What Do You Do When A Girl Has Trouble Opening Up Unless You're Fucking Her Nice And Slow?

This is an issue I think many therapist and intimacy counselors struggle with; a patient who simply won't open up. It's often difficult to find the key. I'm not suggesting you should go to the lengths I went to to get my patient to open up. And some might cry foul. But to those, I say poo poo. On you. Poo. And I mean that both as a pioneer in the intimacy wellness field and a general person in general.

Isobel Sunday was angry. This is all I knew. She was so angry in fact, she wouldn't even come to my office for a session. So, her parents and I had to get a little creative.

We had Isobel, who was a senior in high school, called down to the guidance counselor's office, where I would be waiting. Her usual guidance counselor, a Mr. Chapney, I believe, was glad to free up his office, having given up on getting anywhere with Isobel a long time ago. Some, including members of the faculty, even joked that Isobel and other difficult students like her had driven him to drink. 

When Isobel knocked, I was standing behind the door. "Come in," I said, muffling my mouth a bit with my cupped hand.

The door opened and Isobel peeked inside. I grabbed her hand and pulled her the rest of the way in and shut and locked the door. As soon as I let Isobel go, she slapped me across the face. Once. Twice. Three times. I grabbed her wrists.

"Let go of me! I'll scream!" Isobel hissed.

"No you won't," I said, bluffing.

"Why won't I?"

"Because if you do, I'm not sure what will happen to you. You see, Isobel, this is the end of the line for you. Everyone is at a total loss. And the next stop for you might be a mental hospital. You ever see One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest? Did that look like a vacation paradise?"

"Hospitals aren't like that anymore."

"Aw, don't let anybody fool ya. They're more like that than anyone would care to admit."

"What do you want from me?"

"Not very much. First, I would like you to stop hitting me. I'm generally a good person and don't appreciate being hit for no good reason. Second, I would like you to sit or lie down on this nice comfy couch. Third, I would like you and I to have a nice, polite conversation. Okay? Can I let you go?"

"Yes."

I released Isobel. She immediately sat down on the couch and put her book bag on the couch next to her and folded her arms and proceeded to stare off. I turned a nice comfy chair toward her and sat down. I reached over for my tape recorder and pressed record and grabbed my notebook and pen. Isobel was still sitting the same way. Her expression was angry and cold.

"Hello. My name is Dr. Mosely Untreu. I would like it if you call me Dr. Mosely. Or just Mosely. Or Mo. Or M." I smiled, slightly.

Isobel remained unchanged.

"Okay. I think we're doing great. Now, where were you when we called you down to the office?"

"Math."

"Would you like to return and maybe continue this at my home office, say, Tuesday at 4pm?"

"Yes. Thank you." Isobel stood up.

I stood up. "Isobel?"

"Yes?" she said, annoyed.

"What sort of things would you like for our session? Any particular music? Incense? Lighting? It's no wonder you wouldn't want to open up in here. Despite your usual Mr. Chapney's efforts, I find it a little cramped and sterile in here. Don't you?"

"I don't know. I like it in here. I like that it's small. I like that much."

"Good. Would you like to maybe stay a little longer? I think you could survive one day without math."

"Okay." Isobel sat back down.

"Would you like me to do anything else? Anything to help relax you. Is there anything in here you could do without?"

"That." Isobel pointed at a big colorful ceramic frog on the desk.

"Done." I put the frog in the desk.

"I've always hated that thing. It always makes me think somebody ate a rainbow and threw up all over it."

"What else?" I asked.

"Those stupid posters." Isobel pointed at all the cheesy posters about teen suicide or pregnancy.

"Absolutely. Wise choice. But before I do that, look what I found in good ole Chapney's desk." I held up an open bottle of red wine and a wine glass. "How old are you again?"

"18."

"Well, that was old enough to drink in 1976. And what's good enough for 1976 is certainly good enough for 2003." I poured some out in the glass and handed it to Isobel. "We'll have to share the one glass. So don't snoz it all down." I looked up at the posters. "Now, for those idiotic posters." I took them down and rolled them up.

While I did that, Isobel set her glass of wine down and got up to shut the lights off and closed the curtains most of the way, cutting the light in the room down significantly. "I don't like so much light," she said.

"Okay." I sat down in my chair.

Isobel sat down on the couch. "I'm a little cold. Is there a blanket in here?"

Isobel's outfit was a bit on the skimpy side, mostly black with a black and pink top, which was partly see-through, showing a blue bikini top underneath. She was also wearing extremely small black shorts, which made her extremely smooth-looking legs seem to go on forever. Then little black sandals. It was summer attire. But it wasn't quite summer yet. Plus, the school was a little on the cold side.

