She says I’m depressed.
No shit. Really? No PhD needed for that diagnosis.
Even my Mom says the same and I only talk to her once a week on the phone.
My therapist suggests making new friends, trying new things… Maybe joining a book club or a wine tasting group.
I tell her it’s a Kindle age. I have no time to read and George Thorogood summed it up pretty good already, when he sang “I drink alone.”
I tell her I drink to make the day taste better.
She makes a note in her always handy notebook.
Long fingers, short strokes. Always a pencil, never a pen.
Sometimes she licks the graphite.
She favors green nail polish. Like the skin of some endangered rain forest frog.
I’ve noticed. At $35 bucks an hour, I’m paying attention.
She asks if I’m seeing anyone. That’s therapist code for dating/fucking/sharing my thoughts and feelings with another human being while NOT being charged at a professional rate.
I respond truthfully and say only my co-workers, who are all male, one step up from Neanderthal, and herself. I point out that she’s paid by the hour but so are most of my co-workers.
She looks at her watch, scribbles in her notebook, brings the pencil to her lips.
I’ve never seen what’s in her notebook. Never asked.
Therapy session over, we shake hands. She has a very delicate handshake, like her hand is made of porcelain or egg shells. Then she smiles, all pearly whites, saying I’ll see you next week.
I pay at the desk. The receptionist is young, 20-something, about 10 on the cuteness scale, and always smiling, always friendly.
Maybe she realizes I’m clinically nuts and doesn’t want to provoke negativity.
She’s attractive, knows it, and should be selling worthless products on late-night infomercials in a bikini, or else involved in local politics. I’d place an order and/or vote.
After paying for my session, I stop at the bathroom on my way out. I jerk off in the stall, imagining my therapist, her green nails carving into my hips as my cock fills that pearly white mouth.
I think the therapy is working.