Remote Therapy Pt. 01

My phone buzzed inside the laundry basket beside me. It was muzzled underneath my sweat-soaked running shirt and shorts. I was sitting on the toilet, no intention of using it, just somewhere to down the last pale purple dreg of my smoothie while waiting for a phone call. I had a therapy session scheduled at three-thirty which was just moments away.

Since quarantine had been mandated by the state, companies transitioned to remote work whenever possible. My therapist had been mandated to offer phone sessions. Our phone sessions started two weeks ago. During our last session I asked if she was home, but all she disclosed was that the work location was remote. It might have been an order. Maybe it was a personal decision; perhaps she knows something about myself that I don't.

I've been seeing her for the past five months. She's my second therapist. My first therapist left the organization to start her own practice. God bless her—she helped me get through a lot. My current therapist, Judy, was her parting gift.

Most would probably say that Judy's on the plump side, but the weights distributed favorably, pooling in her chest and in her rear. The rest of it seems to trickle down her legs making them look thick and firm. Wavy black hair extends down to her shoulders. Her gray eyes gleam at you like the Silver Surfer when the light hits them right.

I've always preferred girls that were "filled-in." Not that that matters in this case. If you're shopping around for therapists, I'd advise against one that you find physically attractive. It's way easier to open up about your porn addiction to someone you'd left swipe on Tinder without even considering their bio. Unfortunately, I swipe right on everything. But I guess that's because I'm a fiend. Once I came across a pet rock with bright rouge lips and thick lashes that curved upward to no discernable end. Although, what really did it for me was their self-classification as a pet . . . and those googly eyes.

Anyways, I accept the phone call and then stretch my arm up to pull the string that engages the bathroom fan. My parents are downstairs in the living room and I don't want to take any chances of them listening in on our conversation. Fortunately, they barely speak English and wouldn't understand much . . . . I guess I'm just weird about privacy.

"Hey Peter, this is Judy, are you free to talk now?" She begins.

I'm free as hell; I practically planned my day around the call. This pandemic has dampened my responsibilities and I've been drowning myself in anime while combating desires to drown myself in whiskey. I told her that last time.

"Yup, hi Judy, I just finished a run. I've got time," I respond.

"Oh, nice." There was a brief pause. "I wasn't aware that you were a runner . . . Do you run often? Are you a distance runner or. . .?"

"That's cause I'm not actually a runner. My gym is closed and before all this I'd solely depend on it for exercise. Plus, I yearn for the outdoors. If I don't go out, by the end of the day I feel like what I imagine being an actual slug is like. Running kills two birds with one stone essentially."

"That's great, I'm glad that you value exercise." She paused for another brief moment. "Why do you think it's so important to you?"

This all felt so beginner to me. I think she was still adjusting to this remote-therapy business. She already knew that I valued exercise, we've gone over it. Usually we'd get into the good stuff quick. You know . . . crippling social anxiety, substance abuse, my myriad of short-term relationships.

"Judy," my voice was low and hesitant. In hindsight, I believe her strategy was to fire off basic questions in hope that an uncanny answer would form the basis for a greater conversation, but at the time, I took it as a cheap trick—just running out the clock. I'd been watching some real crude stuff on the internet lately. It seemed like for these women, the women in the videos, arousal went hand-in-hand with worthlessness. I began to think if my therapist was one of these types. Are there subtle cues that'd reveal whether a particular woman enjoyed crushing men's balls with the heels of their stilettos? Was there something in the way a woman walked that told if getting taken from the back while their head and hands were locked between a pillory, was a blissful experience? If you asked my dad, he'd say that all women enjoyed crushing balls.

"I had a very depraved thought before you called," I finally continue.

She asked what it was. I wasn't planning on revealing it, I just got anxious and didn't know what else to say.

Conflicted about replying, I meditated on the white noise the bathroom fan was producing. I wished for it to suck me up like steam during a hot shower on a winter's night.

