Not to Despair, Buggy Visitors:
Yep, no need to despair or fret. Prof bug, you see, is still busy writing the two follow-up articles in the buggy mini-series that began on April 27, 2008 --- four days ago --- on various kinds of psychotherapies, roughly divided into two major categories: insight-oriented therapies and cognitive-behavioral ones. Most of the two-follows have been written, any delay in posting them due to a recent intrusion: tersely put, in his wanderings around googled cyberspace, the bugged-out prof chanced two days upon a fairly recent book on relational psychotherapy . . . a form of insight-oriented therapy, originally conceived by an American psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, Henry Stack Sullivan in the middle of the 20th century, and increasingly popular in insight-oriented circles --- psychoanalytical or not.
No need to mention the book's title or author yet. After prof bug read a few of the pages available at Amazon, he ordered a copy; it just arrived; he will read through it tonight --- maybe tomorrow if need be; and see what's what by way of additional material for the two follow-up articles.
In the Meantime, Some Teasing Waggery for Your Enjoyment
Yes, by way of enjoyment and titillation --- and perhaps a little insight into what's going on at the HBO forums --- here's some joshing fictional banter that prof bug banged out in about 40 minutes a day or so ago and posted at one of the threads there. In that new, off-the-wall thread, which was started by one of the brighter Gabriel-Byrne adulators --- with, prof bug quickly adds, some natural writing talent that she's working hard on to improve: hopeful even that she might find a publisher sooner or later --- the posters are supposed to imagine scenes in which that adulator and GB strike up a relationship, sexually charged of course, but not just that, and then these same posters project their half-lecherous, half-infatuated projections of their own libidinal-charged fantasies onto both the original poster and GB.
Oops, prof bug just guffawed several seconds at the whole thing. Can't help it!. Couldn't breathe; had to stop for a good minute or so. Seems silly, no?
And yet . . . well, the girls there are trying hard to work themselves into a fiction-writing mood, and the bugged-out prof not only can't object to that effort, he has been propelled by his pedagogical obsessions to encourage them in their struggle to improve their writing skills.
In short, it'st just the sort of mental-tripping adventure an old lecherous pedant like yours truly can't resist throwing himself into . . . his unconscious tugs, intellectual and cock-wise, leaving him no choice. Hence the daft, half-waggish, half-pornographic story that he left at the thread there for the eroticized GB infatuates to do with it as they wish.
The Setting and the Four Main Characters:
The cognoscenti in the HBO forums --- whether the adulating girl/girls or guy/girls (not to forget the lesbian girl/guys and the bisexuals), with prof bug now down to the last of the dumbo Neanderthal-heteros who haven't been driven off by those still hoping to plunge their faces into GB's fab-ass and, they hope, bazooka-packed pecker --- naturally know who the characters featured in this not quite Nobel prize-winning literary piece are . . . three of them, you see, featured prominently in the HBO In Treatment series, with the fourth, Ms. Tushy-by-the-Poet, obligatory according to the rules set by Flirty-Legstrom. Flirty is the chief writer in that thread, though Tushy writes a lot in other threads, fiction and non-fiction. Both are good natural writers; just need a lot of discipline and hard work, plus encouragement, to become adept professionals . . . like four or five other posters there. They also have to learn how to concentrate their reading on talented short-story writers in the contemporary era, like Raymond Carver, Richard Ford, John Updike, and Flannery O'Connor . . . four names and links to their collected stories that prof bug left in another thread there. Yep: concentrate, read a lot, notice the different styles, and . . . well, prof bug will just quote what he left there in that thread;
These are good stories, a nice start --- all of you posting them have natural talent. Really. It does need to be nurtured and worked on diligently by all of you; and the best way is for you to study carefully some outstanding contemporary short-story writers. Look at all they start their stories; look at their styles --- simple or complex --- and their characters (which are entered into by the writer from what perspective?); the settings, and how they're sketched in; the dialogue as reflecting each character's personality; the plot (which has to be simple compared to a novel), with the characters revealing something important about themselves --- but unable to change fundamentally as is often the case in novels. And the emotionally charged insights and revelations about life you come away with from the stories: whether about one or two individuals or a community or a country or the human condition.
