I have a non-contagious form of Vivid Speculation Syndrome (VSS). There’s no cure. You’re born with it. They’re working on medications but….
VSS sufferers, such as myself, ruminate to a terminal level. We have a graphic, often dangerous fantasy world with a mindset made for retaining extensive details. The victims include not only the patient but also his or her family, friends and unsuspecting strangers that cross their path. (And that last group, compassionate readers, includes you.)
A Vivid Speculation Sufferer, if they are lucky, can turn their ailment into something for the common good. Garrison Keillor, Samantha Morton and Stephen Hawking have all been diagnosed. It can be a hard boat to row, my friends, as Spalding Grey discovered.
Beginning Vivid Speculation symptoms can include: Not being able to find the right word in a simple conversation for as long as 3 weeks; Or they imagine what Ord, Nebraska would be like in twenty years if only the population had a popular Shakespeare Festival in town; Or by the end of a July 4th BBQ they’ve made a mosaic on your wall using superglue and M&M’s recreating the journey of a frostbitten Mormon plural wife across the western frontier. VSS can get super bad.
It’s not like the VSS sufferer seeks out the acquisition of the dream-state. But somehow they’ve worked out every nuance of the fantasy: the smells, the temperature, and the feel of the wind. Some have experienced “Temporary VSS” (a Bride and her future Mother-In-Law planning a wedding are common victims.)
Vivid Speculation sufferers in our Hobby have their condition exacerbated with each new provider they visit. For example, if you have to schedule an Experience weeks in advance, it can be absolute murder trying to focus on anything else. How can you think about your job when you have to invent the style of undergarments & matching handcuffs the lady is going to meet you in? (Redhead, I’m thinking of you way too much!)
It’s hard for the layman to understand. The example the Doctors give: “…just try to think of something else when a stranger farts at someone’s funeral. Just try. I dare you.” –Journal of American Medicine – Vol. 8, #383
So I get this PM from a provider. She compliments me on one of my posts. “Gosh, Thanks!” I write back. She summons me to a private chat room. We’re getting to know each other. And I mean really chatting. 2 hours. 3 hours. My ass is falling asleep we’re there so long. And the issue isn’t whether the talk is lewd and lascivious (although we have our moments) but why she’s taking the time with me?! Sure, it may be no sweat for a multi-tasker to maintain a 3-hour, late-nite, online chat with a guy. But it’s not something, I gather, most providers want to do for a possible business hour in the future. So I’m feeling like a pampered poodle.
Among the stories about her life and art and family I get to know what makes her tick and she gets to know me. She’s emailed me the unblurred photos of her sweet face and she’s seen mine. She sent snaps of her artwork. She likes my silly reports.
The next day we do the instant messenger thing. We’re chatting all day. When she tells a little story about providing or traveling for a “date” I’m suddenly reminded that we met on a unique little website whose name I won’t mention here but initials are T.E.R.
She’s not a civilian and I forget that. But we’re acting like civilians and I don’t care right now if I’m confused.
If we had met in a pub or at the bookstore and she spent this amount of time with me I’d be forced to come to the conclusion that she likes me. Hell, she’s seen my podgy mug shot…so…she must like me for my brain or something? What else could she get? Cash? (Excuse me while I choke.) Help with her website? (Glad to do it…the investment of her humor and time isn’t necessary for that.)
She called me on my cell late that second night. I knew it was her ‘cause it said her name: “caller ID blocked”. We talked over an hour. Great talk. Lots of laughs.
So a day or so later she sets up her web cam and there she is! Laughing over my computer speakers! She comes to life in choppy living color. After a couple hours she falls asleep in her chair. The headset is crooked on her long hair. I hear her dog licking her feet. It had to be 4am where she was. I watch her sleep for a while. I send her some noisy “audibles” but she’s down for the night. (She snores.) Her granny glasses on her nose. I write a little “good morning” note and head off to bed.
She’s on the wrong coast. It’s not like we have an upcoming “session” scheduled. And if she does travel out here would the date be “civilian” or “professional”? How does “Both” sound? How the heck would “both” work!?
I like her. She’s bold and funny. She forms sexy hard “R’s” when she speaks. She’s an amazing single-Mom and independent thinker. It’s her frankness that’s sexy. She’s hot like Emily Dickinson. The Vivid Speculation guy in me that thinks like a civilian wants to go bowling and take her out for some Cajun.
The VSS hobby-er in me can’t afford a 12-hour date. I’m lucky to afford an hour.
The VSS kicks in hard at times like this. The civilian merges with the hobby-est and I think back to the thread about “dating women who provide” and the question: “Could you do it? Support her occupation with a full heart without any hassles?”
“Yes,” I said to Octavia at the time. “I think I could get my head around that.”
Of course the reality is that I’ll be paying her for my hour or two. That’ll be the best I could do. The downside of VSS is popping the little dream world.
Now, I’d be writing this much about any lady who I’ve met and feel a bit gooshy about. You folks know me that well at least. But a civilian gal probably wouldn’t have access to the graphic reviews of my adventures in the hobby. She wouldn’t be able to do a search on “Report From The Field” to discover my thing for Emma Bond or nipples or whipped cream or rectal exams at the L.A. County Hospital. I mean, this woman has access, uses it, and still enjoys my company. That’s damn special if you ask me.
So I have three conclusions:
1. She wants to paint me nude.
2. She’s turned on by my amazing erudite savoir-faire.
But more likely it’s:
3. I have a new, glorious friendship and it’s too precious for any more words.
The problem with Vivid Speculation Syndrome is I don’t know what is real sometimes. So I joyfully wallow. It’s fun for the libido and can dangerous for the heart. She’ll protect me cause she’s my friend. How’s a guy supposed to turn off that kind of juice?
It’s like that fart at a funeral. Just try pulling the plug on this one. I dare ya.
That’s the Report from this Field.
Love,
Jockeypants.
Oh, and don't listen to the "Faith" CD by The Cure.