Case Study #36

Continued from the previous post. Click Here to read the first session with Bexx, a client annoyed by straight people who are confused that some lesbians fancy intimate toys…


Dr. Brian paused in mid-paragraph of the latest article he was perusing, something about curious dysfunctional behaviors among attendees at Nascar events, or some such, he really wasn’t sure yet, and turned his tired eyes to his office doorway to see who was bothering him now.

Lanae stood in said doorway, not so gracefully licking one of her fingers, her tongue presumably in pursuit of a bit of raspberry filling that had rudely escaped Lanae’s latest pastry treat. Goal achieved, she cleared her throat. “That woman is on the phone again.”

Dr. Brian sighed, removed his reading glasses, placed them in an area of the desk where they were least likely to be destroyed by one of Lanae’s random and spontaneous acts of clumsiness, and cleared his own throat. “Would you mind being more specific? Right now the potentiality pool contains half the population of the entire planet.”

Lanae briefly glanced over her shoulder, perhaps to make sure she wasn’t missing anything more interesting on that insipid soap opera of hers, or possibly listening for the pleading cries of yet another donut that desired consumption, we shall never know, then Lanae faced forward again. “The lesbian, the dildos, the airplane. That woman.”

Dr. Brian was amazed. “Are you referring to Bexx?”

“Yes, it’s Bexx!” squealed Lanae, suddenly showing far more enthusiasm than she ever bothered to muster, so we’ll have to assume a gas bubble was somehow responsible. “I knew it was a name that made me want to get out packing tape and shipping labels. Yes, Bexx is on line one.”

“We only have one line, Lanae. And why didn’t you just ask her name?”

“She didn’t give me time! Before I could say a word, she demanded to speak to you and then put me on hold. I must say, she’s not really my favorite person.”

“Very well, then, I’ll take the call.”

Lanae paused. “Should I go ahead and prepare you a nice cocktail? We’ve still got some of that Madonna merlot.”

Dr. Brian shook his head. “That really won’t be necessary. It’s just Bexx, what could she possibly say that…. Okay, go ahead, make one. And send people home if there’s still anyone out there. And then lock the front door.” He hit a button on his desk phone. “Bexx? How are you doing?”

“It’s about damn time!” came a very confident but slightly-disgruntled voice. “Not very fond of waiting.”

“Really?” asked Dr. Brian. “Interesting. Considering you were supposed to call me back from that airplane four months ago. I think my wee bit of tardiness pales considerably in comparison, yes?”

Bexx sighed. “Well, you have me there. But I am still on that plane, if that gets me any kind of bonus credit.”

“Surely you jest.”

“No, I’m not jesting, mainly because I don’t want to ever do anything that can be described with that word, I don’t care for the sound of it. Anyway, I was cleaning out my day-planner and realized that I never got an answer from you. It completely annoys me to have things still pending in my planner. I greatly enjoy checking that little box and-”

“Bexx, could we slow down just a bit? Why in the world have you been on that plane for four months? That just seems like something we should be talking about. Is it a hostage situation?”

Bexx paused briefly to, from the sounds of it, throw a cheese grater against a window. “Oh, no, nothing like that. I bought the plane. It’s mine now. I live on it.”

Dr. Brian did his own pausing, then: “Why did you buy the plane, Bexx? And why am I not aware of your apparently healthy financial resources? I’m offended and stimulated at the same time.

Bexx did something else that resulted in an odd, crashing noise before continuing. “Sorry about the racket. I can never find the damn corkscrew when I need it. I swear there are little lesbian gnomes that run around this place and hide things two seconds before I need them. Hold on.” The phone was abruptly slammed down on a hard surface, followed by diminishing footsteps as Bexx marched away. Was there an issue in the cockpit?

Dr. Brian glanced up to see that Lanae was once again standing in his doorway. “She bought a plane?”

“Lanae, you know very well you shouldn’t be listening in. This is a confidential conversation, a sacred arrangement of trust between doctor and patient.”

Lanae snorted. “Oh, please. I sit right outside your door. I can’t help but hear everything. Well, okay, sometimes you talk really low and I have to pretend like I’m doing something at the filing cabinet by your door, but most of the time I’m innocent. So spill.”

“Sorry about that. Still there?”

Lanae turned and fled, although not very far, and Dr. Brian returned his attention to the phone. “Yes, Bexx, I’m completely at the service of you and your money.”

“Good. Sangria was having trouble getting the stairs to lower and she couldn’t get in.”

Dr. Brian only paused briefly, then “Do alcoholic beverages often have trouble gaining access to your plane?”

