We have a special guest visiting today to help celebrate our 5 Year Blogiversary. Author Bey Deckard couldn’t join us, but Max–have you met Max yet? Trust me, you’d remember if you had–has offered to take Bey’s place. And, there’s also a giveaway involved, so be sure to check out the details below.
Hello friends! Can I call you friends? Would you like to be friends? I say we skip the whole getting-to-know-you tedium and jump right into being bosom chums. Sounds good?
Oh, who am I? Well, let me introduce myself… My name is Max. Enchanté. How do you do? Would you like a glass of this delightful little claret? I’m sure there’s enough to go around, and if there isn’t, I’ll just go steal another bottle. Everyone comfortable? Let’s get to why I’m here, shall we…
For this blogiversary extravaganza, my dearest friend Bey pounded out a few uninspired paragraphs about doctor/patient relationships, but it was full of blah blah blah that frankly put me to sleep—not his best work by far—so I felt I would do him a favour and swap it out with my own contribution when he wasn’t looking. He might not even notice right away, but if he does, he’ll forgive me, I’m sure. You’d be amazed what most people let me get away with.
So, let me tell you about some of my doctor/patient relationships… specifically unhealthy relationships. (Though, I’m of the opinion that all shrink/patient relationships are unhealthy. When someone spends that much focus and time learning how to meddle in the minds of others, I think that says a lot about them, don’t you? Oh god, and the way they pat themselves on the back for doing such good… gag me now.)
I’ve seen quite a few headshrinkers in my career as a human being. In early high school, the appointments were mandatory—all I did was show up and nod when the “nice” man signalled I should, answered a few questions in a way that was expected, and got a pat on the head in return. Was this helpful? Well, it certainly wasn’t helping me, and it hadn’t occurred to me yet what an opportunity those meetings were. Aboveboard and boring… or at least most of them were. I did discover late in the game that a little furtive fellatio with a new, more concupiscent counsellor expedited a metaphorical rubber stamp on my records that said “Not Dangerous”. Such fun! And my tongue technique definitely improved.
It was only in my first year of university that I sought out professional help on my own when someone I was grooming to be a personal valet with lovely benefits said quite literally: “What the fuck is wrong with you?” It wasn’t the first time I’d heard those very words, but never with such vehemence. My goodness.
Trust me, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. But what did he mean? My next visit to the shrink was an attempt to isolate and define what it was that others perceived as wrong and see what I could do to ease their concerns.
What a laugh! I became completely fascinated by the poor woman’s seeming fascination with me. Our appointments were all about me and my intelligence and wit and ability to charm almost everyone I… wait a minute. Was she just stroking my ego so that I would answer her questions? Was she manipulating me into divulging the workings of my mind?
Well, fuck that noise, right friends?
And that is how I learned to tailor my responses to extract information out of her. She was well acquainted with what passed for “normal” was she not? Thus inspired, I began studying her responses to my replies. A little tweak here, another tweak there. I found out where the line was that could be crossed, I focused on what she found off-putting and what she found attractive. Though I spent all of our sessions speaking of me, myself, and I (something that bores me quickly), the real conversation was in the way she narrowed her eyes, the pressure with which she penned her observations, how fast or slow she blinked, and finally, the day she let me unbutton her blouse, how hard she clung to me in the aftermath of our perfunctory game of hide-the-salami.
She traded her notes on our sessions in return for me keeping our little tryst a secret… and I’ve kept my word. It surprises you that I can be trustworthy? Interesting.
So, my darlings, after that, I began visiting therapists, psychologists, counsellors here and there whenever boredom struck. (Though never ever the ones wielding prescription pads … I’m sure we’ve all seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?) I’ve seen dried up old prunes who’ve failed to fall to my charms (boooooring) and young keeners who were terribly eager to have me stroke their egos (and other parts of their anatomy). Sometimes I found myself just phoning it in—other times I was stimulated and engaged only to be turned out into the cold when better judgment came sneaking in the backdoor—when I was suddenly, and pusillanimously being referred to “someone more senior”.
Pah! Where on Earth is the good in that?
Thankfully, something—someone—came along… a kindred spirit of sorts. It was like opening up The Economist just to find that someone had snuck an old copy of Bound & Gagged between its pages. Delicious. Delectable! Have you ever wanted to see someone unravel? I assure you, my friends, it is indeed a spectator sport… but I’ve rambled on enough for one day. Besides, my dear dear friend Bey wrote a little book about me and Dr. Crane—isn’t that sweet?
Now… have you finished your wine? Would you like some more? Or, would you like this pearly little pill sitting in the palm of my hand? No, ha! I won’t tell you what it is—that’s half the fun, n’est-ce pas? No? Your loss… All right, I do have to run. I have other rather urgent matters to attend to. Who knew that the head of the Mexican drug cartel couldn’t take a joke? Sheesh.
Toodles… It was diverting talking to you all!
About the Book
Fresh out of school, Dr. Crane takes on a new patient who both intrigues and unnerves him. Charming, manipulative, and amoral, Max has exactly the sort of mind Crane finds himself drawn to with fictional characters.
As Max weaves himself into Crane’s life, Crane realizes that while fiction might be safe, Max certainly is not.
When the professional line between them thins, who gets to define where one man ends and the other begins?