This dialogue, which I wrote for a video I am making contains explicit sexual language. Do not read it if you are under 18 or if you are upset by such language. Thanks.

A Little Therapy for Kathy


“I want to kill myself,” she said.

What else is new, bimbo?  No, I better not say that.     

“What else is new, Kathy?” I said.

A bad case.  Incest.  She sucked her father for 18 years; then she sucked her son for 16; and she fucked them both relentlessly.

I am going to have to wing it with this girl, but I can save her.  I can save her like a fucking knight on a fucking horse in a fucking suit of fucking shining armor.  Maybe I will, I like this girl, I like her a lot.  I like her short hair.  I could spend the rest of my life saving her.

 “You’re a good person,” she said.

She is more powerful than the moon, looking at me with her God-damned eyes.  I have seen a thousand eyes like hers in fashion magazines.  God damn it.  Now, I am being sucked in by God-damned Vogue magazine cliché eyes.  No, I have never seen eyes like these.

She fucked a lot of men.  

“It’s too painful to talk about.  I can’t talk about it.  It hurts too much. My son plays war games in his room all day.  He never comes out.  Something is wrong.  I did everything all wrong.”

She isn’t asking me to fuck her, but she would fuck me if I wanted to fuck her.

When she fucks, she fucks for redemption.  I fuck for redemption, too, when I can.

She is asking me to get rid of her pain, but no one can do that.  Everybody who has heard of the God-damned Buddha knows you can’t eliminate the pain, not even with the drugs, and it is not what the Pre-Socratics said, either.  Pain is the first principle, not the water or the earth or the air or the fire.  All, God damn it, is pain.  It’s like breathing.  It doesn’t go away, until the final click.


Do I want to fuck her on the floor or on my desk, my big brown antique desk, the desk I hide behind as they sit and plea?

We are going to fuck on my desk; we are going to sweat; we are going to be beasts; but she would knock the dolls off my desk when I spread her thighs.  She would knock my marytroshka dolls off my antique desk, and she would crack my dolls.  Their heads would fall off.

“All the drugs, doctor.  All the drugs you are giving me.  I can’t remember anything.  I am going to get another doctor.  I hate you.  You never pay attention to me.  You never say anything!”

I should fuck her right now.  She can’t remember shit.  I’ve got to fuck her now, but she could remember.  She might remember, but I have to fuck her.  I haven’t been laid in nine years.  I’m like a fucking Jesuit priest listening to a pathetic confession.

She is a screamer, and a screamer is a squealer, and if she squealed, I would lose my practice.  I wouldn’t be able to eat salmon anymore. 


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