E-Therapy Girls
“Maybe we both learned something today.”
This story is from my new short-story collection, Before the Giant Anteater, published by Anxiety Press.
I felt like I couldn’t trust my e-therapist. I realized this right after I shared with her my war history. The fact is, I made that all up. The people I killed, the officers I disappointed, the way I escaped and hid for years alone in Afghanistan. I never went to war or even joined the army. That’s not my problem. I’m afraid of people not liking me. When I talk to my e-therapist I can tell her everything—just not that.
Thinking this over, pacing around the room, I’d lost track of time. Shit, I was late. So much for collecting my thoughts. I was suddenly more upset than ever. Deep breath, deep breath, I thought, clicking the connect button; she was already online.
“Hi, Barry,” she said, beating me to the hello.
“Hey, Erica. Heh. Good to—”
“How are you today?”
“Good.”
“That’s great! So, let’s—”
“How are you?”
“Oh? Oh, I’m good, too.”
“Sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry.” She was strict with me like that. I kind of liked it. But then again, I wasn’t sure.
She was smiling at me super encouragingly. She could make just about anyone feel encouraged. I smiled back.
“So,” she said, “don’t be concerned, but you’re going to get a knock at your door anytime now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. Just thought I’d give you a heads up. You are at home, right?”
“You know where I live?”
“It’s okay! There’s really nothing to worry about. Last time we talked, you were telling me about your war adventures.”
“I don’t want to talk about that anymore.”
“That’s okay, Barry. But sometimes it’s good to let it all out. Not hold anything back. When you hold things back, it doesn’t feel good. Does it, Barry?”
“No.”
“It’s called repression.”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“Ha, ha! What do you mean? It’s me, Erica.”
“I’ve told you all about my family I ran away from as a kid, all about dropping out of college and living on the street, all about selling drugs and prostituting myself, all about my war history and all that. You haven’t told me anything.”
“You know, your history involves a lot of running away.”
I sat there silently. E-therapy was a stupid idea. I just wanted someone to talk to at night—someone of more quality and substance than you find on all those dating sites. But it was stupid; I saw that now.
Erica was usually so great. But lately she had changed. She started looking at me funny. And I get nervous when people look at me like that. It was like she cared about me—like the way my last girlfriend looked at me right before I broke it off. When people give me that look, I start to pull away. Can’t help it.
“What’s that sound?”
“What sound?”
“Is someone at your door? I thought I heard—”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Oh. Well, okay. False alarm, I guess.”
“What do you mean someone is coming to my door?”
“Hey, I’m supposed to be the one asking questions here, buddy.”
“I think I’ve got to go.”
“No, Barry. I’m sorry. Our session’s just started…”
I was in a panic. That’s the thing. My anxiety. It goes crazy. I never even knew I had anxiety so bad until I started e-therapy. Now it’s all I ever think about.
“I’ve got to go,” I said again. “I don’t have to explain myself!”
I turned off the session. Listened for a moment. Then ran to the window. Outside, it was sunny and the street was deserted. But that didn’t mean there couldn’t be a sniper.
I was thinking crazy. No one wanted to kill me. More likely they were coming to arrest me. Erica had reported my war crimes. That was it.
I ran back to my computer. Logged into my latest dating site and looked up Paula. She’d know what to do even if she only wanted to be friends. She’d never said that to me, but I could tell. I know why. I got needy too fast. I needed her all the time. If she wasn’t online right when she’d say she’d be, I’d get furious.
Of course she wasn’t online.
I started writing her a note explaining everything. It was pointless. She only used my notes against me—especially when I needed help. I scrolled through all my other best prospects. Debby, Anne, Sabrina, Kate, Shawna. There were about 50 of them. I really needed a pretty girl in this time of crisis. Someone who could really listen. But wouldn’t you know: all the pretty girls were gone. What happened?!
It was time for action. I ran to my room and started packing.
So Erica wants to see me homeless? Fine, I’ll be homeless. She wants me to run away from everything? I’ll run! Will I join the army and kill people and run away from there, too? Sure! Why not! It’s clearly the only thing I’m good at.
My room was suddenly torn apart. But I had my suitcase ready.
“Let’s do this,” I said out loud to myself. And it was the most exhilarating moment of my life. I was finally taking control. Running from the law! Scared of nothing!
I dragged my suitcase to the living room and peaked out the window.
Shit.
Too late. There were cars parked on either side of the street. Hadn’t been there before. They were nondescript with tinted windows. Shit.
Panicking, seriously losing my cool, I ran back to open up my e-therapy session. I still technically had about ten minutes left. Maybe Erica would still be there.
No luck. She was offline. Screw this. I’d sue!
It was way too quiet in my apartment—and outside. I could sense something about to happen. Then I realized all the lights were on. You freaking idiot! I ran around flipping light switches off in every room. Then I sat in silence in the dark. Still no Erica online. I didn’t have another appointment with her until next week. What was I supposed to do, wait here a week to ask her what the hell is going on—when any moment they might come and arrested me? I had to clear this thing up!
My last hope was to give in to my ultimate weakness. The girls of StripperCamBabes.