"It's ok if you're not ready to reveal it to me." There was a tinge of sadness in her voice. She wished I was supremely comfortable with her no doubt; enough to dispel even my most absurd musings. In the past, whenever I'd reveal some of the more scandalous things that surrounded my life, her eyes got all fixed and hawklike. She'd stop spinning her fidget ring and lean toward me with her legs crossed. In these instances, behind her painted lips I imagined a tongue as wet as a dog's, though thoughts of her arousal were dreaded and mouth-drying because I'd wonder if I'd be able to fulfill the level of pleasure she desired if it ever came down to it.

After a few soundless moments passed, I said I was ready.

"I want you to know that this is exactly what I've been avoiding. I've been successful at keeping you uninvolved. However, I'd like you to know the type of thoughts that have been running amok in my head lately. It seems important. The gyms are closed. I'm finding it hard to channel what I've managed to suppress for so long."

She urged me to go on.

"These remote sessions have been like our normal ones, apart from the fact that I can't tell if you're spinning your ring or not. The phone dampens your voice—makes it softer, sweeter. And I can't help but think of you. Unfortunately, my mind has a mind of its own and it doesn't simply picture you how you always are—spinning your ring while calming my storm . . . ."

"I understand. Your routine has been disrupted. Undesirable feelings often arise when one is alone for a prolonged period of time. Please go on."

I was looking for something else in her voice. It hadn't changed since the start of our conversation. I thought my last bit of dialogue would've shifted it in some way.

"Okay . . . So, in my dream, I imagined you seated at a desk. Similar to the desk in your office, just with more . . . I don't know . . . ornaments? Cute little framed photos of your kids—stuff like that. I don't even know if you have kids. But you know what I mean. Is that where you are? At home?

"I am seated at a desk."

"Okay. That's good. I'm not. But I did imagine myself beside my desk during this dream.

"I've been real lonely as of late. In a way, it's by choice. This old flame texted me the other morning telling me to come over. I messaged her a week ago—around the time the virus was really starting to gain traction. She'd been unresponsive till yesterday, and I'm thinking that she had become bored of all the other jokers, their junks throbbing outside her apartment door waiting for it open. Her skin is nice enough, but her dull mind and unapologetic racism make her lips taste bitter. Yet, in some sick way—we can psychoanalyze this in a later session—this bitterness turns me on. In the past I could separate body and mind like slicing a half-moon cookie down the middle, choosing to eat one single-colored side. But as I got older, this became increasingly difficult. Now it's like I have Parkinson's and I can't get a clean cut in. I can't get the dark without some of the light and vice versa.

"Yesterday, I was in bed watching Blade Runner while cradling a small glass of whiskey. The level of pour was constant at two fingers, but I kept refilling the glass. I was cold in my room and as I sipped, it felt like blankets were weaving themselves over me. Eventually, I became so numb and comfortable that all I could focus on was the feeling. I had to pause the movie because it was essentially distracting me from my drunk. So, I laid on my side gazing at the wall. For a good five minutes I internally reveled about how amazing I felt having this thick liquid blanket over me. And then suddenly, as if someone prodded my brain with an electrically charged pitchfork, the blanket was torn off.

"I paused the movie right after the scene where this bounty hunter pins his bounty against a window and proceeds to force a passionate kiss onto her. Considering that she's not human, he feels that force is necessary to convince her that this is in fact what she wants. Harrison Ford, who plays the bounty hunter, seems like a lowkey dude in real life. I'm saying that he's not the kind of guy you'd expect throwing women against windows, even if they're robotic replicas.

"Most people would say that I'm meek. I don't think I'd ever be able to grip a woman by the shoulders and throw her against a window unless she explicitly instructed me to do so.

"If Harrison Ford is anything like me, performing this scene must've been invigorating.

"I think a lot of the quiet guys secretly admire the pushy dudes who get with tons of girls that later call them assholes. It doesn't seem to matter though, because the girls often continue to sleep with said asshole. If a girl called me an asshole and still proceeded to peel my pants off, I think I'd feel everything I wanted to feel since being bullied in middle school."

I was talking for a while now and needed to catch a breath. Moments after I paused, she herself took a breath and then spoke.

"You mustn't be harsh on yourself. Routine is big for you. This pandemic has broken that. If we have time, we'll get back to the half-moon cookie and Blade Runner, but for now I'd like you to continue. There was this daydream that you insisted on sharing. . . "

The bathroom door began to shake; it's loose knob rattled as the person behind it didn't sound pleased.

