"THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST SHOOK MY HAND"

 Here is an excerpt from a blog post "THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST SHOOK MY HAND"

I really like her style of writing.

...But the little runaway is powerful. And she has had a lot of time and prompting to emerge today, between the long wait at the hospital and also on the journey here.

It is an incredibly long and tedious bus ride to the hospital-- a ride through the biggest and best trash dumps and landfills in the country, and some of the most unhealthy industrial neighborhoods in Los Angeles. Neighborhoods that are very similar to those that I lived in when I was a runaway out here in 1979.

And on the bus another man had looked at me with an unguarded and admiring smile. A man that belonged to the world of my runaway days.

He'd hit my radar before he sat down. He was the wrong build and age for me to be interested in him, but I knew him straight away. And I knew he would be interested in me. I'd met him many, many times before.

I knew that he'd gotten out of prison within the last three months. I knew he had been in some sort of car or motorcycle accident and had a pin in his leg. I'd felt it when he'd walked by. Heard the slight drag in the left leg; the way the resonance of the blood, muscle, and bone had been disrupted as he walked.

I was wearing my sparkly LOVE t-shirt. In retrospect not a good choice. There were several vencinos along the bus route where streetwalkers could be seen plying their trade. I really needed a sign that said "not a hooker" the way a chick with curved belly fat needs a sign that says "not pregnant." You're pretty sure, but it would be nice to have a clearly spelled out sign.

Like the doctor it would be close to impossible for Ex-con to come to the correct judgment about me. And I was too aware of him. The bus had been alternately really full and mostly full. A lot of people had been getting on and off. I'd paid attention to none of them. Until now. And I am still not able to veil my interest in this type of man. Not completely. Not yet.

Ex-con's butt had barely touched his seat before he was mentally crawling all over me. I have developed a "recognition and response" protocol. Ex-con is too familiar to me not to feel a reaction to his interest. Also, to the teenage runaway, a man like this would have been protection (from other men like him) and social connections-- and possibly food, cash, drugs, cigarettes, and somewhere to sleep.

In the past, this man's interest would have been a valuable commodity. And for most of my life any interest from any man soothed the ache of longing I seemed to always feel. I needed male attention so much, and I so lacked in boundaries (both emotional, and now I realise too, psychic) and esteem for myself that I would often end up with predators because of that need.

No man needs a woman more than a rapist does. My need for male attention made me a beacon. A flashing neon light.

Ex-con is nuzzling my neck. I can almost feel him. His desire is almost strong enough to make him astrally project. Men who have been in prison frequently need touch more than sex. They need to be held. They need softness. And often they are incapable of intimacy other than sex.

Not just because of prison, but because of the kind of men they are. A lot of cops cannot express affection or tenderness. It's too "soft". Macho men on either side of the law or society are more afraid of their feelings than anything else. They are not afraid of physical violence,or unhappiness, or stress, or hate, or pain, or loosing their freedom. But they are terrified of intimacy, love, forgiveness. And then in the case of prisoners, they are all locked up together, making each other "tougher", angrier.

I can almost smell prison on the men who have been there. It leaves a tangible mark. Sometimes even after many years, the scent lingers.

More than my breasts, or sex, or maybe even a blowjob (maybe), this man wants to kiss my throat and touch the back of my neck, and the soft hair there. I will not qualify these observations with "I believe" or "I think". I know this to be true. I am more certain of it than I am that the sun will rise tomorrow. I would bet whatever money I had on it, if there were a way to race it.

Ex-con has said hello to me, and despite his sunglasses, I can see that look. The million dollar look. The look I used to spend all of my time searching for-- or trying to create or manipulate into existence.

I give him my own look: a raised eyebrow, bored, stern, accompanied by the "I can NOT believe that this here man is speaking to me from his little head? What is he thinking? Oh HELL no!" sneering sigh.

But I don't get up and move. I pretend to sleep and surreptitiously lap up his attention. His desire is ferocious and respectful, if disappointed and a little sulky. I know that he will carry me with him for awhile. I will be taken out and examined frequently for a few days, maybe a week. I might have even hastened a trip to a massage parlour, or an ex-girlfriend.

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