Last night was one of weirdest nights I had in a long time. Betsy called me in the middle of the night. Something had pissed her off and now she needed me. “I’m heading over,” she announced, and in twenty minutes she was through my door, in my bed naked, and moaning like a high priced whore. But then all of a sudden I felt hours away from Betsy and for some bizarre reason, Steve began to swirl in my mind. Soon I imagined his hands upon me and not Betsy’s. What was happening to me? My mind saw Steve’s hands strong and he wasn’t afraid to show me just how strong. No longer was I even aware of what my body was actually doing with Betsy because I didn’t care. I was feeling my fantasy with Steve. He talked dirty, lovingly, and I thought I’d never give in.

Betsy’s final scream stirred me. She fell back at my side and sweated on my cool body. “What’s with you?” She asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing is right. I feel a little left out.”

“Sorry, I guess I was thinking of work.”

“I have something for you.” I watched as Betsy ran naked along my wood floor. She was quite beautiful, and when she came back, she handed me a wad of cash.

“What’s this?”

“The money you lent me.”

“I didn’t lend it, you keep it, at least until you get up on your feet.”

“I didn’t really need the money, Mike. I borrowed it to earn your trust.”

“Excuse me?”

“Once somebody pays you back, you trust them forever. Haven’t you ever noticed that?”

I couldn’t believe she was serious. “That’s if they needed the money, spent it, and then paid you back. But not if it’s all a trick. No, that makes me NOT trust the person.”

I could see the confusion hit her like an asteroid. A tear dropped. “I didn’t mean it that way, I swear. I wanted you to like me.”

“Betsy, what we have is real. They’re games to you and I’m not playing.” She got up while I continued to talk and dress. She cried softly, walked out, and then guilt then hit me like a cement truck. I was way too hard on her and I knew why-- it was because I was thrown by my dreams of Steve. What the hell was that about!?

The next day I saw Dr. Hawthorne, who admitted to me in private that he was retiring. “But you’re only 55,” I recounted.

“I don’t care anymore. I can’t do it, Mike. I can’t stay in a job that I don’t care about. It was my wife who actually said it, ‘You can’t stay with a lover that you don’t care for anymore and you can’t stay in a job you hate.’”

“She’s got perspective.”

“Damn straight she does, damn straight.”

Later that day I had the guard let me into Steve’s room, who was reading the OJ Simpson autobiography. He kept reading as I sat on the sole chair. “Interesting knife technique he used,” he said without raising his eyes or actually acknowledging my existence at all.

“Dr. Hawthorne is retiring.”

“I’ll have to get his home address.”

“You’re no killer, Steve. I know you wish you were, but you’re not. And I’m the only one who gives a shit about you right now. I don’t know why, I guess because of Hillary, but I want you out of here and living a good life. I believe that’s still possible.”

“You just want a blow job. I’ll give you one whenever you’re ready.”

I left feeling scared and stupid, because for some strange reason, I DID want this man to give me a blow job.