Free Electroboy by Andy Behrman

causing how I feel every day I wake up, whether it’s anxiety or depression, and I feel like they need to operate on me. I don’t want to open myself up and get infected by his psychoanalysis in this shabby office and die on his fake Oriental rug. I’d prefer to be lying naked, covered by just a sheet, on asteel table in a big white room with a white ceramic floor and bright lights, talking to my psychiatrist. The door to his office opens. “Come in,” says Dr. Levitt. I sit in my assigned seat, the tan leather-and-chrome couch, in my customary position—my legs spread-eagle, leaning backward. I’m still drinking my chocolate milk. Dr. Levitt sits about five feet away from me, notebook in hand. He smiles, remains silent, and looks at me to begin the session. It’s a contest between psychiatrist and patient. I stare blankly at him, but after about thirty seconds I start laughing. Patient loses. Dr. Levitt doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t laugh because he doesn’t know what’s so funny and because he has no sense of humor. There is another silence. To ease the tension, I give in quickly and tell him that I have nothing new to talk about and that I’m just as anxious and depressed as I was the week before. His therapy obviously isn’t working. Or
I’m
not working at my therapy. As I speak, he looks down at his pad, takes notes, and mumbles, which annoys me because I’m not sure that he’s really listening or that what he’s writing on that pad is even about me. Then he looks up, leans forward, and asks me, “Andy, how do you feel today?” I pull my legs together, sit up straight, clasp my hands, and think about this one. I’m insulted because he knows the answer, but I give him a response anyway. “Like the fucking pressure in my head is building up and is going to explode any minute,” I tell him. He presses me further. “And what exactly does that feel like?” he asks. I refuse to answer and slump back into my original spread-eagle position. He takes a sip of his coffee and waits for my response. This session is never going to end. He attempts to bring our focus back to the issues we’ve been discussing over the last few weeks. “Is your relationship with Allison in any way like your relationship with your mother or sister?” he asks me. “Sometimes,” I say. “But I don’t feel like talking about that now.” He wants me to update him on my financial problems and career plans. But to me this is missing the point; I’m not seeing him to problem-solve. I’m suffering and I’m withholding information and am not very open about the derailment that is really going on in my daily life. I’ve lost my golden-boy self-image, and I’m not about to admit itwith this simpleton. And more important, I’m not able to articulate the intensity of what’s going on inside my brain anyway. So I just sit on the tan couch staring at the ugly brown and blue rug hoping he will magically help me understand the pressure I’m feeling. I take a tissue from the table in front of me and pretend to blow my nose; I try to throw it in the garbage can but miss, so I have to go pick it up. I look at my watch. “You have more time,” Dr. Levitt says. The next thing I know he’s talking to me about narcissistic personality disorder. “Can we save that for next week?” I ask him. “Fine, it’s your time,” he responds in an easy manner, which makes me feel rather guilty. I stand up and walk out of his office, passing by his next patient, a frightened-looking girl in her midtwenties, and a woman I take to be her mother, anxiously awaiting their appointment.
Triple-XXX Live Acts
    The third week in December, Brent Cummings is appearing at the Follies, and he wants me to come see him there. I stand at the top of the steps leading down to the entrance and, as usual when I’m at a porn show, I look around nervously before I descend. I take one step down. It’s like I’m putting my foot into an icy-cold swimming pool. It’s