"Blankets?" I glanced around. I looked in a few drawers. "Here, why don't you use my jacket" I slipped off my jacket and laid it over her bare legs.

"Thank you."

"No problem. Music?"

Isobel pulled her Ipod out. But she didn't have a dock for it. I looked around and found a small radio. I turned it on, turning it to public radio, which was playing classical. I lowered it.

"When we meet in my office, we'll have access to more music. And you can bring your Ipod. I'm sure my daughter has one of those dock things. If not, I'll buy one. I've been meaning to update my music technology."

Isobel nodded and took a sip of wine.

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What Do You Do When The Girl In The Skimpy Santa's Helper Costume Keeps Giving You Attitude?

Recently, while one of my assistants, Tommy Two-Times Johnson, was trying to crack the case of the Serial Mall Santa Fucker, it was I, for a change, who had to lend him some assistance. For those of you who might be curious about the Serial Mall Santa Fucker, and for those of you who might want a slightly better understanding of the situation at hand, I encourage you to find the tome, "What Do You Do When Your Girlfriend Turns Out To Be The Serial Mall Santa Fucker," which directly precedes and then coincides with this particular tome.

Here's the crux of the situation. For those of you not from around here, the New England area had been having a terrible time with a rash of sex crimes. During last Christmas, and now, again, during this Christmas, a woman, posing as a teenage girl in a long winter coat, has been going around to the malls and fucking the mall Santas. To Tommy Two-Times's credit, who was posing as a mall Santa at the time, it appeared he might have finally caught the culprit. And now it was Tommy who was gonna dispense a little justice of his own. Tommy Two-Times style. By tapping that Santa-fucking pussy from now 'til Christmas.

The way I saw it, in order for Tommy to dispense his brand of punishment, the way he saw fit, he was gonna need some time. So, his enemy was anything that got in the way of that, which were things like, the mall itself, which was approaching closing time, the remaining last minute parents and kids waiting in line to see Santa, and Tommy's lone co-worker, a very cantankerous girl dressed in a skimpy Santa's helper costume.

Now, there wasn't much I could do about the mall closing. Or the parents and kids waiting in line. But I could help out with this pesky girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume. Especially since she had been so rude to me earlier in the evening. When all I wanted was to have a quick word with Tommy, she intercepted me, insisting I wait in line like everyone else, which added 20 minutes to this supposedly quick meeting at the mall.

Ya see, when Tommy called me to come to the mall, I had no idea what he was up to. And so, when my wife, Millie, who loves Christmas, asked me if she could come to the mall with me so she could get some Christmas shopping done, I acquiesced and brought her along. Upon arrival at the mall, my wife and I went our separate ways so I could do what I had to do and she could do what she had to do. So, naturally, I only had so much time to spare. And that's part of the reason why this girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume, who made me very late to reconnect with my wife, got me so particularly upset.

So, as soon as I was finished talking to Tommy, the girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume shooed me away.

"Next," the girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume proclaimed loudly and coldly. "Next!" she repeated more sternly.

I retreated out of the little wintry scene and over to the pretzel vendor. And just when I was about to take off, that's when I realized, to my shock and surprise, the next person in line was indeed, who I suspected to be the Serial Mall Santa Fucker all along. At this point, she was already on Tommy's lap, with her long, loose winter coat, shielding the world around them, while she proceeded to fuck her next mall Santa victim. Unbeknownst to her, this mall Santa was no ordinary mall Santa. This mall Santa was Tommy Two-Times and she was in for a long ride.

After almost 10 minutes, parents and kids alike started wondering what the delay was all about. Some even left. Then the girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume turned to address the issue. I suddenly slid in front of her.

"Miss?" I asked.

"You again. What do you want?" she asked, preoccupied and annoyed.

"I'm with mall security. I'm gonna need you to come with me."

"What? Why?" The girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume's attitude started to crumble as signs of concern and fear reared their ugly heads.

"Trust me. It'll be better if you don't ask questions. Let's go."

As we walked away, the girl apologized to everyone who had been waiting and said she'd be back as soon as she can.

Luckily, I had a vague recollection of the administration area at this particular mall. And so I led the girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume that way. And due to a bit more luck, I found an empty office there.

"Have a seat," I said, waving my hand at a couple chairs in front of a desk.

"Am I in trouble?" she asked as she sat down.

"That depends," I said, crossing my arms as I leaned back against the desk.

"On what?"

Then the door opened. My heart nearly leapt out of my chest. That is, until I saw that it was my wife, Millie.

"I thought that was you," Millie said. "What are you doing?"

