The Erotic Comedies (Vassi Collection Volume XI) (9 page)

The plan might have worked except for an unforeseen event. Butch Medusa fell in love. She met a man who filled her with all the inane and irresistible feeling such as used to propel teenagers into romantic raptures. The rational part of her realized that to give in to her emotions would destroy the final chance humanity might have to keep from going over the brink into total ruin. But she was helpless before the mood of surrender.

"It's what I get for fooling around with all those cocks," she said to herself bitterly. "Such a fate would never have befallen me if I had stayed a lesbian. This is what I get for trying to do good."

The man was not the kind who would tolerate her unbridled promiscuity, so she abandoned her commune. She moved to Long Island, where he worked as a professor of sociology at Stony Brook College. She had three children and spent her days at war with herself, hating the fact that she really enjoyed her new situation. She never spoke of her past even when the women in her bridge club began to talk about sex, revealing their fantasies and infidelities. Everyone thought her a model wife, which indeed she was.

The people in the duplex, without the unifying power of her vision, soon degenerated into a crowd of rowdy low-level orgiasts. The neighbors started to complain, and one night the place was raided. They were all booked on charges of indecent behavior, given suspended sentences, and told to leave the city. The body of the girl who had been shot had been smuggled out and buried on Staten Island, and thus was never found. The human race continued in its erratic stumbling toward oblivion.

Bowel Boogie

Only her body was tied down; she could still move her head and look around the room.

It was ten feet high by ten feet wide by ten feet long. It was constructed entirely of tile. There was a vent in the ceiling to let in air, and a vent in the floor to let water drain out. A spout jutted from one wall, and over it was a shelf with various instruments.

She was chained to a table built of soft stone, held utterly immobile. Her wrists were manacled at her sides, a steel band went over her waist, and her feet were fastened to raised stirrups so that her legs were lifted and spread apart. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

The door opened slowly, a thick wooden partition with soundproof slats cemented to both sides. The doctor stepped in. He was one of the world's foremost therapists, having written a book called
The Secondary Stutter
, in which he traced all neurosis to the suppression of embarrassment people feel when farting. He closed the door behind him and beamed on the woman.

"Well, Ms. Schneider," he said in a booming voice, "how good to meet you."

She looked up and gasped. The man wore hip boots, a long raincoat, and rubber gloves. His face was covered with a black mask. She had been told that he would want to remain anonymous, but it hadn't occurred to her that he would hide more than his name. The social worker at the clinic she had applied to for psychotherapy had explained that she might partake of an experimental program without charge, and in addition to having her difficulties cleared up, would be helping the march of science in its striving to obliterate all mental illness. She was told that the treatment would have to remain secret and that she would not know who would be treating her, in order to protect him from lawsuits. Ms. Schneider had had her doubts, but she felt in desperate need of help, and couldn't afford to pay for it, so she agreed.

He walked over to the table. "Before we begin," he said, his voice deep and reassuring. "I'm sure you will have a few questions. But first I'd like to tell you a little about what we'll be doing."

The woman shifted her weight and he glanced at her through the narrow slits of his disguise. She was thirty-nine, worked as an elementary school teacher, and had never been married. Her body was slim, the flesh still firm. Uneventful legs blossomed into arched buttocks, and small breasts nicely graced her upper chest. Her pubic hair was sparse and her outer cunt lips were folded against each other like hands clasped in prayer.

"To put it most directly," he began, "my work is not a departure from, but the most recent development of, the psychoanalytic discoveries of Sigmund Freud. You've heard of Freud? The orthodox analysts would have me tarred and feathered if they knew what I was doing, but mostly because they are afraid to face the logical conclusions of their own theories. That is why I must say nothing about my work until I can prove that my technique is effective."

The woman opened her mouth to speak but he cut in before she could say a word. "Although I subsume the work of all the men and women who have gone before me, my approach is original, a totally new synthesis. And beyond the theoretical correctness is the fact that my technique is
absolute
." His voice rang with a strange vibration, sounding hollow beneath the mask. "You see, that has been the problem. All the great minds have understood neurosis and formulated their theories, but none of them could come up with a cure that would work in all cases. And this is to be my immortal contribution. The infallible cure for all psychopathic disturbances."

He began pacing, but since the room was so small and the table took up the central space, he was forced to walk in a circle around the woman's body. She attempted to follow him with her eyes as he prowled. "The discovery of my technique, as with that of penicillin, was accidental. All the elements were present, and I just happened to be there to put them together. I remember the afternoon well. I had just finished reading the passage in
Function of the Orgasm
where Reich describes his basic insight into masochism. He found that what the masochist really seeks is the feeling of bursting open, of having his energy flow outward, through his armored self. The masochist doesn't enjoy pain itself, but hopes to find a release in pain.

"That was on my mind when I opened my mail and found a brochure from the Eulenspiegel Society, an organization composed of sadists and masochists dedicated to erasing prejudices about their condition. I was struck by the way in which life is always struggling to express itself in a positive fashion, even when it passes through what must seem like terrible aberrations.

"It was just then that I felt the first peristaltic wave that signals a bowel movement. I went into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. As I turned the knob, however, I realized that there was no one else in the house! I was thunderstruck. My shame at such a basic biological activity was so deep that it led me to the most absurd behavior, closing the door against the censure of society when no other member of society was even present. I sat down and my eyes moved idly across the wall opposite and fell upon my wife's douche bag which hung from a hook. I don't know how to describe that moment. Choirs sang, and the room filled with light. It all came together in a crescendo of truth."

He stopped pacing and grabbed one of the woman's ankles tightly. "Do you see?" he said, his voice brimming with emotion. "Does it begin to make sense now?"

