My therapist tells me my problems stem from being molested as a young boy by a Catholic school nun. I nod my head listening intently. Instinctively my eyes clamp shut as my blood pressure climbs. Unseen, a top layer of lead fillings are being ground to a rancid tasting powder; I can hardly bear hearing this again. Torn between tears and laughter I grip the seat beside my thighs and hang on for the ride.
Therapy was never something I thought I’d enjoy. My initial resistance came because it was mandatory, ordered by the court as a segment of substance abuse treatment. Now I view the sessions much like my time in prison: priceless entertainment.
“When we left off you were describing how you arrived at work feeling a sharp pain deep in your rectum.” I squirm in my seat as Ms. Sophia turns a page in her notes. “Upon further investigation there was incessant bleeding from your anus. Reflecting on the hazy events of the prior evening you call home and speak with your wife who confesses to drugging and invading you with her dildo. Knowing this, what she is capable of, how does it make you feel?”
I truly like Ms. Sophia. She is sixty-four, was born in Jamaica and lived most of her life in the United States. Her accent is present, however now that I’ve become accustom its hardly noticeable and somehow soothing. During our sessions she does one of several things: asks a question then fights to keep her eyes open - blaming the condition on her eye drops; gulps coffee while scribing copious notes; or relays personal details of her life or… someone else’s case.
“I’m not positive,” I interrupt, “but I think the nun situation is Mr. Catalano… and the dildo penetration… I’m almost certain that’s Zamperelli.”
Ordinarily I would have let her go as long as possible but today, with the ass-play, I was compelled to cut her short... -STAY TUNED-
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