I gestured discreetly for Millie to shush. Then I glanced back at the girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume. "There's the other one," I said, sounding pissed. "You have a seat, too," I said to Millie.

"Okay," Millie said, a little freaked out, but a little turned on. I could tell.

Unlike my second and third wives, Millie wasn't at all threatened by my work. In fact, she was somewhat turned on by it. From time to time, I would even share what happened with a particular client or situation, where I, or one of my assistants, might have to fuck somebody, all in the name of psychological research, you know, in an effort to find the greater good in one situation or another. And the whole time I was telling her, I would be certain Millie would be put off, or possibly upset, like one of my prior wives would be. Not at all. Millie was quite a rare treasure that way. Plus, she was drop dead gorgeous, with dark features, short and shapely with a massive bosom. All of that and she was only in her early twenties. About 30 years my junior. So, yeah, I was also lucky in that respect.

So, back to this girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume. "Now, as a representative of mall security," I started. "It's been brought to my attention that some of the employees in this mall are dressing way too provocatively. Just because the mall is rampant with high school hoochies, it doesn't mean our mall employees should dress like high school hoochies."

Millie smiled. It seemed somewhat apparent Millie was more than a little excited to be drafted into whatever was happening. 

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What Do You Do When You Find A Girl Tied Up In Your Dad's Basement And She's Extremely Hot?

Recently, one of my assistants, Wally Mammoth, shared an anecdote with me and I'm going to share it with you, in case you should ever run across the same thing. As you know, Wally is a student here at the university, who helps me with research from time to time. When he isn't buried in papers and other schoolwork, Wally also helps his father, who is a retired police officer and lives just outside city limits.

Last spring, Wally decided to drop in on his father, which he does from time to time, just to see if there's anything he can help is father with around the house.

Wally rang the doorbell but there was no answer. He noticed his father's pickup truck parked in the driveway, where it had been for months since the transmission went out. Wally said he had offered to help him with it, but Wally's father could be stubborn. He insisted on doing it on his own. Even if it meant going down to get a loan at the First County Bank, where Wally's father had done his banking for years and had developed a long-standing relationship.

Anyway, Wally decided to use his key and go in and wait for his father. Wally flipped on the television and watched some "Threes Company". Just when things were getting good in the show, Wally could have swore he heard a noise, possibly a bell sound, coming from the basement.

Instantly, Wally thought how silly of him. Why didn't he think to check down in the basement right away. His father was always tinkering on some project in the garage or in the basement. Wally made a beeline to the basement door and went down the stairs.

Once on the basement floor, Wally scanned his father's work area. There were no lights or anything. Just the light coming in from the streetlights outside. Wally started to worry. Then he checked the other side of the basement, in the little makeshift room his father had been trying to finish for what seemed like years. Right now, it was just a bare room with painted cement walls and floors.

Wally walked over to the room and inside, to his shock and fright, Wally found a woman sitting on the floor, apparently gagged, with her wrists and ankles bound by rope. The beautiful, but scrawny woman was naked, save for a skimpy pair of black panties. She seemed almost in a daze. Perhaps drugged.

"What the hell is going on here?" Wally thought aloud. At a loss, Wally, just out of morbid curiosity, followed the thick, taut rope up to the hook in the ceiling, where it was locked down tight. Wally shook his head in disbelief.

The woman suddenly looked up, her big brown eyes glaring frantically, as she whimpered in terror.

"What the hell?" Wally said again, shocked.

The woman whimpered all the more, raising her bound hands up to him.

Wally walked over to her and knelt down. He took out his Swiss Army knife and cut the gag.

"Oh, thank you," the woman cried out frantically. "Thank you so much!"

"No problem. What's going on here?"

"That sick fuck!" the woman growled. "That's what's going on here!"

"What sick fuck? What did he look like?"

"He's old. And big. Real big. Like you."

"That's because he's my Dad. But why would he do this?"

"Because he's a sick fuck! Now, are you gonna cut me loose or what?"

"Now, wait a minute. I wanna get a few things straight. First off, who are you?"

"What does it matter who I am? Just get me the fuck out of here!"

I have to say, at this point, I had to agree with the woman being held captive. And I told Wally as much. I asked him the same thing, "Why didn't you just cut her loose?"

And he told me, "Wait. Well. I don't know. She was hot."

"So. When you happen upon a woman who is tied up, you need to untie her. Plain and simple."

"Not always," he argued.

"Not if she's hot?" I asked.

"No. You just can't go around untying every woman you find. What if my Dad had a good reason to tie her up?"

I shook my head and let him continue his story, as insane as it was.

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