I remember a weekend that my Dad actually indulged in his visitation rights; he decided that we would come over to his condo at Hanover. He was having a party and he was going to be the Chef. He fancied himself quite the galloping gourmet’. Actually, he was a very good cook, not in the same league with my Mother, but a much better cook than most fathers.

      There were a lot of times when we were with our Father, whether it was at his house or if he took us to a fancy restaurant, he liked to hob-knob with what he called the “Jet Set”, you know, very wealthy people. Back in those days, my Dad made a lot of money and since my Godfather, his best friend had become a multi-millionaire, my Dad also liked to hang with the same crowd that hung out with my Godfather.

      My Dad would often surround himself with big shot bankers, lawyers, artists, real estate developers, celebrities, and professional sports stars. He had more than a few pictures of him with celebrities, such as Frank Sinatra, (The Patron Saint of all Italians that grow up poor and make it big), Ricardo Montalbán, Big Gino Marcetti -- the former professional football star, and so forth. My Dad was, and still is a very charismatic man who loves to be both the gracious host and the center of attention. I think he was a bit of a closet paparazzi

      He was always bragging about how all of these ‘friends’ of his made lots of money. Each of his friends was dressed expensively and sported razor cut hairstyles and obviously used high-priced grooming accessories.

      In one of the rare times my Dad decided to give me some Father to son mentoring he said, “The two most important things in this world are money and pussy!”

      I was startled that my Dad would be this raw with me, since I was only fourteen, and it kind of made me feel uncomfortable, a bit creepy. Yet, to be honest, on another level, I felt more than a little thrilled that my Dad had taken the time to talk to me “Man to Man” about the nuts and bolts and other intricacies of the world of men.

      During these gala events, my Dad use to introduce my siblings and I to each of his friends. He would give us a bit of their resume’ and then brag for them about how well their sons or daughters were doing in sports, school, or how fantastic an income they made at a prestigious job.

      Many of his elite friends sent their kids to Harvard, Stanford, Yale, Wharton School of Business, Haverford, and various other elite schools. His friends use to laugh and brag that their children’s tuition was costing them a pretty penny.

      Some of his friends had bragged that they had brought one or more of their kids into business with them or helped to set them up in a lucrative business, (Something that James and I always hope our Dad would do for us).

      Whenever my Father would regal my Brother, Sister and I with the achievements of his friends kids, we felt as if he was insinuating that unless we also succeeded with those same types of achievements, we would be shit. When my Dad was finished giving us a resume’ of each of his friends and their kids, he then would regale his friends with our achievements.

      Except for my Sister, my Dad would greatly exaggerate what James and I were doing in our lives. That was because Lynn was actually quite studious and doing well, while James and I were doing worse than mediocre.

      With my Brother and I, my Dad was forced to gloss over and focus on saying things like James is a mechanical genius and could take apart anything and fix it. He would tell his friends that I read lots of books and had an encyclopedic memory about animals. My Dad also made it a point to tell them that I was a football star at Upper Merion, (I was not), and he felt the need to even exaggerate my physical prowess.

      It felt odd to me that as he held court, he would glowingly describe my achievements of the games that he never saw.

      Lynn, James and I often felt like we were part of a dog and pony show, with my Dad fucking with the special effects because reality was not impressive enough to show his friends.

      After dinner, I would tire with hanging out with my Dad and his friends. As a kid, I preferred to hang out with adults, but now it was different. As a kid, before my parent’s divorce, my relatives like to talk about life, the obstacles they faced, and how they overcame them. My Dad’s adult friends spent most of their time at these events as an exercise in self-glorification, or often they prattled about things that even at my age I thought were superficial and meaningless.

      To be completely fair, it was also my sexual drives that compelled me to leave these events and visit a girl who lived in my Dad’s complex of condos. I was compelled to follow my loins. I will call her Susan.

      Susan was about a year older than me and had a body built for sin. She had short straight blond hair cut in a sporty mod look that was popular in the day. I thought, despite her having a bad case of acne that she was very pretty.

      Aside from my lustful drives, I felt I had also connected with Susan.

     We would compulsively indulge ourselves with kissing and heavy petting. She was quite taken by me and quite insecure about her acne problem. She told me that because of her acne, her parents were going to put her on birth control pills, which supposedly was suppose to help clear up the skin condition.

