from the mistakes of others, but I failed. It's like the gun scenario. I could tell you if someone put a gun to my head, I would secure their weapon and blind them with a quick poke to the eyes, but in that moment, who really knows if I would be capable? Would I remember how much I prepared and practiced for that single scenario?
Men in their forties came into my office in one of three states. Either, they had never been married or they were cheating or had cheated on their wives. Keep in mind that I am sure there are plenty of men who do not fit into any of these categories, but these were not the ones marching into my office.
The men who never married always had a slue of reasons from an overbearing mother, an emotionally absent father, to fear of commitment, fear of rejection, fear in itself and very well thought out sociopolitical arguments against oppressive institutions. Many of them had been in long term relationships managing to remain on the skirts of intimacy, never giving too much of themselves, and therefore never receiving true love. Yet, they wanted prescriptions for Viagra and confessed that they drank alone and smoked too much pot. Some were pornography addicts. They all objectified women in bars, on the street, women friends, and any female that entered into their field of vision, including the ones they said they "loved."
After all of their friends got married, moved to the valley and started families, it dawned on them that something might be wrong. They had become that guy, the husband thief. He comes around on Sundays, steals your husband for a few hours, erases his mind with video games, and drops him off all stoned and horny. While the husbands go back to their real lives, the thieves go home to more of the same.
After a few drinks the panic sets in and the next day they're in the GP's office or my office with an ongoing, ever changing undefinable ailment. They were all hypochondriacs. This bump on my lip, my sore elbow, thigh cramps, knee problems from that time I got tackled in high school, back problems from touch football, must be a low grade flu, foot problems, which in Chinese medicine can affect every part of the body, including the blood and digestive tract. Every time a patient said they thought it was time to get a colonoscopy, I would try to talk them out of it. "It's too early for that." "It's never too early to check for polyps." "It's an invasive procedure and you have no history of cancer in your family." "I could be the first." I nod my head and think, I have a better chance of arguing with a crazy person, than I do a hypochondriac. Some of these men got so many colonoscopies, I started to think they enjoyed the bend over, bear down, and cough. To put them at ease about their repeated visits to the Dr. I would say, do you know why you have to turn your head to the side? Why? So, you don't cough on the doctor. Some days, that was all I said from nine to five. It did cross my mind that perhaps some of these men might be gay. Maybe I misdiagnosed them. Maybe they weren't hypochondriacs. Maybe they were sublimating homosexual desires via colonoscopy. Nahhhh, too Freudian. And asking would certainly lead to the destruction of their libidos. Also, I had gay patients and none of them were obsessed with Dr.'s before they came out. So, what was it? Depression. Some asked me for antidepressants and I would prescribe knowing inevitably that it would lead to more libido problems. The more the anti-depressants set in, the less sexual desire, which leads to even more panic, video game playing, pot smoking, and drinking. But just like the colonoscopy, I didn't want to argue. I wanted to help them and there is only so much you can do in an hour. Argue or agree and try to get more information. Which would would you choose?
The married men were different, very different. They were just like me, considered to be successful. They loved their wives and were "good guys." These were the kind of men who were just as disappointed with David Letterman's behavior as were my women patients. Then, they entered into their forties. They spoke about how hard they had worked, their houses, their wives, the expensive schools their kids attended, their careers. It was all planned. They had planned out their lives early, picking a lucrative career path and started saving to have a family from the beginning. Their wildest times happened in college, but even then they were concerned about grades and graduate school. Thoughts of the future led these men through life, and eventually to my office. It had all worked out as planned. What was the problem?
The problem was that as they made their way through their forties they started to feel entitled. After all, they had been so good all of those years, so faithful and hard working. They wanted a taste of Mr. Hyde. Who was this Mr. Hyde and what did he desire? Was it anal sex? A prostitute? A drunken night out giving the finger to future repercussions? A cessation of their responsibilities? A shift from Clark Kent to Superman?
