Date: Thu, 4 Apr 2002 19:56:13 -0800
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: A Little Therapy

			    "A Little Therapy"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman


"Zo, what brings you crawling back?"

"I'm slipping, doc."

"And I, ze psychiatrist, am your last chance at sanity, ya?"

"Kinda pathetic, isn't it? Anyway, the thing of it is, I called Ricky
Ilsa last night."

"Ricky?"

"Boyfriend. I called him Ilsa at the supreme moment of passion. I
said---"

"Ah zo? You zaid----?"

"You take pleasure out of this, dontcha, doc?"

"You ah makin it on the side with ah Ilsa?"

"I don't know an Ilsa. To make it worse, I said---This humiliation
thing turns you on, doesn't it?"

Smug laugh. Some goatee pulling. Crossed arms. Not me. Him. I'm
the one in the electric chair, crumpled into it like wadded up
Kleenex.

He nods for me to continue.

"I don't know an Ilsa except for Ilsa She Wolf of the S.S."

"Yes. I remember Ilsa fondly. Tingly in her black leather tights and
stud jack boots the soles of which she made me lick when I was
naughty, little rubber thingies over her massive tits---" Looks off in
complete reverie.

"So tell me all about it, doc. Don't leave out one single hairy
detail."

"What? Oh. You were saying about--ah-- Ilsa?"

"No, you go on ahead. Tell me about the days and nights of
mustachioed Ilsa."

"You were calling out this name, mien heir...."

"Yeah. Anyway, I said 'Oh Ilsa---"  ah 'well....mommy. Ilsa
Mommy I'm coming.' There."

"Your mother? Ilsa was NOT your mother!! She told me she would
never have another man's baby--you PRETENDER TO THE
THRONE! WE HAVE METHODS TO DISCIPLINE PEOPLE
LIKE---" Sticks pipe in mouth to shut himself up. Looks flustered.
That makes me feel better.

"Relax, doc. I'm not your love child or your hate child or anything.
Mom was not named Ilsa. I don't know an Ilsa. I knew my mom. I
wish I hadn't known my mom. She could have been Ilsa. With a
name change. Come to think of it, she married a man from German
descent. Could he have been...."

Puffing mightily. Hail of smoke in the air. Blue fog in front of the
psychiatrist's face. "Go on. Your clock is ticking. Do not be smug."

"Well, doc, I know I'm running out of my fifty minute hour, so--I
said what I said---:"

"Il--her name--and you called her mommy?"

"Yeah. That's about the size of it."

"What is the size of it?"

"The regulation six--hey bub, don't get so cocky with me."

"You ho-mo-zex-uals."

"Now remember, you guys like us this year."

"Zince when?"

"P.R."

"I am not a Puerto Rican you dumkoff."

"Anyway, rushing right along, Ricky did not take too kindly to my
calling him Ilsa mommy."

"Could you not say--her--name again, please? You are destroying
sacred memories of the Fatherland."

"Sure, doc. Anyway, I called him that and he didn't take too kindly
to it. Really let me have it. I tried to convince him that his prick in
my mouth had muffled what I had said. But he split the scene, doc.
He scramvilled."

"You had known him long, this boyfriend of yours?"

"Sure."

"Long time companion?"

"Yeah, at least two hours. Longest time boyfriend I've had. Though
not the longest boyfriend I ever had--hehe. He was--special. He
would have maybe stayed with me another thirty minutes if I hadn't
said what I did. That would be three lifetimes, going by the people I
have known."

"So the point is, my zon?"

"Don't say 'my zon.' That reminds me of the news and I don't want
to be reminded of priests."

"Been diddled in confession?"

"No, I'm just sick of the topic. Can't get away from it. Enough
already!! Everybody's so damned moral about it, I could puke!
Anyway I'm trying to tell you about the peony man."

"The peony man?"

"You could make a career out of repeating a person's questions."

"I do, my--anyhoo....go on with yourself."

"Well, after Ricky left in a huff.... People leave me in a huff all the
time. I hate huffs. I go out of my way to avoid them and you know
what winds up staring me in the face?"

"A penis?"

"I should be so lucky. If you could suck yourself off, you wouldn't
need anybody else. Little cruelty of nature there."

"A peony?"

"Okay, look, doc, after Ricky left in a huff, I went downstairs, after
I dressed of course, though exposing myself has begun to look not
as dumb to me as it used to, anyway, I went downstairs, and
outside the apartment building was some guy selling flowers and I
asked if he had any peonies. And he said--:"

"Zaid what, little man?"

"You haven't see it, it's not little. You want to see it?--god forgive
me, I didn't mean to say that. It's just sex seeps through all of me
now. Like poison frothing out of every one of my pores."

