This book is a satire. I hope the reader will find it to be humorous in places and mildly thought-provoking in others. Historically speaking, as a matter of ethics, many medical doctors have been reluctant to discuss sex with their patients. Even the names associated with female sexual anatomy were not printed in medical textbooks--much less illustrated-- until recent years. To that end, the fictitious name of the doctor in this story shall initially be withheld from the reader by giving the doctor a second fictitious name--Dr. Blankface. I'm sure he'd want it that way if he were a real doctor.
THE YOUNG DOCTOR had had two sessions with the female psychiatrist and held her in high esteem. He thought her body was terrific. He liked her, even though at times he thought she was a bit too emotional. Moreover, he liked her extraordinary intellect and passion.
He enjoyed the feeling of the tension in his legs as he jogged towards her office. Is it healthy to have so much admiration for her? he wondered, as he continued to steadily propel his body down the sidewalk with great muscular vitality, which he attributed to his regular trips to the health club.
Why was he seeing a psychiatrist? Because he had a sexual problem—but he was sure she could get to the cause of it, help him take care of it. After all, that was what she did for a living.
As he jogged, his toes tingled as he heard the soles of his jogging shoes making crunching sounds against the damp concrete. He preferred cold, wet, challenging weather to the soggy conditions he'd recently had to endure.
He kicked up his speed a little.
His hair was wet with perspiration. A few amber strands of it bounced over his eyes as he jogged.
He was a young, single, medical doctor with a very good practice, a fine sports car, brown eyes, and the ladies in his part of town thought of him as a hunk. He liked the image, not merely because it was satisfying economically, intellectually, physically, and emotionally but for the reason that it also attracted the opposite s=x.
He had had his dysfunctional problem for three weeks. Even as he jogged, he tried hard to convince himself that it was not an extremely serious condition. Nevertheless, he felt concern.
He'd defined what he perceived as his inconsequential difficulty to her during their two previous—one hour per week—sessions.
As he jogged, he recalled the name on her office door—Erica C. Handleheimer, Ph.D., M.D.
Aside from other qualities that he admired, she had exquisite red hair, and captivating blue eyes.
During their second session, she'd given him a series of psychoanalytic examinations. As he ran, he hoped—then hoped not—that she'd received the results of them from the evaluation center.
When he finally reached her building, he skipped lightly up the few concrete steps and let himself through one of the glass doors, went up the elevator, kept an invigorating pace down the hall, through her waiting room.
He was exactly on time and her bespectacled receptionist glanced up at him, nodded him on into the psychiatrist's office.
He opened Dr. Handleheimer's office door.
She was reclining, in her yellow-fabric and leather, swivel chair, behind her desk.
"My test results back yet?" He inquired, casually tossing himself onto her couch.