“Sangria is my girlfriend,” clarified Bexx, apparently having found the corkscrew after all as a resounding pop echoed over the line. “We’ve been together four months now, and I couldn’t be happier. Well, I could, but that would require the incarceration of certain Republicans.” Sounds of clinking glassware as the now-liberated bottle of whatever had its contents redistributed. “Oh, and you’ve actually met her. Sort of.”

Really? “How so?”

“The last time we talked? She was the flight attendant that was getting on my nerves, all pissy just because I stole her beverage cart, then wanting me to identify my Martina Navratilova carry-on and I had to let you go. Really annoying. But it all turned out just fine in the end.” Sounds of Bexx and Sangria lip-smacking one another in a mini-celebration of the kismet event.

“I see,” said Dr. Brian. “So tell me. What was the issue with your luggage? If you don’t mind.”

“Oh, that,” scoffed Bexx, breathing a little heavy and doing something to Sangria that resulted in both a low growl and a hand-slap. “One of the vibrators I had packed away got bored and thought it would be fun to turn itself on mid-flight. And some crazy-ass, uptight Holy Roller woman heard it buzzing over her head and started screaming about a bomb. You know how it goes.”

“I’m afraid I don’t. Does this happen to you a lot?”

“Anyway,” continued Bexx, apparently distracted by Sangria’s fleshly counter maneuver, “we worked it out. I popped that bag open, whipped out Xena Baby, and shoved it right in Martha Washington’s face. Didn’t even turn it off. I thought Tammy Faye was gonna have a coronary, right there. It was a real hoot.”

Dr. Brian calmly gulped the rest of his wine.

The sound effects coming from the phone suddenly took a startling turn, with someone either having an orgasm or breaking a nail, followed by some clattering of equipment and a sudden echo on the line. “Still there?”

“I’m afraid so. Am I intruding at this point? We can reschedule.”

“Not at all,” chirped Bexx. “I’ve been waiting four months and I’d really like to hear your answer. And so would Sangria.” (Sensual throaty laughter from one of them.) “I’ve got you on speaker now. So go. Tell us why you think lesbians use power tools even though they clearly don’t want a penis.”

Dr. Brian was distracted by movement at his door once again. Lanae was poking her head around the corner, her eyes wide enough to stop traffic, and a slight smile on her sugar-coated lips…



Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series…

Case Study #35

Dear Dr. Brian: “I have so often been asked (by straight boys predominantly) why it is that lesbians indulge in sex toys (for the enjoyment of penetration) when they have so obviously chosen to not include the opposite sex. I have a pat answer I reply with, but I was wondering if you’d even counseled anyone in this regard.


Best to you,
The Bexx


Dearest The,

“I truly appreciate your frankness, and I am nearly vibrating with joy at the fact that you have chosen me for your consultation. I greatly relish the opportunity to discuss in detail the situation you describe, but please allow me one moment while I gather my notes on the matter. Please hold.”

Dr. Brian calmly punches a button on his phone, then viciously jabs a button on another device, one that should open a line of communication directly with his assistant, Lanae, but this did not always prove to be the case. “Lanae!”

No immediate response, but there were subtle sounds of what might be a queen bee ingesting one of her slow-ass workers who had irritated her for the final time.

“Lanae, I know you’re there. I can hear what sounds like chewing. Are you eating again? You know I don’t care for you doing that when I need your assistance.”

Now the soundtrack changed to that of a loud, laborious gulp, followed by a belch that was far from delicate. “How was I supposed to know that you were going to call me right as I was biting into a pastry? It’s from Boudreaux’s Bakery. Chocolate cherry. I was overcome, okay?”

Dr. Brian sighed. “Of course you should have expected me to ring. You just sent me a very direct and graphic woman without any warning. We have discussed this. I was completely caught off guard, nearly spilling my carefully-prepared chicory coffee when she launched into some mess about vaginal penetration. I need to know if something like that is on the horizon.”

Lanae audibly sucked at her teeth, not willing to miss a single gram of sugared decadence. “I didn’t know that she was one of those. She didn’t seem like it to me. To be fair, I was already licking the wax paper I had unwrapped off my pastry, but I do believe I still would have caught a phrase like that. She must be one of those stealth lesbians that are all sweet until they get in the door.”

“So you knew she was a lesbian? You could have at least mentioned that to me. One has to be very careful these days about word-slippage. You didn’t ask her what lesbian issues she might have?”

Now Lanae sighed. “Dr. Brian, I’m not a lesbian. How would I even know what questions to ask? Is there a brochure? You’re the doctor.”

“There’s absolutely no reason to be snippy.”

Lanae, empowered by the violent amounts of sugar now racing through her bloodstream, begged to differ. “I’m not the one getting all heated and bothering people just as they are contemplating a cherry, something this girl hasn’t known intimately for forty years. Besides, I’m fairly certain you can handle this. After all, I’m not the one who was arrested for nudity and possible bestiality in Paris. Shall we talk about that?”

