I lay on my back in a darkened room wearing a green hospital robe. The moment I relinquish my control to a doctor I regress into the womb. I feel safe and looked after. I want to suck my thumb.
She must have taken 100′s of pictures of my testicles. The offending lump is black and solid. She reassured me that the blood was still pumping through my testicles so thankfully they were not dead.
She said that the ultra sound wouldn’t really tell us anything, that a biopsy would. I wondered why I was laying there. Spending unnessesary dollars when all I would eventually have was a biopsy. I will do as I am told and wait for the doctor’s opinion but in my head I am already at the Whitstable health center.
Dinner last night was delicious, the conversation lively. We talked Michael’s upcoming film projects and Sharon’s book ideas. I sat stonily quiet about what I want to do next..I really have no idea. Michael lives in the Baron De Meyer’s house..De Meyer died in it in 1949. Isn’t that cool? Adolph de Meyer, the great fashion and portrait photographer, famed for his dreamily elegant portraits of Mary Pickford, John Barrymore, Lillian Gish, George V and Queen Mary. In 1913 he was made the first official fashion photographer for American Vogue.
The producers called from CNN again. They asked me to appear on the same HLN show as yesterday, giving me only a couple of hours notice. This time I had to have an opinion about the season three winner of American Idol Fantasia and her ‘overdose’. As I pointed out..if you are serious about killing yourself you throw yourself under a train.
I am sitting eating a full English breakfast at SHLA. One of the waiters is particularly beautiful. The tragedy is: I don’t want to sleep with strangers, look at pornography, flirt or intrigue because I know what it feels like to be with just one man..and whether it is THAT man or someone completely different I want to know who I am with.