Testing Dr. Psychologist

       The man I referenced in my last post, “Dr. Psychologist,” kept his appointment.  

        He brought me a new pair of shoes (what is it with men and SHOES?).  They are patent platform pumps–an unusual cornflower or perikinkle blue color:

Toe Cleavage Rocks.  And I love the almond toe.

   I still haven’t decided whether I really like them or not, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter (thanks for buying them, Dr. Psychologist.  I can’t afford to buy myself much new stuff.  I appreciate it!).  

      When I learned that he couldn’t swim, I held his head under in a big bucket full of cold water.  That always scares people who are afraid of water. Worked like a charm.  They usually can’t take more than fifteen or twenty seconds.  Max. 

     After I lifted him out, I took a soft terrycloth towel and dried his hair and his face and his shoulders.  I took my time.  I made certain that there were no stray beads of cold water running down his torso or into his ears.  I combed his hair back from his forehead with my fingers.  Where are your ancestors from…?  I asked.  What color was your hair before it turned gray…?  

     Then it was time for the finishing act: once he was dry and comfortable, I had him stand and suspend a bucket of water in each hand, arm held out at the shoulder. (I knew he couldn’t do it for long.  Nobody can.  If you want to really humiliate someone, ask them to hold out a pencil at arm’s length for ten minutes.)

      I turned on a dime.  He was lucky that he told me he couldn’t be marked, because otherwise I’d have taken off half his hide.  I paced back and forth in front of him, behind him, berating him, insulting him.  “Keep those buckets up!  What kind of man are you? What sort of weak little creature?  Keep them up!  I told you to keep them up!  You are PATHETIC!” 

        The muscles in his arms twitched, shuddered, started to give out.  I kept pacing, whipping him, lecturing: “You didn’t underestimate me, did you?  Think I was so nice and sweet to you when I toweled you off?  I think you trust me too much.  How can you fear me if you trust me too much…?  I think I need to do something to violate your trust.  I think you’re a fucking fool if you don’t think that I’m more than capable of doing what you clearly need me to do to you.  Are you a fool, Doctor?  Do you feel like a fool?”  WHAP!  WHAP!  “I asked you a question, you fucking chump!  Did you trust me too much?”

        (There is no right answer to that.  There is no right answer.  I have learned very well from the sadists in my life.) 

        He collapsed, and then I let him go.

       While he got dressed, he told me:  “You are very interesting.  There is such a contrast in your personality.  You were so gentle and caring when you dried me off and toweled my hair–almost maternal.  It was almost loving.  I’m not saying that you love me, of course not.  But it made me think of that.  And then, suddenly, such hardness and force.  It was scary.  You are intense.  It was really good!

        I think of it as a sort of teaching evaluation.  

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