Tell me what you want (what you really, really want)

WARNING: This blog entry contains sexual and drug references. Reader discretion is advised.

    Amsterdam is one of my favorite places in the world. I have this strong feeling that I'm meant to live there even for just a short time in my life. I mean, what's not to love? It's the home of Van Gogh. of Rembrandt. Cannabis Cup. Clogs, windmills, tulips. Gouda and Edam. In Holland, they don't give roses when they're in love. They give sunflowers. Everything tastes better in their coffee shops. The air smells sweeter. Virtually everyone's got a bike. And to top it all off, the Dutch are friendly, chilled out, and they speak English.

    Last year I visited my favorite city with my favorite people-  my husband Chippy and my brothers Patrick and Mike- in a dad-sponsored, no-parents, all-adult European holiday. There were a lot of happy memories from that trip, but today (to celebrate Patrick's birthday) I want to share a particularly funny and embarrassing story from our Land of Sex and Drugs adventure: the day my brother participated in a live sex show.

    
(At this point I need to advise that due to my altered mental state at the time of the event and pretty much for the duration of our Holland stay, I may be a little hazy on the details.)

        Watching a live sex show was in our list of things-to-do in Amsterdam. It's not everyday you visit a city where prostitution (among other things) is not just legal, but is really out there. I wouldn't be surprised if they had more sex shows than cinemas of the non-sex variety. We scouted the streets for the perfect theater and settled for a reasonably-priced venue walking distance from our hotel which was smack in the middle of the red light district. We got in before the first show started (yes, we're eager beavers) and the usher sat us on the front row (which made me nervous because I didn't want to be so close to the stage in case body fluids started shooting out of the performers).

    The first act was a dominatrix. She stepped onto the stage, eyed the audience, and pointed to Patrick. Before we even knew what was going on, he was already being led by the ushers toward the stage. Now in theory, I would think being playfully whipped by a dominatrix is probably not something guys will decline, especially if the dominatrix looks like this:

But when the lady who just singled you out as the submissive in a public role-playing game is old enough to be your mother and looks like this:

well, let's just say it's a totally different story.

    Now, a little backgrounder on my younger brother: he's a 27-year old med student who graduated Molecular Biology and Biotechnology cum laude. He's half control freak, half typical boy-next-door: polite, friendly, good-natured, dependable. Don't be fooled, though. He, like a lot of guys, is into porn and the gym. Like, really into porn and lifting weights and the whole body beautiful thing. 

    Anyway, back to the story at hand. At first the act was tame enough. The mature and really healthy dominatrix made him bend over and struck his bum a few times with a leather whip, later on with a mini-paddle. Then it got stranger. And funnier.

    The dominatrix took off his eyeglasses and put them aside. Then, she pulled out a strange-looking hat... no, wait. It wasn't a hat. It was a strap-on, and she made him wear it on his head. As if that wasn't embarrassing enough, she made him lie down on the stage with his back on the floor and then stood over the huge synthetic head that was belted on his real, well, head. (At this point we could feel worse things to come and were practically falling off our seats laughing). And then, she began to lower herself and before we knew it we couldn't see the strap-on anymore. Then she started to raise herself. AND THEN, she started doing the whole cycle again, this time faster. She was riding the dildo on Patrick's face. (Please. Take a moment to truly fathom what you've just read. Just close your eyes for a few seconds and try to imagine it.)

    And it didn't end there. After the whole bobbing-up-and-down thing, she continued to stand over him and made him do sit-ups. SIT-UPS. The goal was to get the dildo in her vag everytime. She made a sport out of the two things Patrick was really into: porn and fitness. It was priceless. Once the dildo-on-the-head routine was (thankfully) over, she took the strap-on, gave him his glasses back, and asked him to lick the dick. She had it in his face, forcing him to put it in his mouth. You can tell Patrick was really grossed out with the idea. I wouldn't even be surprised if he threw up a little in his mouth. If it was Mike or Chippy up there, they probably would have thrown in a "fuck off" and stormed off stage. But classic Patrick, ever the gentleman- appropriate and considerate- just smiled and politely refused.

