GIRL 47
HIPPO GIRL
I was on the phone with Crazy Psychologist Girl, who was as whacky as they come. I'd always heard that the craziest people on earth are the shrinks, because, after all, they got interested in the field in the first place out of a desire to heal themselves. A distant relative was a managing director of a well-known alcohol and drug addiction recovery facility. Within a few years, he was on disability for psychological reasons. The looney bin warden became an inmate, complete with padded cell and straitjacket.
In addition, I had my own demons when it came to relationship counselors. Five separate counselors had attempted to deal with the warfare of the my first marriage. I waited for one of the idiots to say, "Obviously, you two need to disassemble this relationship like the adults you are." Never. The marriage counselors simply attempted to smoosh two incompatible people together, inciting violence. Hint, when you ask the husband if he loves the wife, first wait for the word "but" - if he says, yeah, I love her, but [insert bitter complain here], he's lying. Either to the counselor or to himself - for me it was the latter, my hatred of my then-wife lay beneath a thousand layers of denial, and I couldn't even risk looking at it for fear of madness. When a man loves a woman, usually you won't find him in a counselor's office. And if he is asked in a serious setting if he loves her, he'll say, Jesus, yes, why? What's wrong? Or he'll go off about her - "oh my God, she's amazing!" If he's the strong silent type, he'll simply nod. Never will you hear the man in love say the word "but." Hint number two, if the problem is denial of sex, the flaw is fatal. The bomb is armed. The countdown is on. All you can do is plug your ears and run. It could come apart like a nuclear warhead, taking out a few counties. Or it could be a train wreck, raining destruction all along its path. Or it could be a waiting unmarked elevator shaft, into which one of the unhappily married people fall, disappearing from view into addiction or permanent withdrawal or death by their own hand. No doubt about it, marriage counselors should be consigned to the seventh level of Hell with divorce attorneys. Let them spend eternity hurling molten sulfur at each other.
I thought Crazy Psychologist Girl was a simple therapist. That was a horse of a different color. Therapists were long-suffering, caring people. I think many of them immoral, because they have no desire to see their patients get better - because that would surely stop the gravy train. Put it this way. When you go to a golf pro, does he give a FUCK how your swing got so fucked up? "Let's go back to your childhood when you first picked up a golf club. What were your feelings?" No, he critiques it for its dysfunction and then he FIXES it. This should be the philosophy of the American Medical Association. But no, instead, Freud's followers instead take us back to Mommy's tit and Daddy's jealous frown. They are not all wrong to do that, if the person's woes are obviously rooted in family-of-origin issues. But often our mental torments come from other causes. Come on, doctor, address the issue, fix the problem, and send the patient on his way. Too often, therapists dread the term "termination." No more fees.
Crazy Psychologist Girl was gentle in listening to my slightly opinionated laymen's viewpoint. I thought we were getting along well. But then she ruined it by saying she spent most of her time being a relationship counselor. Get this - her patients were upper crust psychologists and psychiatrists who were having trouble with their marriages. One of her most famous couples were THEMSELVES marriage counselors. Jesus, I said, can't you idiots see fuckin' reality?
She got offended, and quoted some code of ethics that supposedly prevents relationship counselors from speaking the truth. Yeah. Really ethical, that rule. And she said that truth would make these people flee counseling. So what, I said loudly. The truth will set them free, even if screamed down the hallway after the patient. We never made up from our tiff over that, so I changed the subject to the idea of us actually dating.
That's when she offered up how dangerous she thought dating was. I should have listened to the sign of this statement she made:
"Any first date I go on is in broad daylight, in a public place that is crowded, like a mall restaurant, with the security guard to take me to my car when it's over."
Pretty crazy. So, I said, no candlelight for you. I knew she would be low probability, but I prided myself on finding diamonds in the rough. I had convinced myself I could detect the slut in the nonsexual profile, the gorgeous woman in the pictureless profile.
So there I am, on the phone talking to Crazy Psychologist Girl, when an instant message window pops suddenly up on my screen. It's from a woman, and her first line is, "Oh my GOD are you HOT!"
I cradled the phone with my shoulder and typed, "Hello, do I know you?"
Crazy Psychologist Girl was on some meaningless boring tirade, requiring no input from me, so I began a typed conversation with the mysterious stranger on the IM.
"I saw your profile on Match. You are really gorgeous."
Thank you, ma'am, I typed. Who are you? Give me a hint.
"Why," the reply came. "Maybe I'll just keep you in suspense."
Hey, I'm getting hit on by too many whales, grandmothers and gay guys to allow you to be anonymous. Tell me your screen name so I can see you.
Finally she agreed. Wow, I thought, she was hot herself, and her profile was that of one smokin' slut.
But there was trouble. I heard Crazy Psychologist in my ear.
"You seem distracted. Oh, oh my God! Are you MASTURBATING????" Crazy Psychologist Girl said it like it was a horrid crime, as if I'd caught a squirrel outside, ripped it open and began to eat it whole, squirrel entrails hanging from my teeth.
