How I Knew I Needed To Stop Seeing A Certain Therapist

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So I see a therapist on the regular. I’ve been through maybe…five(?)… since the mid-90s. There have been some good ones that should be credited with my continued existence, and a couple of “eh” ones that ended up just being amusing anecdotes from my past. The following is about one of those.

While working in Wakefield for a number of years, I began seeing a gay male psychologist in not-even-nearby Beverly. Therapy wasn’t going well. Mainly because I wanted to sleep with my therapist. He was a burly salt-and-pepper sort who constantly wore snug trousers that highlighted his broad buttocks and he would laugh at my jokes with a boyish giggle that sent me (and my genitals) swooning. Our arrangement wasn’t very therapeutic. This became evident during one session when he confessed that he had “trouble being professional” around me. Oh, good. Like I inspire you not to do your job? I’m too far gone to take seriously? People wonder why I drink so much.

But I liked being a patient that he looked forward to seeing, even if it was just because I was an extra amusing part of his day. Being the class clown makes me feel like I have a reason for being around. That feeling was one of the reasons why I was IN therapy. So you see the cyclical dilemma I was experiencing with this therapist.

My attraction to this dude grew more and more. I started to seriously debate whether I could land him or not, and then thought about what a special moment that would be in my life. Torrid! And seedy when you think about it. I would be the wanton slut who caused a man to defy the Hippocratic Oath just so he could show me what those trousers were holding so snugly. It didn’t help that, back at the office, more than a few co-workers told me that they had crushes on their own therapists. So it was an office full of neurotics that were all fantasizing about nailing their shrinks. Our Christmas parties were legend.

My crush on my therapist, and the perceived sexual tension between us, was slashed to ribbons one day when he called me fat. He didn’t just come out and say “you’re fat.” And he didn’t try to broach the subject in a therapeutic, counseling-type manner. It was something he had been secretly thinking and that he accidentally blurted out.

He was leading me through guided meditation, designed to relieve stress and be “in the now”.

A transcript:

Shrink: Your eyes are closed. Now take some deep breaths. Hear the sound of my voice. Follow what I say.

Me: *breathes*

Shrink: Picture a ball of light. It’s warm and comforting. It starts at the tip of your toes. It moves across them, taking away all your stress, all your pain. Now it’s rising and moving slowly and gently over your feet. It’s healing light absorbs all the fatigue, and all the negativity. Now it’s reached your ankles. You can feel the light reflecting upwards. It’s so soothing and warm. You’re beginning to feel totally relaxed and at peace. Now it’s going past your calves and it’s reached your knees, healing as it goes. Absorbing all the tension. Now it’s at your big thighs…

Me: *my eyes popped open* WHAT? Did you say ‘big thighs’? *incredulous*

Shrink: Sorry! Sorry, just – I meant…your thighs…close your eyes again and let me guide you back…

I looked at him for a second. The sonofabitch was SMIRKING. He was blushing. But he was also SMIRKING. And then he gave that giggle again!

My eyes closed again, as he tried to talk me back into that halcyon meadow or whatever and the ball of light came back. But the ball of light was having an issue. The ball of light barely emitted a glow now BECAUSE MY THIGHS WERE TOO FUCKING FAT TO ALLOW IT TO CAST ANY LIGHT ON THE REST OF MY BODY. This bitch just threw shade at my fat legs! I didn’t feel at peace. I felt betrayed! He was looking at my thighs and thinking “damn, he’s got some pudge on those ham hocks” and then accidentally said it!

I decided then and there that I would no longer be utilizing his services. And that his buttocks were not “broad” but “fat, fatter than the fattest things!”

Now I only see lesbian therapists. They could give a shit if I’m fat or not. Or if they do, they’ve got the internal editor switched on to “THINGS NOT TO TELL HIM”.

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3 Responses to “How I Knew I Needed To Stop Seeing A Certain Therapist”

  1. Butt Bro Says:

    “Big Thighs” is not a bad thing, I have been told that I have “big thighs” before also been told that I have a “big butt”, I take all that as a compliment.

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  2. leilah Says:

    “Big thighs” can be a great thing/remark, but in a therapeutic setting it’s only (a) “big thighs” (negative) or (b) “bi-ig thighs” (positive … very positive … but also negative … VERY negative). If I’d been in the same place as you, with (a) I’d have done the same; with (b) I’d have responded, we’d have done-the-do and then I’d still have dropped him, as he’d have proven too weak for hero-worship–and that’s all we really had.

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  3. shannonhumphreys Says:

    I like big meaty thighs on a man. NOM! Regardless, whether he meant “Fat” or, “NOM” he was waaaay out of line and a bit of a cuntwaffle to boot. Smirking? I mean, c’mon. At least be embarrassed by your complete lack of professionalism!

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