The woman thought he was stark raving mad. She did what people in rising panic often do, and reached into the recent past to recall the last moments of normality she could remember. The clinic was a highly respected institution, so when the nurse had asked her to remove her clothing and had fastened her to the table, there was still some sense of being connected to the workaday world, even though the trappings were bizarre. Ms. Schneider had a fully conditioned faith in public organizations, and she drew on that to counter the brunt of her perception: that she was helpless in a locked room with a maniac peering down at her naked body.

"I don't think I want to continue with this," she bleated.

"Ah ha!" he shouted. "That's the point. Very few people do. All other therapies have failed simply because at the point of greatest resistance the therapist allowed the patient to leave. I will change all that. My vision demands it. People must be saved in spite of themselves. That's the whole issue with neurosis. And nothing except my technique has any chance of curing neurosis, and of ultimately saving the world. Nothing else includes all the necessary elements. Bringing forth childhood repressions, it will allow that feeling of bursting so you will stop shrinking from life, and it will put you in touch with your need and your pain. It will allow you your full range of expression, and plumb to the core of your sexual nature. It will attack your most deep-seated inhibition, the one which grows from the cornerstone contribution of our civilization to the world: early toilet training."

The woman started to protest that none of this seemed connected to the relatively uncomplicated problems she had been dealing with, but he seemed to read her mind. "Your unhappiness is felt by you in one way, but its causes are beyond your awareness. You will see. You will fight me because I will show you your true self. You will scream, you will hate, you will cry, you will yearn, you will surrender, and you will win. You will have a total experience and for the first time in your life you will come alive. And nothing or no one will prevent you from achieving your goal, least of all yourself. I won't let you stop yourself from becoming healthy. I will force the neurosis out of you."

He reached to the shelf behind him and picked up a long hose with a plastic nozzle. "Ms. Schneider," he said, "you have the honor to be the first patient to try the most revolutionary treatment in the history of psychology: Enema Therapy."

The woman sobbed openly. She could not believe that she had allowed things to go so far, that she hadn't stopped when she saw the room, or when the nurse tied her to the table.

"I don't want to," she cried out to the doctor.

"Of course you don't," he said cheerfully, attaching the hose to the spigot on the wall. "At least, the superficial part of you doesn't. But the deeper part, the part that brought you to seek help in the first place, is calling for help, and help it shall get."

He brought the nozzle level with the table top. He fingered some Vaseline from a jar on the shelf and delicately applied it to the woman's anus.

"No," she keened, now almost totally out of control.

"You'll see, you'll see," he crooned.

He placed the nozzle between her clenched buttocks and gently pushed, inserting it fully into her body. She tried to squirm away but was held too tightly. Her thighs bulged with tension. The doctor stepped back and viewed his handiwork.

"No matter what happens," he said, "just remember one thing: no physical harm can come to you here. Your own worse enemy is tied securely to the table. You may go insane for a while, but that's the only way to reach true sanity. There can be no reconstitution without regression, that's my motto."

He reached behind him and, taking a few seconds to appreciate the historic import of the moment, he turned the handle, beginning the flow of water into Ms. Schneider's ass.

She filled up for almost twenty minutes. As the hot fluid entered her, she began to howl. Again and again she reached a point where she thought she could take no more and begged him to stop, but he was implacable. "It's all been measured ahead of time," he would say. Pain enveloped her in waves, giving way to a peculiar kind of pleasure, a sort of tingling release. She tried to back away from the nozzle, but her body was fixed in place. The doctor got an erection, watching her thrash about, her cunt winking lewdly above the phallic nozzle, but he maintained professional discipline and his stiff cock did not show beneath the heavy raincoat.

He maintained stoic composure. Even when she seemed on the brink of collapse, ready to faint or actually pass away, he never lost the necessary faith in his treatment. She was like a film shown by a beserk projector, her body threatening to burst as it yielded thousands upon thousands of repressed memories and feelings and thoughts locked in her muscles and brain cells. It was like a seven year analysis gone through at the speed of sound, and with total abreaction. Her frame shuddered like a test plane in a wind tunnel. And she reached a state of such complete energy expansion that her hair stood on end, rising two feet from her scalp.

Finally, he turned the water off. It had begun to seep out around the edges of the nozzle and he knew that she was filled to the brim. When she felt the stoppage of flow, there was a momentary relief, but with astounding swiftness he pulled the nozzle out and stuck in a stopper, corking her as neatly as a wine bottle.

"Oh God," she wailed.

"We are going to remain like this for a little while," he said. "The first phase is over, and you have survived the initial trauma. Now the real work begins, for you will no longer be able to hide behind your freneticism and hysteria. In this treatment, all the masks of defense must be stripped and you must face your actual condition. We must go on until you are literally incapable of sustaining your experience, and your mind shatters with trying to rationalize it all. Then the unconscious will be liberated and the basic structural changes can take place in your character."

The following five hours were chaotic. She became feverish and then snapped into lucidity. She fell asleep and had bloated dreams. She babbled out loud. She tried again and again to expel the cork and push out the fluid, but was thrown back into helplessness. She entered the death state. For a while, she was raked with erotic flashes, and at one point began to grind her hips up toward the ceiling, running her tongue over her lips and moaning until she had an orgasm.

Occasionally the doctor added more water to replace what had been absorbed through the colon. Some of the sounds that ripped from her throat would have melted the heart of Satan himself, but the therapist was unshakeable.

"I must help her see it through," he said to himself. A lifetime of work was culminating in this experiment, and not only his reputation but his deepest definition of self was at stake. He hated neurosis the way a saint hates sin. His hope to rescue the world from destruction was wild enough to tax the limits of his rational mind, but some more primitive center within him goaded him on.