Tushy, prof bug should add, gets irked that I don't share their adulatory enthusiasm for GB: his sexy demeanor, his hot bod, his fab-ass, his inhibited, even walled-in sexuality that each hopes to liberate in their fantasies and then, as they say, get down-and-dirty aplenty. Oh well, can't please everybody. Prof bug's own masturbatory fantasies, let us just say, run in very different directions; and for the life of me, he wouldn't be interested in the various women's shoe-sizes or knitting them shawls as presents.
No matter. Maybe it's a girl-thing.
More to the point, the aspiring writers will either undergo the rigorous training and discipline to become polished proficient pros or they won't . . . all depending on their ambitions and driving motive-forces. As it is, they've been getting some bad and misleading advice
The Remaining Three Characters
One of them is Dr. Paul Weston, AKA Gabriel Byrne, regarding whom nothing more need to be said except to remind you that he's a gifted psychoanalyst when it comes to analyzing and helping his patients, but a man totally at sea --- adrift in self-deception, a mid-life crisis he can't even recognize, a frazzled marriage to Kate, hardly any sex life with her, and full of high-coiled escapist fantasies about running away with Laura, a gorgeous mobile male-entrapment device and one of his patient, and living a new life in the Caribbean.
The third character beside Tushy and Weston is Kate Weston . . . a dark-haired beauty with extraordinary goldfish eyes, roughly 41 (and hence a dozen years or so younger than her husband, Paul), who is undergoing her own mid-life crisis, tired of her life-long habits of dependency, mothering, and always catering to Paul and others. Played with extraordinary, eye-popping talent by Michelle Forbes, Kate only appears in three full episodes in the 8 weeks of the In Treatment series, along with a few cameo appearances in three or four more; and yet so riveting and emotionally crackling is Forbes' acting --- showing an uncanny ability to shift emotional gears without losing a heartbeat --- that she steals all the scenes with Paul by themselves and with Paul in couple's therapy with Gina.
Kate, additionally, has a job: she runs a large shelter for battered women, co-dependents, druggies, alcoholics, and some minor offenders assigned to her and her staff's care by the police.
Edward-the-Unknown (Made to Sound Like a Fool in the In Treatment Scrript)
The fourth character, Edward --- Kate's lover in her first affair in 23 years of marriage --- is never seen at all and hasn't even a first-name tag until the 6th week, when Kate refers to it in the first of three couple's therapy with Gina. All Paul knows is that Kate has been sucking and fucking him for several months when the dramatic series begins; then --- in the third week ---- announces defiantly to Paul that she's going off with Edward for a week's trip to Rome. Kate does mention that he, still not referred to by name, heads a large employment office in their city (itself unnamed), and Paul --- understandably annoyed and sarcastic --- begins to refer to him as "the insurance guy" . . . a term of derision, for many people at least, of sleek snake-oil salesmen.
What follows now should be fairly easy for buggy visitors to slide into without much trouble following the joshing fictive badinage. Just keep one more point in mind. Here, as in his other posted stuff, prof bug is toying with the girls' hopeless, adolescent-retarded infatuation with Gabriel Byrne.
PART TWO: THE STORY . . . KATE AND EDWARD OFF ON A FUCKFEST TRIP TO ROME
Off to Rome
The vice-president of Allstate, a former all-American from Princeton and a Rhodes Scholar who hopes to use his post to solve the health-insurance problems that face our country, Edward --- 36 and divorced --- flies off with Kate to Rome for a week of luxury, sight-seeing, and quivering, recurring fuck-and-suck diversions.
On the night flight to Rome, the two of them find themselves virtually alone in the first-class section of the plane. The stewardesses have long drifted off to sleep. For several hours, they give one another blissful hand-jobs, stretch out for some feverish slurp-and-suck, and of course use their imagination (Kate's challenge to Paul when she disclosed the affair) to screw where it counts several times.
