Secret, no secret…moments of judgment

6 Nov

Here’s how my life goes lately:
There’s my bodyguard.

My body guard was there for me the very moment I knew for sure I would be heading off to work in a brothel. He was there for me when I was in a crying flurry over getting kicked out of this project I really wanted to be in. He was there for me to toast in my misery. In fact, it was my body guard who told me that Monkeys have actually been trained to prostitute themselves. Apparently some study was done using candy as currency, and some of the male monkeys would save up the candy to give to the female monkeys. The female monkeys would have sex with them, and would keep all the candy.

It was then that I knew my bodyguard was/is one of the coolest people on the planet.

Then there is my bodyguard’s friend, who I met about at the same time I started working in the brothel biz. I had a crush on him at the time….so I told him about my job. You know how it goes, its the “hey I like you, but I’m leaving town to be a ho. Wish me well.” We went bowling once last July and it was fun.

Then there is a girl, and she is my new female friend. She’s the first cool girl I have met who is not a ho in like, a year and a half…so its up to my bodyguard and this other guy to keep it a secret from her the fact that I work in a whorehouse.

Imagine two guys knowing a secret, and one girl remaining oblivious to the secret.

The girl is very petite and the rest of us are taller, so its easy for all of us to make brothel related jokes and commentary, and have it all go over her head, literally.

Then there is a guy, who I will call….Max. Max is an adorable fellow who I met a few weeks ago at the art show I did. We talked for a good chunk of the night and he asked for my number. Normally I’m reluctant to give out my number, but he seemed very likable, so I gave it to him.

I hadn’t talked to him in a couple weeks because I’ve been busy with…being hung up like a dumbass on other boys, other projects, vomiting from stress, etc. (YES I am vomiting from stress…do you like that?)

I invited Max out last night.
To my horror, about 20 minutes into a group of us hanging out,
he tells me “I’ve been working with Mr. X”

Allow me to introduce Mr. X:
Mr. X was the person I named myself after.
I re-fashioned his real name into a girlier version of the name, and made that my working girl name.

Mr. X was the last guy who ever screwed me over in the art world.
Mr. X was the last guy who broke my artist heart.
Nobody has broken my artist heart harder than Mr. X.
Mr. X has a magical way of speaking without words.
When Mr. X kicked me out of his project, what he was saying was,

“Here is your Art. This Art is the Love of Your Life…I know you love your Art more than you will ever love any man, and more than you will ever love me. And now, I’m going to deny you of that thing that you love SO very much. You will never get to paint your pictures with us. You will never make a masterpiece with me and my friends. You will paint alone, because I love you….because you can’t love me back.”

Or so he thought.
Mr. X thought I could never love him back.
I will always love Mr. X, because the way Mr. X and I love our art and our work is the same. We are equally passionate about the art we create. The purity of my love for Mr. X is untainted and unadorned…just like my love for art. Mr. X’s love for the art itself is as pure as mine. His love for me is unfortunately….not so pure. I will always have a space in the corner of my heart where I carry my love for Mr. X. In that corner, it is precious and unharmed.

But he took something from me…..so I took something from him:
His name.

Last night, Max tells me, “oh I am working with Mr. X. We are working on a project together.”

I say, “Really, what did Mr. X tell you of me?”
“He said they kicked you out of the collective, but didn’t say why.”

I in turn explained my reasons.

I kept waiting for it.
Waiting for it.
Waiting for the moment that Max would tell me that Mr. X told him about my job.

“So he didn’t tell you?” I asked
“Tell me what?” he gives a funny look.
“About my job.” I say.
“Well. Yes. Yes he did. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

“Does it bother you?”
I ask. Awkward. Feeling embarrassed.
“No.” He says. “I don’t care.”
“That’s what they all say. You’ll change your mind later.” I tell him.

I had my phone out to text Mr. X to tell him….BEG HIM….
“Hey please stop telling new people that I named myself after you and I went to work in a brothel. I want to start my life over one day.”

Max, seeing the text, said, “NO PLEASE don’t text Mr. X. That is a secret between the two of us…and I probably shouldn’t have said anything to you about it.”

Max gets into the specifics of exactly what Mr. X told him.
Simple story:
That I went to work in a Brothel.
That I named myself after him.

Ok. I can deal with that.

The interesting thing though after this was…
After Max and I had cleared the air and he had assured me that my job didn’t matter….I was a couple drinks in and I told him part of why I ended up working there in the first place.

About how I ended up in a brothel because there were other aspects of my life I wanted SO DESPERATELY to work out, but for whatever reason, things weren’t happening.

Max in turn, tells me that he’s been through the same thing with his art.
That he went to college.
Got his degree.
It hasn’t done him any good…
and there’s nothing he would love more than to do his art for a living.

We walked back to my bodyguards house.
Drunk.
(Well I was…)
and sat and played video games for a while.
My knee touched his.

It felt good…just for a little bit, not to be judged.
I can tell Max has the scales out.
But….like that judgment lady, he has a blindfold on, to play fair.

That feels good.

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