I wanted to write the English instructor an email that asked, "Did I do something wrong?" Then, I realized I didn't want an actual answer to that question. I read in some late-nineties relationship self-help book that you should never ask a question you don't want the answer to. I took that little bit of advice at eighteen years old as golden.
***
The LSU Professor and I met at the Brown Mustang. I really didn't want to go, but I couldn't find a good enough excuse to dodge seeing him. After all, friendships are sometimes burdensome, and sometimes we have to listen to people we don't want to.
I understand that it's not appropriate to criticize your friends on a blog because they never have a chance to defend themselves, and overall, my friendships are healthy and productive, and I don't want to misguide the readers by complaining about relatively minor events. But somehow, I still can't get the interaction out of my head. I wanted to say a bunch of shit that would be judgmental and, maybe, even cruel, so I stuffed it down inside. After all, what right do I have to criticize a seventy-year-old man, who has been married longer than I've been born, and has two graduate degrees. Isn't he the wise, ol' man, and I'm the young, eager student? At least, that's how the relationship started.
I've been trying to figure out why I'm so angry, but I haven't come up with any answers. Mostly, I'm disappointed in me. People who know me almost expect that I overreact in certain circumstances because I have a form of bipolar disorder. People write off these swings of anger or madness on the illness. But when someone who doesn't have a mental illness says something unbelievable, what is the proper response?
"You mean to tell me that you were going to throw away a twelve-year relationship over one sentence?" I ask the LSU Professor, trying to understand exactly his motivations were.
He just stares at me blankly, a reaction that I got frequently during the conversation like when you speak to an A.I., and all it says, "I do not understand. Try again later." (aka, Alexa from Google) "Yes," he says finally.
Okay, well, that's stupid, I want to tell him. I try other words in my mind like foolhardy or something less insulting, and I can't come up with anything, so I stay silent. Just stupid. I do not think that the LSU Professor is a dumb person, he's obviously very bright to get where he is in life, and I even believe that he's an unusually self-aware person with strong emotional intelligence. But sometimes even smart people say stupid shit. So, what bothers me the most, that he would cut me out of his life because I asked him, "What do you care?" to his response to my ideas about going back to sex work.
That's all I fucking said, "What do you care if I work as an escort?"
"Yeah, but you are telling me that I don't care about you..." The LSU Professor says. "You can't tell me how I feel..."
I pause again because I'm about to call him stupid again. "Okay, asking 'why do you care' implies that you care to start with, otherwise, why would I be asking for the reasons you care?"
He just stares at me some more like I'm speaking some fucking foreign language. Maybe Mandarin.
It amounts to emotional manipulation, although I don't think that the LSU Professor had any nefarious intent. I think he did it without even really thinking about his deeper motives. "I expressed my caring and sadness, and if I cannot express those to you, don't answer this and I won't bother you again, because somehow I've become a bother," his TXT-message said.
Of course, what he wanted was for me to reaffirm my love and affection for him. He didn't really want me to say that he's a pain in the ass, and not worth my time. The problem with this tactic is that people who are angry or upset--they don't like their backs pushed up against the wall, and forced into anything. A common response might be (and that was my initial thought), fuck you, dude.
It's meant to incite pity, but it just shows the depth of brewing insecurities that this man has. Tell me how wonderful I am, and then everything is alright between us.
"Do you really think it would help if I emailed [Morpheus], and asked him if I'm a bother, and then to have him reply, 'yes, [Jae], you are a bother.' Do you really think that would help me out in my life?" I ask the LSU Professor.
"At least you would know where you stand," he replies.
Okay, maybe, but what good would it do me to hurt myself purposefully like that? I know Morpheus doesn't want to talk to me because otherwise he'd be talking to me--to make him say it outloud would just be cruel to me, and totally unnecessary.
"Would you really take twelve years of [Jae] showing you that she cares about you, she wants to spend time with you, would you really take that evidence and throw it out for one sentence? How much sense does that make?"
The LSU Professor then explains that his ex-girlfriend, Greta, said it better after he pulls that trick with her.
Which pissed me off, but moving on--I thought I was being really clear--but I know I can never live up to Greta--
Then, I got into the wisdom that says, we don't always tell our friends what we're thinking or feeling because it could needlessly hurt them. I presented the case of what would happen if I was marrying someone who the LSU Professor thought was a real asshole, would you tell me so on my wedding day? No, you would congratulate me, and wish me the best of luck, realizing I'll figure out he's a dick in enough time.
He just stares at me some more, and says, "Well, hopefully, I'd tell you before your wedding day."
But it's my fucking wedding! You don't get to decide who I fuck and why, and, in addition, who I fucking marry. (I didn't say that, but wrote similar in an TXT-message by explaining that he didn't have the power nor the authority to choose what I do with my body, and how much I sell it for).
I tell him that his attitude about sex work has been socially programmed into him, and does not necessarily reflect the true nature of the business. I tell him that he's received data from only two sources, the stuff I've told him, and the stuff our culture has. "You don't have a full understanding of how dangerous it is or isn't because you have never been directly involved in the industry. I mean, if you became a driver or something like that, then sure, you'd know more about it..."
Is being an escort in Yuppieville really dangerous? I'm sure it's somewhat dangerous, but I wouldn't be working in some high crime area by hanging out on a street corner with a drug habit and a pimp. The agency would pre-screen clients, and men (or women) who pay that much would often treat you with respect. Do women get raped in Yuppieville? Yes.
"I could hire a driver, and then there would be very little risk involved, but I never did because they're expensive, and eat your profits..." One quote I received was $50 per show, which is about half of your usual tip for an hour long show. I always just took my chances.
A lot more staring went on, until finally, I just started petting and playing with my dog.
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