Once in Rome, staying at the penthouse of the most exclusive hotel, Kate and Edward couldn?t stop devouring one another every night and half the time during the day . . . Kate, an innocent when she married Paul and thinking his thin sex-repertoire was avant-garde stuff, never knowing what extraordinary surges of delectable orgasmic pleasure could be until she was lucky enough to begin a romance with Edward.
Separate Rooms (Needed: It Emerges in the script of In Treatment)
Only ... well, the trouble is, Edward snored loudly once he drifted off to sleep. And so Kate, however reluctantly, had to move into the living room of the penthouse suite until Edward --- once more awake and craving Kate in ways she had never imagined could happen --- would wake her for torrid love-making on the couch there or under the dining table or in the shower stall or . . . well, you name it, Kate and Edward fucked and sucked in every nook-and-cranny of the penthouse.
Babe as an Endearment
Oh, early in their romance, Edward --- coming for the 7th time in his couplings with Kate --- whispered an endearment that she loved to hear:
"Babe! You set me on fire. That idiot shrink of yours doesn't even remotely know what a gorgeous carnal-gem you are. The guy's a loser. Can't understand what you ever saw in him. With you, I am always up for it. Always. That is not a boast, it is a hard-boned medical fact! And it is you that is responsible for my blood-driven frenzies, my darling Babe!"
How Did Kate Respond to the Endearment ("Babe" Criticized in In Treatment by Weston's Daughter)
Her mind spinning and swirling with searing blasts of orgasmic ecstasy exploding in rapid staccato, Kate --- hardly able to say anything amid her moans and loud groaning pleasure --- managed to say:
Yes, Yes! Edward my darling! I love to be called babe! It makes me feel wanted --- no desired . . . yes, desired the way I used to feel all the time before I met that dumbo husband of mine. Gawd! Is he inhibited --- all talk, no skill. Single biggest sex-turkey in history! Do you know" --- Kate breaks off, another series of blinding blasts of ecstatic energy suddenly erupting in her brain, only to say after several more minutes of ragged breathing. --- "What was I saying?" A pause. "Oh yes . . . well, we'd be in bed, dumbo-Paul and me, and I've been perfumed and would wear the kind of provocative Victorian Secrets lingerie you bought me in New York just before we flew here to Rome --- very very nice, what exquisite taste, you have darling! --- and I'd snuggle up and stroke Paul, and well . . . he'd start telling me what the differences between Freud's therapeutic preferences were compared to Kohut's and Melanie Klein's. I mean --- oh gawd . . ."
Here, once again, hoarse groans of pleasure from Kate's throat blocked out the words, and then Edward --- gasping with joy simultaneously, feeling his come about to break free --- thrust harder and both he and Kate fell instantly into a semi-conscious state of rapture and release.
And it went on for a whole week, this tidal pull of orgasmic blasts for Kate and Edward alike. Forty-one years of age, Kate --- a dark-haired beauty full of emotional depth and bursting intellectual insight into her static, dissatisfied identity as just a housewife and good mom --- had never felt so much excitement and adrenaline-flow and sheer searing pleasure since she had been a teen-ager, dry-humping and slurping in the backseat of sedans at drive-in movie theaters.
And for the first time in decades, she felt the desire and ardor of a fully confident male directed totally on her being: her beauty, her sensuality, her emotional and intellectual depth . . . Edward, among other things, relying on her vast knowledge of Roman history, literature, and language for their daily visits to all of that city's fantastic monuments and museums.
ENTER TUSHED-BY-THE-POET AND PAUL G.B . WESTON
What a wonderfully sex-fulfilling jaunt Kate and Edward had, all week long . . . Edward dazzled not just by Kate's beauty and skills in bed (or on the couch or in the shower or under the dining table or in the corner of the penthouse living room) but her no less dazzling knowledge of Roman art, architecture, and history and the Latin language. She could tell, he was falling in love with her . . . a man in thrall to every aspect of her exquisite beauty, intelligence, and ardent feminine good-heartedness. He was so swept away by his bursting passions and admiration that his pants bulged all the time he was near here, and he had to carry a leather shoulder-bad in front of his crotch when they were out sight-seeing.
An Unwelcome Surprise
Alas, there was one unfortunately moment in that blissful Roman week, full of fun-filled frolicking and adventure.