"Your pores, my zon?"

"Yes, fa--no, I mean the guy with the flowers looks at me and says,
'hey, Mac, go ride someone else's skin peony." And then he laughs.
I screamed, I'm allowed, I'm one of THEM, and ran back to the
lobby and heart fibrillating to the elevator, up and into my
apartment. It's like with Jews. We can make jokes about us and it's
legal. Made Mel Brooks a fucking fortune. Anyway. He made a sex
joke. The flower man I mean. He looked like Mother Teresa. Even
so, I almost invited him up. I mean, even when I don't think I think
about sex, I do, and people humiliate me for it. Even when I don't
know why I asked for a peony--I guess cause it is close to you
know what and I get slammed for it. But I didn't mean it. I set
myself up all the time. Who can blame them for taking the bait?"

"Why did you ask for a peony, lad?"

"I'm hardly a lad. You keep changing dialects, doc."

"Can I help it? I'm poorly written. I am a mistake of God. But you
are more of a mistake. What should I call you?"

"God?"

"No, That would be me. So, what did you do when you got back to
your apartment? As if I didn't know."

"I jacked off. I jacked off on the bed and smelt Ricky still being
there and tried to remember his face and I kept thinking of her, kept
thinking of--"

"For my sake man, don't say it again."

"I mean, mommy. Mommy was a nut. I almost went bug house
because of her."

"No, chowder head, you almost went mentally incompetent because
of her. Have a little respect for the insane."

"Am I insane?"

"You've got a long way to go before that merciful thing intervenes.
Now. We have not met for--:"

"14 years, 40 minutes and twenty five and three third seconds."

"Ah, how kind, you were counting the days...."

"I swore I would never come back to one of you. And I come back
to you of you. So, you may know, I wrote this book and it hit the
bestseller list and women read it on subways and busses and my
picture is on the back cover and it makes me feel like a fool when it
should make me feel like the greatest--I take lots of bus rides just to
watch them and--I keep wishing mommy was here to see it..."

"Ah, zee what, my zon?"

"Are you trying for a lounge act in Vegas? My book. Not
my--thing."

"You write a little porno novel called--what was it again?-- 'The
Jack Off Book' and you still call it a 'thing.'"

"Depending on the order of the hours. No, I mean, women read the
book. They read it in the sunlight on park benches and busses and
at restaurants and in subways and it drives me nuts. I go around all
day and I want to say hey I wrote that. But I don't. The book they
love. Me they never heard of. I never knew it was going to be like
that. I'm finding myself stalking not a person but copies of my
book!"

"Ah, we come to the nutburger of the matter, Zen?"

"I've tried Zen. It doesn't work. Tao too. Or are they the zame, er,
same thing? I just keep falling asleep with that stuff. Anyzway, or
anyway, I didn't write my jack off book for women or men or
children to jack off to..."

"You wrote it for mommy to jack off to?"

"Christ....!"

"No, I'm God, remember?"

"Yes, your almightiness. I didn't write it for men to jack off, to or
girls or boys or zebras or llamas with one good eye, I mean I did
but I didn't, and saying llama reminds me of Ilsa....because of the
similarity in the letters....hey, you can't throw your pipe at me.
Damn, that hurt. My good eye too. I should nail you for medical
malpractice. But if I could do that and the impossible happened and
I won, then the whole lot of you would be in jail."

"Give it back."

"Here, zir."

"Thank you." Sticks it back in. Makes me think of sucking dick.
What doesn't? Except I'm the sucking dick. I love my life. With
this dunderhead, I can talk about sex. Why not to real people?

"Anyway, I'm in my apartment jacking off to the memory of Ricky
and the flower seller who looks like Mother Teresa, he could be
her, after all, maybe Mother Teresa got tired of the humble healer
thing, my god, after what she has seen and what she has been
through, I mean, wouldn't you want to change identi---"

"Go on. Ztop dissembling, big shot writer."

"Anyway, or have I dissembled there before?, I'm jacking off to
Ricky, Mother Teresa, and peonies and skin peonies and all those
people jacking off to my jack off book who aren't jacking off to it
at all--I was even on the Today show promoting it, though Matt the
Stud Laurer refused to do the interview because he was far too
moral to talk about that subject.  Jane Pauley was nicer to me
anyway. Flirted a little with me. You know, being gay really attracts
the chicks, ha ha. Then, in my apartment, just as I'm about to squirt
into my hand like almost always save for when I get lucky and you
wouldn't believe how unlucky I am--"

"Exzept for mommikins?"

"You're cruel."

"Cruel?"

"This is worth three hundred an hour? It used to be 25 an hour on a
sliding scale at a mental health free clinic which I remind you was
not free."