    Patrick had a weird look on his face throughout the ordeal - it was a mixture of embarrassment, disbelief, amusement, nervousness, and a hint of disgust- but he took it all in good fun. We couldn't stop laughing the moment he stood up from his seat. We left the theater with well-defined abs and tired cheeks. We tripped on him endlessly. He was such a good sport about everything, though, he really was the perfect candidate for this type of embarrasing moment.

    Oh, did we promise not to ever re-tell this story? EVER? Oooops.

Trick, I hope you're not irritated that I blogged about this. It's just... it's one of the funnest moments of my life, and one of the happiest memories I have with you. I wanted to relive it on your day. Happy, happy birthday younger big bro. I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I admire you. A lot. And a lot of times I wish I had more of your qualities. You're my idol.

I have a whole list of songs that remind me of you, but this one took the cake. Just in case you don't remember, this was the first single of the first tape you ever bought with your own money. And you got it not because of the music, but because the chicks were hot (well, maybe not Scary Spice).Good Times!

The Gambler

    My dad is a huge fan of Kenny Rogers. Of all his songs, The Gambler, I must say, is my favorite. I've always felt a connection to this track. I know my dad made me listen to it carefully when I was a child, and since then I've thought it was his way of giving me a life lesson- he was the gambler, and I, the narrator.

    I'm a self-appointed daddy's girl. Needless to say, I've always put my dad on a pedestal. He's my hero. I admire his big heart, his sense of responsibility, and more recently his humility. He's smart, well-read, and I thought he knew everything. And because he was so high up there, so unreachable, I tried to understand when he missed my performances in school or important debate meets because to me he was off somewhere saving someone's life - being the hero that he was. And as a daughter of the hero, I had to learn to make sacrifices. Sooner or later this constant lack of attention became an unsaid competition between me and my brothers. Who can please my dad the most. Who can impress him the most. I don't even think we were aware that we were in that contest. As kids, all we knew was we had to do something spectacular for our dad to show up. And when he didn't, it probably meant it wasn't important enough. Not as important as his work.

    When I was about thirteen my dad said something to the effect of "once you are able to know what I'm thinking, I'll give you anything you want." From then on I think I've unknowingly committed a part of my life to understanding the gambler. I did everything I could to get a glimpse of the enigma that was him. I read the books my dad liked so we had something to talk about. I practiced playing chess for the sole purpose of trying to beat him. He told me to study "Gone" by Jim Chappell on piano and I did; and when he said "once you finish that piece I can die" I stopped learning it. Dropped it completely. 

    Then some years back, my hero totally fucked up. And I was shattered. Still, I tried to rationalize his actions. I tried to understand him. Every hero has a tragic flaw, I thought,  just like my dad has his. For a time though, I must admit I thought it was hypocritical of him to be the gambler, teaching someone how to play a hand and yet carelessly wrecking his. The surgeon, who once said "If we cut, we cut clean" couldn't have butchered this hand any worse than he did. I was angry, confused. I felt betrayed. But then, amidst all the emotional chaos, sleepless nights, and sudden bursts of tears, I had an epiphany. I realized there was a flaw in my thinking. See, my dad isn't the gambler I always thought him to be. He's Kenny, just like me.

    Since then, I've started to see my dad in a different light. Suddenly he's no longer that infallible, all-powerful being. He's just someone trying to traverse through this rough road we call life- like me, at times stumbling along the way; sometimes lost, sometimes hurt. And for the first time I felt that I could connect, really connect to him. I could tell him my worries and problems without fear of being judged. I can freely voice my thoughts and volunteer my assistance on certain matters because I finally feel that maybe I can offer something... that maybe, he can learn from me, too.

    My relationship with my father now has never been better. My understanding of him has never been deeper. You know that "mother's instinct" that people talk about? Lately, it's been "father's instinct" for me. My dad seems so attuned to me these days he sends me a text message whenever something "significant" is going on with me. And as much as a lot of nasty and painful stuff had to happen for us to get here, I guess the important thing is that we're here. Finally.




Poppish, you have always been and will always be my hero. I don't think anything can change that. I love you and I am proud to be your daughter. Happy Father's Day!