Therapist is a shitty job, especially without pay.

There’s a saying in baseball called “working without a paycheck.” It applies to pitchers who, in the American League, bust their rumps without getting a chance to contribute to their own success from the offensive side of things. They don’t get to grab lumber, step into the batter’s box, knock dirt from their spikes, dig in, and smack a ball into the gap. The same applies to people who open ear and allow friends to stuff it full of tales of men and their evil habits.

“Why hasn’t he called me?”

“Because he’s been hit by a trolley.”

“Stop. Seriously. Why are men so flaky?”

“Do I know this fellow?”

“I doubt it.”

“Then how should I know his reason for radio silence?”

“Are you flaky?”



“Because I’m not blown often enough.”

“Come on.”

“It depends on the situation. Usually, if he’s not calling you he’s either busy or not into you. Next question.”

“Do guys like it when you play with their balls?”

“Gently … and, I prefer this line of questioning. Physical shit is easy; it’s the cerebral conundrums that stump me.”

“But, you’re a mature man. You should understand how you work.”

“Yes, I should. I know I like blowjobs.”

“Christ. What else?”

“Salt and vinegar potato chips.”

“I mean what else sexually.”

“Everything else sexually, with a side of ranch dressing.”

“OK, why does my man insist on only spending the night at my place.”

“So he can leave.”


“Hey, if you don’t want to know the answer …”

“Fine. I hate him.”

“Yes, you should be a lesbian.”

“You wish. Why do men like watching women touch themselves?”

“It’s the same result with less work.”


“Can’t we sit here, sedate ourselves, and discuss something other than my inherent flaws?”

“Sure. Ask me something about women?”

“How far can you pee?”


“Seriously. After four beers, I swear I can piss an arc that would rival The Gateway Arch.”


“So, four feet? Five?”

“How should I know? Women don’t do tests to see how far we can pee.”

“Well, you should. Say, have you ever squirted?”

“No. Shut up.”

“I once farted during an orgasm. So embarrassing.”

“Yet you’re not too embarrassed to tell me.”

“I didn’t fart on you.”

“Men. Conversations always degenerate.”

“OK, ask me another psychological question.”

“Do men fantasize?”

“All the time.”




“Wing sauce.”


“Yes, ass … and boobs and boobs and more boobs, all attached to a woman who can’t believe how wonderful my penis is.”

“But, not necessarily the woman you happen to be having sex with at the time.”

“Probably not.”

“So, why wouldn’t you be having sex with the woman you’re fantasizing about instead?”

“Because, even if the clouds parted and this angel descended from the heavens, she’d wind up doing something annoying to ruin it, like asking me to talk afterward instead of sleep.”

“Now I’m glad he hasn’t called me. He’d be thinking about someone else anyway.”

“Right. I’m glad you’re learning. Our session has expired. I’ll pencil you in for next Friday. Will you be paying with cash or blowjobs?”



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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.