Late one evening, you see, Kate stepped out of the elevator into the tiled lobby of the hotel and ran into --- well, you guessed it: none other than Paul Weston and Tushed-by-the-Poet . . . a former blond patient of his that she had noticed several times two years earlier enter Paul's office through the garden when she, Kate, had been out washing to family car.
To Kate, an astute, unusually quick-witted judge of character, Tushy --- the name Paul gave Tushed-by-the-Poet when Kate inquired at dinner on the first day she had observed Tushed leave Paul's office by the garden exit --- was an aloof, hard-to-get woman of long-legged, full-breasted self-confidence, just the sort that Paul liked to fantasize he could easily bed if she weren't a patient . . . except that, as Kate told him after she finished her third glass of cold chardonnay (Firestone, Santa Barbara Country, 2006 vintage), Tushy's self-confidence was all bull-shit, a defensive mechanism and nothing else.
"For God's sake, Paul", she said half testily, "can't you see that that blond's self-confidence is all a pose. It would probably crack within seconds of any stressful situation. Hell, she probably can't even have a successful love-relationship with a man beyond a few slurp-and-screw frolics in bed . . . the guy bound to sense quickly that she's got a real daddy problem."
"Huh? What kind of problem?" Paul asked frowning.
"You know, abandoned by her father at 12 or some other betrayal, no father-figure to identify with as a way to solidify an interest and confidence in man beyond his cock. "
Paul looked puzzled. "You mean that she ---"
"You know full well what I mean . . . a young woman with just that particular brand of dysfunction . . . a tasty-little daddy complex where you can sweep her off her feet. A morale booster for you, obviously; but God knows what it does for the chump-woman."
Kate Now Face-to-Face with Tushy-the-Mobile-Male-Entrapment-Device
Paul, Kate remembered now as she stood there on the polished tiled-floor of the Rome hostel lobby, hadn't replied. No surprise there.
The loser had no doubt been lost in some inner debate whether Freud or Gina would have gotten the best of a debate on bull-shit self-confidence as a counter-phobic defense against searing self-hatred. Hell, probably hadn't resolved it even by now. Who cared? At that moment, stunned by what she saw in front of her, Kate stared wide-eyed first at her ingenue-husband and then at the leggy blond whose partly pinned-up hair had fluffed long curly locks hanging sensually own both sides of her tanned face . . . Tushy, out of embarrassment, suddenly pulling at one end of the locks while little red patches began to burn on her cheeks.
"What the hell???" Kate said sharply, her big goldfish eyes still jumped upward in surprise, only to narrow suddenly into a glare of anger Paul's way. "Is this some sort of revenge, Paul --- you coming here with this mall-brat former patient of yours to Rome and this hotel? What do you think you're accomplishing, flaunting your little-girl-in-hand-to-surrogate-daddy this way?"
Clueless as ever, Paul said nothing for a few moments as he struggled no doubt to think of some clever comeback. Then a small smile lifted the corners of his mouth, "Oh, are you angry my dear? Am I interrupting your week sex-fete here in Rome with your insurance guy? No matter. It's all a coincidence our being here. And by the way she's no longer a patient of mine."
He paused, searching for words again, ignoring Kate's hard-boiling stare.
Then said as Kate tightened her hand in a fist at her side: "You see, Tushy here runs a big employment agency in nearby Manhattan and won a bonus-prize . . . a full week off in Rome. Naturally --- naturally! --- she asked me to be her beau-suitor for that week. Couldn't resist, could I? I mean, just look at her" --- he touched her lightly on her full ass, just to provoke Kate all the more --- "any more than I could have known what hotel your insurance guy could afford." Paul's smile widened. His hand moved around Tushy's lush tush in a little cirlce. "And boy, she can't wait to get into bed with me upstairs for the first time. Isn't that so, my little babe?"
Tushy giggled, her embarrassment gone . . . back in her saucy pure-provocation-to-all-males pose. Her eyes riveted Kate's with a look of savvy swaggering challenge.
Kate continued glaring at both of them. "I don't give a damn, Paul, about you and your, your . . . what's your name, little girl? Is it really Tushy? If so, aren't you a little embarrassed to have such a stupid name-tag?"
