Dr. Strangeguy? Is that you?

I know the drill. Go in, ring the bell (how Pavlovian!), go lay on the brown leather sofa.

I go into the room with the little  green light on beside it, showing that it’s open and available. The sofa…is gone. A large oil painting has replaced the prints that I’ve suspected have been torn out of old copies of Down East.  There are a couple of new chairs…rather comfortable looking, but I forgo them to wander over to look at the painting.

Paintings intrigue me. I love to see the strokes of the artist, try to capture the feeling that he or she has attempted to share with the world. That’s why I don’t get Picasso, really. It feels …lifeless. Give me a John Singer Sargent, or any of the Wyeth’s,  any day. Show me some pieces from the Hudson River School, Thomas Cole or Fredrick Church, instead of some modern art that features concrete blocks stacked up strangely.

This painting is big. And it’s trees. Lots of trees. I peer closely at it. There’s something different about it, but I can’t tell what it is. I take a step back, tilting my head.

“Ah, so you like it then, nilla?”

I jump. I didn’t hear the door open. Not a whisper of sound.  I jerk around abruptly.

“Doctor?”  He too is somehow different. His hair is a bit less unkempt (although usually by the end of a session with me, he’s run his hand through it a million times, which always make me giggle inside), his beard is shaved neatly, and close to his face. His jeans do nothing to hide his bandi-legged walk as he approaches me and takes my hand.

“Now, nilla, come and sit and let us talk about all that has gone on with you in the months since your last visit.”

Is there, perhaps a bit of censure in that jovial tone? Okay, so I’ve had to cancel a few visits, but time has been pretty tight for me. Even now, I’m sneaking in here between camp for the teen, and activities for my littles. It’s a constant juggling act.

“What happened here?” I blurt out. “It looks so…”

“new?” He looks at me, waggling his brows. “Well, nilla, I’ve had an uptick in the amount of patients I’ve been seeing; perhaps letting it be known on your blog that you were coming here had something to do with that, eh?”

I clear my throat. I know counseling sessions are usually private, but I had thought that was for *my* confidentiality. I can’t tell if the good Doctor is pleased or frustrated at his new-found popularity.

“So,” he continues, interrupting my thought-ramble, “I’ve done a bit of upgrading, making the office a bit more..appealing. What do you think?” He waves his hand around the office. I nod, and smile. I like the changes. I do. The painting captures my attention once more.

“I love the painting, Doctor S,”  and I point towards the mammoth thing on the wall. “But there is something…strange about it.”

He smiled, folding his hands in his lap.

“Really? What could be strange about a painting about trees?” He is leading me into a discussion on painting? I had thought we’d talk about my fears of becoming a nymphomaniac because I’m always thinking about sex, and sexy fantasies, and seeing sex stories everywhere.

“Well,” I say, conscious that I *am* in a shrink’s office, “I kind of feel that there’s something in there, looking at me.”

He smiles. “But nilla, do you actually see anything there?”

I shake my head.

“Well, then, Ivy is doing a good job hiding from you. Perhaps she’s shy about coming out and asking you to finish telling her tale. She’s waited a very long time to get fucked, you know. And off in the back corner is a mansion with a rowdy group of Doms and subs, just waiting to have a wild and perverted sex scramble at camp…yet you’ve failed to make time for their story as well.”

I sit back in my chair, a bit stung by the implied reprimand.

“You can’t see it,” he continues, leaning forward, his hands on his knees, “but there’s a garage way off to the west. The mechanic isn’t there, he’s at home with a couple he’s picked up, and made his sluts. But not much has been happening there, since their creator ditched them for other “more important” stories.  And let’s not even mention the haunted antique gown that is still flapping in the wind AND the woman stuck for 30 days in a house being a sex slave for a man who has only fucked her once. ”

He sat back in his chair, his gaze at once sharp and accusing.

“Nilla. You’ve let people down. Your readers CARE about the endings of these stories; stories that only YOU can end for them.  Of course, you could drop a bomb on them and wipe them all away, start with a clean slate.”

He pauses, takes a breath.

“I think we both know you won’ t do that, don’t we my girl? You care far to much about all those characters to simply dispose of them. So. Get off your damned ass, and start writing, girl.”

My mouth opens and closes a few times. He glares at me. Really. I mean…really?

“uhm….I’ll start working on the older stuff, Doctor, if you think that’s best. I…it ..you know, Doc, it does bother me to have all those dangling stories out there, unresolved and blowing in the wind. I guess you’re right, it would clear up the guilt and clutter in my mind.”

Impulsively, I leap up and hug him. What a dear man!

He pulls me out of the hug by my hair, pushing me down over his lap and lifts my skirt. It’s my favorite one, all brilliant bold summer colors. He pulls, folds, pulls and folds. It’s a very long skirt. Finally I feel his hand caressing the back of my thigh and I wiggle and giggle a bit.

“Be still.” He orders sternly.

“This will hurt me far more than…oh hell, we both know that isn’t at all true, don’t we nilla? And since you say you’re a painslut, enjoy.”

The swats on my ass were not  gentle, but they did serve as an effective reminder. My very tender end reminded me of all those other ” ends”  left hanging. All those characters left to dangle out in the inter-ether.   I knew now what  I needed to focus on.  Sitting, writing, and *finishing* tales.  Working on them, despite the pain in the ass it sometimes is…and finally get them to where they were meant to be….

…the end.