Most of their identities were based around their roles, professional, husband, father, and this was healthy, but it wasn't enough. They wanted a prize, a reward for all of their hard work, kindness and goodness, but the kind of prize they wanted wasn't being known as the "good" guy, a good man, good old Mr. so and so. Feeling good about themselves, having a clear conscience and knowing they were good people in their heart was for pussies. The prize they wanted could only be attained if they stopped thinking of the future. The thrill of the gamble, the rush of uncertainty. The if I died tomorrow would anyone ever find out what I did and would I regret it? They felt gypped. The straight and narrow only led to more straight and narrow. What do you get for being a good boy? More of the same doldrums of comfort. These men were not depressed, quite the opposite. These men were awakening to mortality and just like in Steel Magnolia's, they didn't want to die.
Unfortunately, these repressed desires came at the expense of their wives and their families. I would try to suggest simple getaways like a weekend away with the fellas. The patient laughed in my face. "Why would I want to do that, so I can sit around with a bunch of guys and talk about my mortgage and my kids poop?" "What about a solo vacation, an African Safari?" "Right, not only would I feel guilty about not taking the kids, but I don't think I would survive being surrounded by other families. How would I convince my wife that I should go on a singles African Safari?" I felt stupid. I didn't have any good ideas. Also, I was only in the beginning of my forties and many of these men were a bit older. The best suggestion I could think of was, "take your wife on a vacation and rekindle the romance?" "Right you know how that ends, she gets a five-hundred dollar purse and maybe I get a blow-job."
And then I started listening. They didn't want their wives. They didn't want their kids. They didn't want their houses. They didn't want their status cars. They wanted to feel alive. And what makes a man feel most alive is lust! Heart pumping, fidgety, fantastical fantasy filled lust! To lust and to conquer is the birthright of all men. They deserved to live and who were they to laugh in the face of genetics? They were finally ready to admit that they had a desire to impregnate as many women as possible. No, they didn't want to have children with random women, but they did want to have sex with all of them. Sex they fantasized about in the shower, but never mentioned or were too scared to talk about with their wives. Wild, animalistic, superman sex. Goodbye Clark Kent and Dr. Jekyl! This wasn't about love. This was a primal need. And what made my job difficult was to keep my opinions to myself. It was not my job to tell them what was right or wrong, to remind them of their responsibilities, to make decisions for them. I nodded my head and listened. Their arguments were very convincing. They earned this right to women and to life. I thought of puberty and the cliche of the mid-life crisis. Mid life crisis is an older form of puberty. What makes it so difficult is that it's like living through puberty again, but with status and money and the possibility of causing serious damage to the lives of others. Well, I guess wherever you do end up, that's between you and god, or you and yourself, or you and whatever you believe in. Actually right now, these feelings are between you and your shrink. That's me and I don't have the answers.
As the session continued, we entered into the danger zone. There was this office assistant, or that cafe girl, or the unforgettable airline stewardess tits that popped out of her blouse when she leaned over to pour drinks. Images of women burned into the minds of these men, fodder for showers, taken to bed with their wives. It was both an awakening and a regression. I couldn't help but feel sad. I wouldn't want my wife to talk about other men using those words. Also, I felt disgusted when older men objectified women in my office. It didn't matter if they were married or single. I felt like, you know, after the age of thirty-five that's not cool anymore and you're beginning to sound like an old pervert. Women are people. I would expect or tolerate that kind of language from a twenty-five year old or maybe even a thirty year old, but you're forty something and in my office talking about tits and asses. Would you like it if someone talked about your daughter, your wife, or sister using that language? But I never said anything. In my professional opinion, this was how men bond. In those moments, they didn't want me to be their Dr. They wanted me to be one of the guys, and so I obliged. "You remember when you discovered pussy, right?" Oh, how could I forget? It was one of the most beautiful, lovely, experiences of my life. It was a metamorphosis. I changed from a caterpillar to a Monarch butterfly. "Yeah, pussy right. Can't live without it."
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