Dr. Brian did not have an immediate response at hand.

“Thought so. I believe I have won this round. Now, I’m going to try eating another pastry without interruption, and you can go determine how you can assist Miss Penetration. We have bills that need to be paid.”

Click.

Dr. Brian sighed once more, then punched at the hold button on his phone. “Miss Bexx?”

Now a third person was sighing, indicating general dissatisfaction for all. “Doctor, I don’t care for that ‘Miss’ title. It’s offensive on two levels, underscoring the fact that I remain unmarried and am therefore unworthy, which is crap, and further irritates me since lesbians cannot get married in most places. It’s belittling. I’m sure you understand.”

“What term or appellation would you prefer?”

“Well, I’m known as ‘Sheba’ in certain circles, for reasons that probably won’t interest you, and for a time I was known as ‘Ovaria’ when I stupidly joined that cult, and one of my exes came up with a few choice labels, post-breakup, that were supposed to be derogatory, but I actually found rather amusing and started using them as screen names. I go by many titles, Dr. Brian, but I suppose for today you can simply address me as ‘Goddess’. Unless you must refrain for spiritual or religious reasons.”

Dr. Brian responded immediately. “I shall be delighted to refer to you as a goddess.”

“Great. That pleases me. Perhaps I’ll pay the bill for your services after all. Now, let’s get back to my original question. This plane will be taking off shortly, and this political grand-standing can be tiresome at the wrong moments. This is one of them.”

Dr. Brian was mystified. “You’re at the airport? On a plane?”

“Lesbians are still allowed to fly, Dr. Brian. Except in certain backwoods countries, where folks fully expect God or Allah or Glenn Beck to smack the plane down if the muff divers get on board.”

Dr. Brian was now intrigued. “So the people around you can hear everything you’re saying?”

“They could hear me, until they all asked to be relocated after I started talking to you. Even the flight attendant won’t come near me, but eventually she won’t have a choice. I’m using her abandoned beverage cart to chill my vodka, and these people are going to get thirsty at some point. Now, once again, let’s get back to my original question.”

“Why is it that straight people are so mystified with lesbians who use lusty equipment to plunge, prod and find Jesus?”

Bexx guffawed. “Very good, Doctor. We’re approaching the same level. Carry on.”

“Well, this does remind me of a story-”

“I’m not interested in fairy tales. Some bitch loses a shoe and gets to marry a prince? Not in my book.”

“I think you’ll like this one. It’s served me well in the past.”

“I don’t know.” (Sudden sounds of a garbled public announcement being broadcast through the plane.) “Well, damn,” uttered Bexx.

“Flight delay?” asked Dr. Brian.

“Well, not really. Sort of. Apparently they have an issue with odd sounds coming from a set of luggage. Probably mine.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Who else on this plane would have a set of designer Martina Navratilova luggage, with the tennis racket zipper pulls? It’s not like this plane is going to Palm Springs.” (More sighing.) “I hope I‘m not gonna get arrested again. I’ll have to call you back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Click.

Dr. Brian stabbed at the intercom again. “Lanae, do we still have that Merlot that Madonna sent us after the incident in Malawi?”

Lanae, not consuming anything at the moment, responded instantly. “One bottle or two?”

“Everything we’ve got.”



Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series…

Case Study #34

Dear Dr. Brian,

What is pea salad?

Thank you,

Soara

Dearest Soara,

What a pleasant surprise it was to open my emails this morning and find one written by your fine and knowledgeable hand. It was a thrilling moment for me, more than compensating for the tasteless, stale bagel that my assistant, Lanae, apparently dug out of the trash and then slapped on a tray with my coffee. (I really don’t know why she actually believes that she can get away with such deception. My taste buds are far too finely-tuned to tolerate nefarious plots of a gastronomical nature.)

But back to my joy, which is where all things should eventually go. My eyes lit up when I noticed your submission in my inbox. My teeth shone brightly as I smiled with euphoria while clicking to open your missive. I asked Lanae, that miscreant tasked with providing me with bits of nourishment and failing miserably in her duties, to find something classical to play over the office sound system so that I could fully revel in the literary delights to be found in your correspondence.

Then my ancient computer stopped whirring and your words were displayed.

Are you serious with this? “What is pea salad?” How could someone of your stature even ask such a thing?

Now, if anyone of lesser mental capabilities had posed such a query, I would have politely explained a few things, fully aware that there are a few unfortunate souls out there, running about in the primordial ooze without any knowledge that this delicacy exists. Pea salad, when created in a professional and expert fashion, is one of the finer things in life, far more satisfying and fulfilling that 9 out of any 10 positions recommended in the Kama Sutra. I am no longer on speaking terms with certain prior acquaintances who failed to understand the importance of a well-made pea salad.

