"Can I smoke in here?"
"I'd rather that you didn't."
With a heavy hearted sigh and a heavy handed 'thud' I placed my cigar case and lighter on the glass table. I noticed that the ends of my fingers were twitching... was it annoyance, anticipation, or that sixth cup of coffee this morning?
She had a clipboard today, and those stern horn-rim glasses that made her look older than that jet black streamlined bun and come-fuck-me executive suit implied. What is it about women in suits, do I crave a strong well to do woman in rouge? I reached for my lips unconciously to blow smoke I hadn't been sucking and gave my therapist a falsely injured, incredulous look. She half rolled her eyes, half smiled, and reached into a drawer producing a tin mini pie plate.
"Thanks doll." She hated when I called her that. The one time I slipped and called her doc I swear I caught her gasp orgasmically through that ivey-league puritan visage of hers. So I lit up rolled the crappy dime store smoke till it caught and started blowing smoke onto her white washed ceiling.
"How are we today?" She said breaking my meditation on the intricacies of smoke in a comfortably silent room.
"I want to kill myself," I said with a smile to the dimpled plaster. "-because everyday I wake up alone, everyday I talk to myself or leave the TV on just so I can pretend to have human contact." I finally shifted my focus and caught myself gesticulating with the lit end of my cigar like so many comedians of yore. "Because I can't get it up when I want to beat off, not even when I choke myself."
She put her hand to her mouth and stifled a giggle. We both knew there was nothing wrong with my chronic masterbation. Hell, my apartment complex knew there was nothing wrong with it. I tell ya, it's great to have an open relationship with any beautiful woman. Even if she is your therapist, and she's carved from marble.
"I'm a mess Laura." I said looking her dead in the eye. "I'm twenty five, I've never had a lasting relationship, I'm out of work, and my biological clock-" I flicked dead ash from the tip of my cigar "is ticking faster than my hair is falling out".
"How is all this any different from last week?" She wasn't trying to be a frigid bitch, she just wanted me on track. I put my head in my hands.
"It's not," smoke puffed passed my eyes "that's the problem".
We sat for a while, my eyes staring out the window, hers intently fixed on my mulling jaw and that pesky line furrowed brow of mine. Finally I spoke up.
"I saw you yesterday," the noise had startled her slightly... or my announcement had seeing as how she hadn't gone to work. "The day before that too".
God, I could hear her heart pounding in that white linen shirt from here.
"You only get dolled up when you know you have me scheduled, did you notice that?"
Then there was the gentle heaving of her chest as her lungs screamed for air. I caught her eyes dart slightly for the door, her phone and her drawer. I wondered how fast she could call security, or how fast she could get that tazer tucked neatly under my file. I placed my cigar in the tray, and got up slow and deliberate, as unthreateningly as I could, and that still caused her to start and retreat further into her seat, placing one hand nervous and close to her phone.
"I... I-" she stammered, I took a step closer. Was I going to murder her or rape her, She really didn't know. She should have, she fucking wrote my psychological profile.
"Denton I-"
"Shh" I placed my hand soothingly on her cheek, and bent over her chair as it creeked back under the weight of my arm. The funny thing is, I had been writing a profile of her for the last month. Granted, I never got a degree in psychology, but I knew Laura. I put my mouth over her quivering lips and traced my thumb down her graceful throat. I could just squeeze... until she started beating her hands on my back, ripping at my hair, screaming into my mouth, or I could nibble the bottom of her lip, slide my tongue into her mouth and let her field the next move.
I chose the latter.
I leaned back a moment, grinning from ear to ear despite every effort to play it cool, she seemed to be in a mixed state of fear and utter confusion. Her ruby red lipstick was slightly smeared, her hair was coming out of that bun, and her chest was still heaving blisfully.
"Denton, what you've just experienced is something therapists call 'transference' its where-"
"one's emotions shift from one person I.E. my ex-girlfriends, which is why I'm here, to the analyst, in this case you," I didn't think it was possible, but I grinned even more.
"Right." She said through excited gasps.
"Tell you what, its transference-" she stopped looking through me and looked at me "if you don't kiss me back".
I leaned in for the kill, she didn't fight me as I came in, she didn't fight me as my lips met hers, and she certainly wasn't fighting me when her arms went gently around my neck and she made that soft slightly annoyed moan of surrender.
You know the one I'm talking about, and if you don't, then damn do I pity you.
