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2002-04-07 - 12:57 a.m. In 'Transparency', the first part of a play I did last year, 'The Optic Trilogy', a woman speaks to a social escort she has summoned to her hotel room... Woman: So what kinds of women usually call for you? Man: All kinds. Woman: Specify. Man: I can't. It's a trade secret. Woman: Fat ones? Old ones? Ugly ones? Man: I don't like to talk about my clients. Woman: I'm paying you. Man: You're not paying me for conversation. That's not what the transaction is about. Woman: How much then for conversation? Man: You can't imagine. Woman: So that's what allows you to keep going isn't it? Man: What? Woman: This whole business of selling your body. At the end of the day, you still retain who you are. I'm paying you for your dick. The rest of you belongs exclusively to you. Man: If you want to look at it that way. Woman: In fact, I'm not even paying you for your dick. Only those extra four inches specially required for the purposes of the transaction. Once we're done, you shrink back to normal size, and you can pretend nothing ever happened. It's like a syringe. A disposable four-inch syringe. You shoot someone up with it, she gets her high, she pays you, you throw the syringe away. Man: You know, a lot of women have done a lot of things to my dick. This is the first time someone is deconstructing it. (Pause) Anyway it's an extra five inches. Woman: Maybe I should really pay you for conversation. Man: You won't be able to afford it. A word like 'deconstruct' will set you back at least 50 dollars. Woman: So tell me about those women. Man: I told you, it's not professional. Woman: What do you think about when you're doing them? Man: I'm not going to say. Woman: Does your mind stray? Do you try to recall the first time you did it? That first girl? Someone you loved? Do you close your eyes? Man: Look here. I've told you already. I don't broadcast my little black book to the world. Woman: Do you ever catch anything from them? Maybe not some disease, but something they carry inside their bodies. That part accessible only to the tip of your instrument. Maybe sometimes you get infected by their loneliness. Have you ever? Man: Loneliness is a disease. Woman: And you're the doctor. With your five-inch syringe. Tell me doctor. What are your patients like? Man: No. Woman: What kinds of sounds do they make? How do they breathe? Where do they want you to go? Man: How would you like if one day, I start talking about you to a stranger? Telling her how I walked into your room to find your panties on the table lamp. Casting this monstrous panty shadow on the ceiling like some giant bat?
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