"Your dinner's getting cold!"

It was my mom.

I pressed my phone against my chest to mute the microphone. I don't remember what I yelled in return, but the tone carried enough to not receive a response.

"Judy, I think you're very pretty," I resumed once Hurricane Mom had abated, "you could say that I'm attracted to you. And your voice. It's nice enough in reality, but over the phone it adopts this dry, sensual whisper-like quality. Like a breeze off of Lake Powell. And my mind can't help but respond in a disorderly way."

"A natural way," she inserted.

"Perhaps . . . but all this shit I've been watching, it's not natural. It's all acting. It's all fake. After the money shot, some director who's pumped out hundreds of these scenes, tells a team of people surrounding a girl who's still wiping goo off of her face, to wrap it up and head home. Animated porn is the same. After an animator has deformed the proportions of a female character's body for the millionth time, he'll go home, eat dinner, and lay in bed next to his normally-proportioned wife."

"I've become what my eyes have been consuming—garbage. And I'm upset because my depraved mind wouldn't spare you.

"Minutes before your call, I imagined myself standing on the footstool that's currently in front of me. There's a ceiling fan in my bedroom. My desk is to the left of it, my bed is to the right. My head is about five inches from the fanlight. In the dream, the footstool is on the floor directly beneath the fan and I'm completely and utterly naked.

"This is where it gets immoral. I know you're my therapist and this is your job, but I still feel like I need the green light from you."

"I've had patients turn over guns in my office. Sometimes you read me your journal entries and my eyes well up. There's a box of tissues next to me. I don't own a bullet-proof vest. This I'm prepared for.

"If it'll make you feel better, and I think it will, please proceed."

I smiled at the fact that reciting my entries in the past had moved her.

"What did you do with the guns? If you don't mind me asking." I didn't want to seem like I was creating a diversion but curiosity had overtaken me.

"I'd keep them in my drawer till the session was over."

"Then you'd give them back?"

"Then I'd give them back."

I couldn't imagine bearing the anxiety of being with an individual whose circumstances have convinced them that bringing a gun to counseling was the right move. It certainly made my problems feel small . . . and so I continued.

"In the dream there's a noose around my neck. The other end of the rope is tied around a fan blade. My cock—sorry—it's long, veiny, throbbing, and it's impressive. I've halved a tab of my father's viagra and threw it back with a shot of whiskey at three PM. I start to feel ashamed that I'm placing my fate in your hands. But it's too late, I feel committed. A half-hour later, my entire right arm starts vibrating. I'm clutching my phone with such intensity, I feel the buzz in my shoulder. It's you. Right on time. I pick it up. You usually lead in the beginning but after we exchange greetings, I get right to it.

" 'Judy, I've put myself in this peculiar situation,' " I start.

I don't remember the exact dialogue so well. I've never been good with memorizing lines. Every time I try to back an observation up with some profound quote, I always end up butchering it and looking like an ass. I tell her that I'm just going to improvise and leave her parts out.

I take a deep breath and take it from the top.

" 'Judy, I've put myself in a peculiar situation. You certainly don't deserve to be on the receiving end of this call. If you were my girlfriend and I walked in on you having sex with my hypothetical brother in my own bed, this would make more sense. But you, you're just trying to help me love myself. Why am I burdening you with this choice? No, let me rephrase that, why am I holding the gun and forcing your finger in the trigger hole?

'Before you object, you need to trust me when I say that you can't talk me out of this one. If you don't comply with my demands as I give them, I'll for sure pull the trigger. Above my desk is the fan switch which my fingers are now grazing gently. I'm imaging the little toggle, the figurative trigger, as one of your nipples.

'Let me recap the scene: I'm standing naked on a footstool underneath my ceiling fan with a noose around my neck that's tied to one of the blades. I think there's a decent chance that my neck will snap before the weight of my body breaks the blade. I can't say for sure though. It might be a total fail and cause one hell of a ruckus that'd leave some explaining to do. Surely, one of my parents would rush upstairs to see what the fuck is going on. And once they opened the door they'd see their frail naked son sprawled across the floor with a rope around his neck that ends at a broken fan blade which must've taken out some things in my tiny room due to momentum.