Tushy moistened her lips with her tongue visible, in a slow, showy way, defiance meeting defiance. "Actually, Kate --- if I can call you that, as I'm sure you'll let me --- it's Tushy-by-the-Poet. Named by daddy, an aspiring poet until he blew his brains out when I was 12. And I suppose you want me to seem embarrassed that Paul and I ran into you here." Her voice was growing cockier by the word, her eyes bright and excited now. Then, even more showy, she slid slightly to her left and began grinding those rich ripe ass-cheeks of hers right into Paul's crotch. "Well, I'm not embarrassed," she went on: ""Just the opposite. You see, if you knew how to please him in bed every night, Kate-my-elder --- new pleasures nightly, my dear elderly comrade, as I supply to all my lovers -- I doubt whether Paul would need to find a real woman like me for a bed-mate."
"Listen, little girl!" Kate said in a savage voice as she moved a step toward Tushy. "I don't care what you and this jerk-off lover of yours do while you're in Rome --- you'll soon find anyway that he's the biggest loser in the sack in ancient and modern history. Feed him to the lions in the coliseum for all I care. Hell, let Russell Crowe and his crew practice their killing-skills on him there. Trust me, you'd be doing a big service to all the women in the world. Just you two stay out of Edward's and my way, you understand?"
And saying that, Kate wheeled about, stepped into the nearest open elevator doors, and just before the doors closed, said to Tushy: "Oh, little girl --- better be prepared. Buy yourself a good dildo or two while you're about and about! Believe me, you'll need it with lover-boy here!" Kate's lips shaped a superior pitying smile. "Otherwise, it's gonna be frustrations-ville for you, kiddo!"
Then the doors closed tightly, and Kate never saw either of them again the whole rest of the week. All the better too. Because she'd be damned if she'd let Paul and Tushy, an amateur writer trying hard to become a pro, ruin her erotic-adventure in Rome for one moment. And to prove it, she stormed back into the penthouse suite, grabbed Edward up from his chair, unzipped his pants, and gave him the most ecstatic blow-job he'd ever had in his life.
And then, wham! Back to her and Paul's house a few days later, where he summons her at will -- when she's not heading one of the most important and well-funded shelters in North America --- to come in lickety-split to his office, fix the toilet, clean up Amy's red-wine spill, and be treated as a menial housekeeper. It's as though the two of them hadn't run off to Rome for some fucking with their lovers, let alone run into one another at the same hotel.
Is it any wonder, thrust back into this repulsive life, she turned in that encounter and asked, "Tell me, Paul, when did you decide to become an asshole?"
Oh, by the way, fellow girls and guy/girls, I --- Chingachook, Last of the Hetero-icans here in these forums --- am sure that Kate wanted to continue the incendiary affair: would have left blockhead Paul for Edward --- his superior in all respects (looks, cultivation, sexual-know how, ability to show continued appreciation for Kate's beauty, charm, and intelligence ) --- except that Edward, just off a bad marriage, hesitated and said that however much he admired and craved Kate, he just wasn't ready for a long-term relationship of an intimate sort that he knew she deserved.
He did offer to go over to Kate's house and slam some sense into Paul's head --- tell him what a jerk he was, how he didn't deserve a female-gem like Kate, how he should learn to show continued commitment and affection to her and share more of his life and interests than he has --- but Kate, fearful that Paul would charge Edward as he had Alex and end up arrested for assault, thanked Edward, tears in her eyes, kissed him briefly on the cheek, and decided that her existential calling required her to return home and enter couple's therapy with Paul . . . a man who had no insight into him, into women, into his wife, into his kids, and who never even heard what she had been trying to tell him for years.
And so, while Kate struggles with herself --- wrestling with her inner conflicts, hopes, and fears in her quest for a new life and identity: far more fulfilling for the remainder of her life than her hand-me-down persona she grew up with --- she continues to see Edward every other evening for ecstatic pleasure, intellectual exchange she can't find at home, and lots of crackling good-humored banter of the sort that prof bug has had in setting out her affair with this admirable fellow.