Of course, on the reverse side, it is possible to create a pea salad of such hellish awfulness that one taste of said wickedness can cause a person to snap irretrievably, thus spending the rest of their life in a state-run facility where the staff is never allowed to bring anything green into your padded room. It’s my understanding that until just recently, in some of the more far-flung British colonies, it was perfectly legal to stone a person to death for creating an unsavory pea salad. I can’t say that I entirely disagree with this edict. Some punishments truly do fit the crime.

But let’s shove all that aside, shall we? Because it’s quite clear to me that you don’t care one whit about pea salad minutiae. Despite my surprise that you would bow to doing such, you are actually exhibiting signs of literary avoidance, wherein you mask what you really wish to express in unrelated gibberish, and then you expect me to surmise what it is you are actually trying to convey. It’s almost as if we were married, speaking this language of bait and switch. Last I checked, however, we were not betrothed, despite having spent that very platonic vacation in the south of France where we made our own wine and sunbathed topless.

So let’s get at the heart of the matter. There is something troubling your psyche, but, for whatever reason, you are unable to actually type out your dilemma. This is mid-range avoidance behavior, and we should treat that eventually, but let’s deal with one neurological disaster at a time. If we fix all of you in one or two settings, then I don’t make as much money. We don’t want that, because it makes me cranky when I can’t buy whatever I want, and then everybody suffers. So I’m going to stretch out your treatments until at least the new hot tub is paid for. I’m sure you understand.

Now, as we both are fully recognized by several major intellectual societies, it doesn’t seem possible that you could live with yourself if you didn’t try to give me sly clues to your actual psychotic infarction, burying the hints in your otherwise benign query. Perhaps an anagram or two? Let’s look at this afresh.

“What is pea salad?”

Well, then, anagrams we apparently have. The first is obvious, with “pea” actually being “ape”. (That was almost too simple, since any psychotherapist worth his Mercedes will tell you that most people generalize things in a primate-based fashion.) And following the theorems of the very popular “shared memory” conception of evolution, everything always goes back to the apes. Unless you’re a Fundamentalist Christian. Those folks don’t want anything to do with apes and will change textbooks to ensure there is no association, despite group photos of their family reunions which clearly indicate that somebody in the not-so-distant past swung from a tree or two.

The next word, “salad”, stumped me a bit. I couldn’t rearrange the letters to my satisfaction, until Lanae wandered into my office, wearing a horrid poncho, complete with tassels, for some absurd reason. (Probably as vengeance, hoping to offend me after I snapped at her for serving bread products that had seen better days.) The ugly, dangling tassels triggered a buried experience of my own, and I remembered that I could speak ancient Tibetan. (Long story. Suffice it to say that there was a very extended layover at a small Himalayan airport, and I found a discarded pamphlet in an otherwise dull public restroom, with the leaflet advertising a special society that dressed as Yeti’s and drank locally-distilled vodka. It went from there.)

In any case, the ancient Tibetan word for “fear” is “lada”. Salad = “lada” + “s” = fears.

Soara, my dear, you have Ape Fears.

This is really not all that uncommon of an ailment, although we no longer have near as many cases as we did back in the day, before cable TV, when people just naturally assumed that apes could be found around every corner, along with witches, Communists and divorce lawyers. It was understandable that people at that time would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming about one or more of those creatures, irritating everyone else in the house who had the decency to be emotionally stable.

Now we know, of course, that there is little to fear. Outside of public zoos, strip clubs, and frat houses, your chance of wandering upon an actual ape is very minimal. For the most part, you should be fine, as long as you are wise about not making destination choices whilst under the influence of alcohol. Besides, the apes really don’t want anything to do with humans. They think we smell too clean and over-processed. But the apes are a very tolerant people, and are happy to leave the humans to themselves, with their cell phones and anxiety medication.

However, if it will help you sleep better, we should arrange for more intensive therapy, in case you do happen to find yourself in a strip club with fraternity brothers. It just so happens that the Fort Worth Zoo is hosting their annual Halloween “Boo at the Zoo” event, wherein youngsters run about and try to entice the bored creatures in their secure cages. I can arrange for some quality time in the Primate Hut interior, specifically with a gentle soul know as Vlad. You’ll be fine. But a word of caution: Please don’t compare Rush Limbaugh to a raging ape whilst in the Hut. They really don’t care for that.

Oh, and you’ll need to wear a costume to gain admission. Based on your deceptive email, you seem quite adept at disguises, so this shouldn’t be a problem. Please speak with Lanae at the front desk for ticket-procuring and bill-paying arrangements.

Enjoy your day,

Dr. Brian