I was actually shocked. Not a week before I had been on the phone with Evil Goth Girl. In two phone conversations, we had progressed to the sexual. I lay on my bed, talking to Goth Girl, telling her what to do. Now put the vibrator on its lowest setting and tease your clit with it, I'd ordered.
Goth Girl had moaned into the phone. "Can I touch my clit with it now? Please?"
Okay, I said.
She was breathless. "Are you holding your cock in your hand?"
Yes, I'd replied. She then told me what to do. "Move your fist up and down, slowly."
I countered. Put that vibrator slowly into your pussy, Goth Girl.
She moaned.
We continued like that until she came in a screaming orgasm. I can't do phone sex to the point of orgasm, though. It's somehow inhibiting and difficult to connect to the core of my sexuality. But I'd told her I would finish and call her back, which I did, and she wanted me to make slow circles in the skin of my abdomen in the sticky, warm cum, finally ordering me to lick my finger.
The thing was, with Goth Girl,I'd correctly diagnosed that she wanted to fuck her married boss, and the only thing that was holding her back was not knowing whether he wanted her as much as she wanted him. I listened to the facts, and it was apparent that her attorney boss was dying to fuck her, but feared a sexual harassment suit, which could get him disbarred and lose him the wife and baby. I gave her an excellent strategy. I sent her a porn picture of a woman in a suit by a computer desk, on her knees, sucking the cock of a man also wearing a suit, his fly open only enough to let his huge raging hardon out. In the picture, the woman looked ecstatic, and cum oozed out of her lips and down her cheek. This was obviously her work fantasy. She took one look at it and said, "oh my God, I wish I could do that to my boss." I told her to email the picture to him with the subject line, "the lunchtime I'd like to have" and see what happens. I didn't think she'd do it. But she did. I called her the next day. She'd spent the entire previous afternoon "working offsite" with her boss, fucking and sucking him, and she sounded as happily exhausted as any woman I've ever spoken to. "Thank you," she said. Why, I asked, I didn't do anything. "You hooked me up!" she said.
I really didn't. They were an accident waiting to happen. I just hurried it along. She gave her boss permission to approach her sexually, and he did, and she drew him closer. Needless to say, though she'd been one of my phone sex girls, the date we'd arranged, a "pack your bag" date at her place, where we'd planned an entire first night of fucking, didn't happen. I waited for her and her boss to fall apart, but Romeo and Juliet were still at it two weeks later.
So when Crazy Psychologist Girl furiously asked, ARE YOU MASTURBATING, I wondered what the big deal was. It might be somewhat rare to do that with someone on the to-be-dated roster, but not unheard of.
Still, though, I wasn't in this for sexually inhibited women. Nor frigid ones. I'd done my time in that barrel. So I said to Crazy Psychologist Girl:
"I always masturbate when my psychologist starts getting crazy."
Oh, she'd said.
"Listen, Psychologist Girl, you're too fucked up for me. Why don't you find another relationship counselor and make each other miserable. Hey, you can go to marriage counseling and complete the fuckin' circle."
In the middle of her ranting defense, I hung up on her.
Then I typed inthe whole story to the instant message stranger. She thought it was funny enough to merit giving me her screen name and phone number, but she asked me to follow one rule - no more contact until the date.
Whoa, I said, that's kinky. On the phone she said that she was tired of all the exhaustive pre-date due diligence. It's a date, she said, not a lifetime commitment. My feelings exactly, I said, although it did make me wonder.
At the door of the restaurant I saw her. Her profile had pictures of a slender woman, 5'10" tall, luscious and gorgeous, with a thousand watt smile and gorgeous breasts aching to be sucked, mile long legs begging to be stroked, and the nectar of the gods in between those lovely thighs. In the photo, she stood beside children of preschool age.
The woman who lumbered up to me smiled, then mooed, "Oh great! We both look like our pictures!"
Speak for yourself, Hippo Girl, I thought. I'd never seen quite a "before" picture. She was huge. What happened to the slender woman with the small children?
Just out of curiosity, I asked, how old are your children?
"Oh, they're ready for college. Ready to eat?"
I smiled. Hippo Girl had given me photos more than twelve years old, and those dozen years had been worth a hundred pounds. And what did that say about me? If she thought I looked like my pictures, was it possible that I was as awful as she was?
Can't be, I thought. Her blind spot must be confined to her. Or at least that's what I told myself.
The thing about a hippo for a date is that you can go into the restaurant and pig out without worrying about whether you look like a glutton. We feasted on steak and cheesecake that night, then went to a bar and closed the place. At her minivan, I decided to give her the same mixed signal she'd given me, and I kissed her while reaching for her breast.
"Oh no you don't, mister," she'd said through saliva covered lips, "That'll have to wait for the next date."
I smiled sweetly at her, bid her farewell, and laughed at myself all the way to the truck.
Arrogant bastard, my traitorous penis Tyrannosaurus Rex said. Imagine, you think you can see a woman's soul through email, phone calls and a stupid Match profile. In reality, you can't see shit.
But she lied to me, I countered.
You also say you're a human lie detector, Rex spat.
So this one got by me, I said, shrugging. What's a guy to do?
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