'Now without further ado . . . Wait, what are you wearing?' "

"A white blouse and a black pencil skirt," the real Judy responded.

The irony in her response was that that's what the Judy in my dream was wearing. Having her answer in the same way it was scripted shook me. My jaw loosened and was overtaken with a novocaine-like numbness. My dream had spilled over into reality. I had to persist and move quickly if I wanted it realized to the end.

" 'I know the exact outfit you're referencing,' " I continued. " 'I want you to unbutton that skimpy satin blouse. Don't shed it completely, just unbutton it. After it's parted, I want you to slide your right hand up your stomach to your chest . . . real slow . . . think of a rattlesnake shedding its skin. Once your hand has reached the destination, it'll be faced with two choices, to envelop either the left or the right breast. I don't care which, but it's important that you choose just one.' "

At this point, I drew a blank to the rest of my script. I'd say my recitation has been at least sixty percent accurate thus far. In my defense, I haven't exactly had time to practice.

The principle of stopping now seemed objectively lame given that I had gotten this far. I started to improvise, continuing where I left off.

"Let me explain the importance of choosing just one. I was in San Francisco two weeks ago as you know. In the middle of the city, there are these two peaks. The gap between them is small. If you had a good arm, I think you could actually throw a baseball from one peak and have someone else who's on the other peak, catch it. But don't quote me, I'm notorious for underestimating these kinds of things. Anyways, what I mean by this is, I was able to run down from one peak and run up the other without stopping to catch my breath. What I'm trying to get at is that although I thoroughly enjoyed the stunning expanse of the city and the Pacific from each peak, I wasn't able to appreciate both of these views at the same time. I had to run from one peak to the other. One hand can't fully appreciate two breasts at the same time. It should perpetually be drifting back and forth between them."

"You make a fine point . . . but I've got two hands."

"You've still got an entire city down there to explore though."

"Go on . . . . "

"While your right hand is perpetually drifting from boob to boob, your left hand should make its way into the "city." There's a fortress around it. I don't want you to blast through it. Slowly part the gates.

"Once you've reached the edge of your skirt, I want you to grip the hem and hike it back. As far up as it can go with one pull. You shouldn't be able to see what's hidden underneath, but your fingers must have full reign."

I paused to consider how I'd proceed. The reality of arousal is that it's largely beyond one's control. It only struck me now that her responses were probably no realer than the porn I depended on.

"We've come to a point where I can no longer rely on commands." I decided that persisting was futile. "A man's demands only go so far, and given the complexity of women, this isn't far at all. I can't dictate arousal. That's the beauty of it. I'm not going to sit here and pretend that you're actually aroused, when in reality your pussy's probably drier than El Paso in August. And that's not a shot at your pussy, I'm sure with the right stimulation it gets as wet and gushy as an Amazonian waterfall. I know those metaphors were lame. And I don't want to pretend anymore. Our time's probably almost up anyway."

"I'm pulling my tiger-print panties aside," she said, ignoring my resignation, "my fingertips are pressing on my clit, gently dragging it in a circle."

"Tiger-print?" I questioned. In hindsight, a shitty response. But I was so dumbfounded by her will to play along, I seemed to forget that this was exactly what I wanted.

"It's not El Paso in August, baby."

And then my therapist moaned. A real drawn out, guttural type. Like she hadn't been touched in years.

"Welcome to the jungle!" she howled.

This was followed by a series of quick, high-pitched moans that turned to cries as they accelerated. After those had abated, a succession of three deep spaced out breaths. The procession concluded with another drawn out, guttural moan. As the line became quiet, I sat atop the toilet in awe, morbidly confused about what had just happened.

Thud! The noise shot through my ear. Judy began to cry quietly. It sounded far away and distant. The type of crying associated with warm tears. I looked at the time then chucked my phone onto the bathroom counter. It slid into the sink. The time had read three fifty-seven—three minutes left in our session. As I stood up, the tip of my penis caught the inner rim of the toilet bowl seat, setting it off like a spring door stopper. The space now felt cold and I began to shiver. I turned on the fan heater and sat down on the floor in front of it to catch the warm air.