"Well, ze haf both come up in ze world, haven't ze?"

"Yeah, anyhow, I started thinking about things critics wrote about
the book--about it being about more than sex, and how it said
something or other, profound crap, I don't know what--I wanted it
to be about sex. Dammit. I mean the fantasy with the gardener and
the maitre d and the maid in the empty house on a sunlight summer
afternoon with all the hard wood floors and fixtures smelling of
Pine Sol or something richer, when the 16 year delivery old boy
walks in on the gang bang of the characters mentioned above and is
invited to join in and they don't have to ask him twice--and boy
does he deliver--dammit, it's about SEX, not the slow melting the
Arctic ice cap--some critic in "Newsweek" wrote it did, you believe
this?--who the hell jacks off to the melting of the Arctic Ice Cap for
cripes sake---"

"You perhaps?"

"Never. Not one single time. I want that on the record here and
now."

"Zo noted."

"Zee--see--the thing is I'm a bum writer..."

"You know in the Magic Kingdom, bum means ass...."

"Zey have lots of them over there. And in America ass means ass,
but that's beside the point, I can't just write things straight out, I
mean I have to be oblique with words. I can't write I'd really like to
suck your dick, until I bury it under  tons of verbiage--until I've
gone around the world--"

"Ilsa was vot good goin round ze world...ah, Heidelberg...."

"Hey, doc, me, here, I'm talking. Anyhoo, I just can't write sex for
anything. I always was like that. I gotta wrap it in lilacs and rose
bushes and last night's errant moonbeams---"

"...peonies? Skin peonies? Chortle."

"You're a cute man, doc. Ever suck off your goatee?"

"You are being impertinent, sir."

"Shouldn't that be 'zir'? You're slipping too, Doc. Anyhoo--"

"God, will you stop saying that.  I mean, Me, will you stop saying
that.You sound like the jerk in those Dell computer commercials.
Coyly cute. Won't rest until everyone in the goddam world gets a
Dell...I mean, when I'm watching plebeian TV,  seeing what the
masses waste their time on; I can't watch PBS only."

"He is kinda cute--the Dell guy--you know, doc, I jacked off to him
one night--I think it's that constant Elvis Presley snarl he has on his
lips that did it--but I did it indirectly, see, I couldn't jack off to him,
so I jacked off to the computer. Cause it's a machine, an object,
and they don't have a word for fucking your computer yet---do
they?"

"Zey will now."

"Name it after me. I insist. Any--way--it comes to this--I wanted to
get America, hell, the world, hot. Over my fantasies. Over my
words. I wanted to make the whole world cum....."

"You aren't going into ze Coke commercial jingle, are you?"

"You knew some things about plebeian culture, don't you, doc? We
could go on the road, you and me. Anyway, I can't go to Kentucky
without going by way of Saturn to get there if you get my drift.
And the non essentials, the permissions in all those flowery words
where inside I'm screwing my mind every way from Sunday, and
wanting someone to screw my body--I want to get really well and
truly laid--I thought they had to do that to you when you were
famous, that it went with the fetes at the publisher parties or
something--another dream shot to hell, and not that I don't like that
they think I'm a good writer, man, that's so truly terrific I can't
begin to tell you, honest, but they're wrong. I'm not a good writer.
I'm a bum writer. I'm taking my own sublimations, which is where
they see my work, and not giving anybody a hard on, I mean I
would like to be a good writer and be jacked off to at the same
time, my book at least. I mean, I'm grateful, but I'd like to be a hot
writer too. I just got stupid enough to come along at the right time
is all."

"And ze problem?"

"I'll go home tonight and jack off to your pipe and your goatee.
Cause you know what your pipe in your mouth and your goatee
under it look like? And I'll feel guilty so I'll not cum, get a limp on,
so then I'll jack off to an image of a pipe cleaner, cause it's an
object and--"

"Fetish, have you ever heard of a fetish, zir?"

"Well, that's out the window. I never put it together. Objects I
can't jack off to anymore. Thanks, doc, you unmanned me years
ago and you've unmanned me again."

"Your mommikins did not get to you before I did?"

"Yeah. Yeah she did. "

"Zo you zink of sthupping her? To get a how you say revenge?"

"I don't know. God, I mean, You, I'm covered with sweat. This
has been exhausting. Now I don't know what to do. I mean,
fetishes, of course I'm not a dummy, I know what they are. I never
knew I had one before. Man the old mind, you try to sublimate and
they got a sex category for that too. You can't win, huh? I guess I
had that little curtain up for my last safe bet, my last safe jack off,
and you've shot that wad cleanly and expertly. Thanks yet again
doc."

"You want to sthup your mummy?"