      Susan made it very plain to me that once she was on birth control, we would both be enjoying the side benefits of the medication, (Wink, wink! Know what I mean? Wink, wink!).

      But, until that happened we would have to content ourselves with her jerking me off while we kissed and me playing with her ‘pussy’, formerly known as a Pee-pee hole until we both convulsed with orgasms, over and over again.

      I was impatient for the day that Susan and I could have intercourse; after all it had been two and a half years that I had been with Carlita.

      On this one occasion, I invited Susan to come back with me to my Dad’s condo and I did this for a few reasons. The first reason was that I really like Susan’s company, and the other is that I was hungry again and my Dad kept the chuck wagon open whenever he was entertaining guests. This was important to me since I still focused on my stomachs need’s. It was apparent to my Dad and his guests that I was in the throes of a lusty crush with Susan.

      Later my Dad decided that I needed another “Man to Man” talk.

      “I see that you’re sniffing around with the little squirrel”, he said referring to Susan.

      I was embarrassed and did not feel up to talking about Susan’s and my relationship.

      He continued in his gruff voice, “She’s a hot little number, she’s got all the boys in the neighborhood swarming around her.

      I must admit, she has got a hot little body on her. Although, with that skin problem of hers, she’s got a face that only a mother could love! Hey, what the hell, he added, any port in a storm jitterbug. That’s what I always say, any port in a storm!”

      I burned with humiliation and outrage that my Dad would dare to be so inconsiderate of my feelings about Susan, to infer that Susan “had a face that only a mother could love.”

      My Dad’s face was flushed with more than his share of alcohol as he leans in to speak in conspiratorial tones, “She wants you to fuck her! You got to go for it, and you better not fuck it up! But you better damn well wear a rubber when you fuck her.”

      I was almost choking with discomfort.

      “Don’t you dare fuck her without a rubber. A lot these young squirrels will talk you into fucking them without a rubber. A lot of them also want to get pregnant just so they can snag you.”

      “My Dad went into a rant, “If you fuck up and get her pregnant, you better not come crying to me, because there is no way that I am going to be a Grandfather and support some little bastard when you should have been smart enough to put a raincoat on your little man. I don’t need the agita.”

      That was my Father’s and I first discussion concerning the facts of life.

      He slaps me on the shoulder, gives me a wink and said, “Capesse?” And I did understand. I was not at all surprise that he wanted me to have sex with Susan.

      For my Dad as with a lot of fathers, their sons having sex at an early age somehow brings kudos to them. I didn’t know why this was, but it seemed to be true.

      I also understood that my Father would never be party to taking care of his grandchildren. In my mind, there was never any confusion on this matter since I still smarted over his neglect and disregard for us since the divorce.

      Later, after the party, I still struggled with what little remnants of craving, my desire for both my Father’s love and for some of his mentoring. I craved to learn how I could best navigate through life. I felt anxiety over the fact that I had not been performing very well in school and I was fearful about how I was going to make my way in the world. I worried about how in the hell I was going to do as well as the children of his friends.

      My Dad said, “Look, no one ever taught me or showed me anything. I had to learn on my own. That’s what you’re going to have to do. I don’t have time to sit you down in what little time we spend together and show you what it takes. It’s not my fault, your Mother wanted the divorce.”

      I felt dismayed, “But you could tell me what you can when we do get together. Couldn’t you ask your rich friends to teach me what I need to know?”

      “They have their own families to worry about, besides, they are too selfish to help other people, all they care about is themselves”, my Dad’s voice was disdainful.

      “I know that no one taught you, I know that Grandpa didn’t help you, but couldn’t you teach me what you have learned on your own? Couldn’t you ask your friends for advice and teach me what they have learned?”

      My Dad’s parting statement was, “Everyone’s got to learn for themselves, everyone has to pull their own weight, chew their own leather. No one ever helped me.”

      As my Dad drop us back at my Mom’s house, I felt sad at what he had told me. I felt uncertain as to how I would make my way in the world, and as I settle down for the night I heard an echoed whisper of his voice in my mind, “Any port in a storm jitterbug.”

      That was the second to the last time I ever asked my Dad for advice. Because of his dismissal, it never occurred to me to ask anyone for help or advice until I reached my thirties, and only when they wanted advice from me on certain matters. Only then would I feel comfortable with bothering someone for advice in areas of their expertise. Mostly when it was a “tit for tat” or “quid pro quo” situation.