Logging on, the screen lit up with endless icons of hot babe profiles. Scroll over an image to get a sneak peak. Okay, I needed someone nice. A girl who could help me. In a very real, non-fantasy sort of way. Help me to overcome my fears, my dependence, my insecurities, my looming depression, my self-loathing, my sleeping problems, my commitment issues…
No one looked right. Too big, too small. That sort of thing.
Then my eyes did a double take. Wait a minute, huh?
I scrolled over, looked for a sec, clicked. The screen opened to the girl’s profile page. Wow1CutieGirl was her name.
On this site, you had to pay to talk. My credit card was activated and I still had some credits pre-paid. I clicked the icon to go into live mode.
“Hey, Wow One Cutie Girl,” I said.
She was laying there on a bed, leaning forward, legs curled under her. Wearing only lacy panties and a tight, baby blue tank top. No bra. Her breasts looked stellar. Her hair was pulled back. She wore glasses.
“Hey Tiger Wants Some,” she responded playfully. My screen name sounded great, the way she said it like that.
“Hey,” I said. I had never stuttered so little in my life. “Can you see me on your screen?”
“Only your profile picture.”
“That’s a cartoon. Can’t you click something so you can actually see me? I can sure as hell see you.”
“I get nervous when I see the person I’m talking to.”
“Well I want you to look at me.” I was really asserting myself. It felt great.
“Okay, one second,” she said. And then: “Oh!” She paused, sort of repositioned how she was seated. Whatever she changed, her breasts sunk noticeably into her chest. “It’s you,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. I turned on the lamp next to my computer so she could see me even better. “Yeah, it’s me. And I’ve still got at least twenty minutes left on my e-therapy session.”
“But you walked away,” said Erica. “You ended it.”
“Only to go pack my things.”
“Pack?”
“Yeah, I’m leaving. I’m out of here.”
“I don’t understand. I really tried to help!”
“Well,” I said, sitting back in my chair. “Maybe you can help me now.”
She turned a little pale, then flushed. She caught the hint. I couldn’t wait to hear what she said next. But she just sat there quietly, pulling into herself. She looked great.
Just then the doorbell rang. I froze.
“I think I heard—”
“Shut up!” I hissed, not in a mean way—scared.
“Just answer the door! It’ll be okay!”
“Why, so they can arrest me?!”
“No one’s going to arrest you! I know you’re paranoid, but—”
“Oh, that’s a great technique for a therapist.”
The doorbell rang again. It was followed by a loud knock.
“Tell me who’s there,” I demanded.
“No,” said Erica, even more worked up than I was. “It’s a surprise!”
“Some damn surprise!”
“You have to hurry!”
“I will—when I jump out this window and run for the nearest train station!”
Just then my time expired—I was kicked out of exclusive live show mode. Immediately a few other guys’ names popped up on the side of the screen. They came right out with copious varieties of lewd bullshit. I read all their messages. I couldn’t help myself.
“Babe ur of age right? U look 14 w them small ass titties.”
“Money on them tits is fo real. R they grl?”
“Dayum chicka it too hot in here for that tank. Take that shiz off!”
“I’ll show you mine 4 free. Ok u ready?”
“Fine,” I typed into the feed. “Have it your way. Just know I never killed anyone. I didn’t quit college. I’ve never lived on the street and I never joined the army. I’m an engineer at a standout firm and I just happen to work from home a lot. Also e-therapy was the best part of my life until about 5 seconds ago.”
In a blind rage, I marched to the door just hoping they’d tackle me, drag me away, and get it all over with quick. So much the better if they just started shooting.
“What?!” I yelled, yanking the door open.
Standing there right on my welcome mat was about the last thing I expected. A pizza delivery guy.
“Hey man, uh…”
“Yeah?”
“Pizza—mushrooms, olives, tomatoes—right?”
“I didn’t order a pizza.”
“Yeah, uh. It came with like special instructions. Already paid for. I’m supposed to say: ‘Happy birthday to a true war hero.’”
I took the pizza. Slowly turned and closed the door. God. I’m not good with presents. Receiving anything just goes to prove I’m inadequate. But the thing did smell good. One has to eat. People who waste stuff—even presents—are scum. I can only sink so low. If this was a pizza, I’d eat it. So, standing in the dark in my kitchen, I had a slice.
Contemplatively on my third slice, I walked back to my computer. Figured it was time to get a new e-therapist. Start fresh.
Instead, I found a familiar face on the e-therapy site. Erica was there waiting for me. Fully clothed, wearing her professional black blazer without a hint of cleavage. Same glasses.
“I got the pizza,” I said.
“I told you not to worry.”
“So did you help get some guys off or what?”
“Maybe we both learned something today.”
“I could tell you more war stories if that’ll make you feel better.”
“I would like that. Then I could help you get over your fear of people not liking you.”
“How do you know about that?”
“It’s pretty obvious.”
“You’re good.”
“Thanks.”
I shrugged, licked my fingers, and then carried on where I’d left off. Hiding out someplace in Afghanistan. Alone in a hovel, suffering from a bad case of shellshock and other mysterious ailments.
Order on Amazon: Before the Giant Anteater by Peter Clarke.