"No, never cared for Karis, but dammit, now you've killed even
that remote possibility. Look, doc, my momm--my mother never
liked me. I could never please her. So when I sthup--when I was
sucking Ricky last night and said---"

"Please..."

"Would you knock a couple of dollars off the bill if I don't say her
name--"

"I'll knock your teeth down your throat if you say it...."

"Wow, emotions today from a shrink wrap, will wonders never
cease? Anyhow, maybe I called her what I did and then said
mommy because I want to be six again and I want her to cuddle me
and touch me like I'm real or something and then I could grow up
and have sex without the Portnoy guilt and I could write about it
head on and I could not be so screwed up and...."

"Look at all the writers who are screwed up....and they make a
bundle."

"By being screwed up.  I wanna be not screwed up. I wanna be
Henry Miller, dammit! Get great reviews in "The New Republic"
and boys still jack off to it behind the barn too. But I hit it big by
accident. I went round the mulberry bush and some people found
the leaves intriguing even done up by me, and I wish my mommy
had loved me. I wish somebody had. I wish somebody would notice
when they're reading my book on the city busses, would look up
and notice that's me sitting across from them watching them read
my book. I used to dream of that, doc, to be a writer and to look at
someone reading my book and they would smile at me and they
would say hello. Man what the hell does a person have to do to get
said hello to around here anyway?"

"Hello."

"I'm paying you a fortune. You can be generous. If you didn't get
any money out of it, you wouldn't say a word to me. Right?"

"Zadly, right."

"You read my book, doc?"

"Never heard of it. Be serious."


"I got a lump in my stomach the size of a grapefruit, when I
thought I wanted to fuck mommy. You think my analysis of why I
called out to her, (doing your job, doc, I am, right?, but that's how
you fellows work it, the patient does the labor, and you get the
money for the baby and get your secretaries to write the articles on
your patients for the journals and you get the money and fame for
that too and Matt the Stud would interview you I bet) and I might
as well tell you this also, after I said that name which I respect your
right not to hear from lips such as my own, and then mommy, I
said, cried out, while Ricky and I were 69ing, Mommy, I'm coming.
And I cried it like with big boxcar tears running down my cheeks.
Freaked Ricky out I can tell you. Freaked me out too. He dressed
and ran away from me. I dressed, tried to run away from me, and
found me in my own clothes instead, keeps working out like that."

"You are one zcrewed up little ten cent philosopher, you are...
Ximple minded, too, wot."

"You have hit the nail on the head. I am a phony. I am a
prevaricator. I just wish someone would wank off to my book.
Instead of killing me with this 'what a breath of fresh air' in such a
filthy cluttered marketplace as book publishing. I WANNA BE
FILTHY TOO! I'm a breath of terrified air, stilted closed in air, and
of growing into something I do not like, of crying to the peonies I
wish you were all skin peonies and I wish I could ride you to the
break of day. Or the break of neck. Which ever comes first."

"There's the window, my zon. I shall open it if you like. Fifth
Avenue awaits. You might get lucky and fall onto the top of a city
bus and right underneath you is someone man woman boy girl one
eyed llama whatever jacking off to your book, bolstered to the
heights of eroticism, to a desire that is so intense and so magnificent
that he she or it as the case might be just whips it out and goes to
town right in front of god and autumn and the bus driver and the
passengers, and that, my zon, probably will be as close to human
contact as you will ever get in your life, since you know it isn't true
anyway, but you still have the hope, yes?, so go ahead, zay the
word and I'll open the window...."

"No, doc. Don't want you to dirty your lilly white paws."  Patient,
had enough with endless patience, me: Goes to window. Opens it.
The sound of Manhattan below and above dins into his head.
Autumn cool wind blows in. Hot streets blow autumn cool away.
Even this high up. Story of my life.

"One thing before you go...."

One leg out of window, feeling for ledge, of which there is none.

"Your insurance will cover my payments,  otherwise you would pay
before jumping, but one other thing..."

"Yes?"

Both legs out now, I'm sitting on the window sill.

"It'll damn well guarantee a second printing."


"AIEWEEEEE!"


"Dumkopff." Listens to the traffic crunch, the screams, in a long
time the sirens. Placid. Content. Another satisfied customer.

Sighing, doktor lies back in his cushy leather chair. "Ilsa, oh those
were the days, sweet beer garden, sweet memories." As  herr
doktor closes his eyes, takes his pipe out of his mouth, puts the pipe
on his desk, places his hands on his little paunch,  sighs, and dreams
the dreams of the just. And to tell you the truth, one dream's about
Ilsa and the guy from the Dell computer commercial and it is a most
juicy one. Who knows? He might write a book about it some day.
Crazy world, isn't it? Have fun with it.

				  the end