Celebrity therapist Dr. DelVecchio called me on the phone today. Charles,” she said, “can you come give me acupuncture right away at my office? I’m a pathetic wreck!”
“So what?” I thought. "I treat a dozen shrinks each week and they’re all pathetic wrecks. Isn’t that why they’re shrinks?” But I also had a couple hours to kill before my next appointment so I said yes, got in my car and drove east to the Brentwood high-rise where she rents a penthouse. Pushing open the heavy, oak door, I found Dr. DelVecchio lying face-up on the floor, cell phone in hand, her tweed skirt up above her knees.
“Thank God you’re here,” she said, waving a bony hand. “Help yourself to the bar. You haven’t stopped smoking, have you?”
I lit two Camels and handed her one. She took a deep, greedy hit and sent up a cloud of ash and anxiety. “Jeez!” she said. “I’ve got to get out of this career. My patients are all perverts! Make mine Wild Turkey with a splash, will you, Honey?” Somehow, over the course of two years, my professional name had morphed from Charles into Honey.
“What happened, Doc?” I said, stepping across the room to a lacquered cabinet full of bottles and tumblers. “What’s the problem?”
“I’ve just had the shock of a lifetime. It’s that woman again!”
That Woman, the wife of a big director (with a 3-D pic currently in theaters), is a notorious, bleach-blond nymphomaniac, an Industry giant’s bored, horny wife in a world full of ambitious, young filmmakers. Last year--by her own report--she bedded half the Official Selection directors at Cannes.
“During her therapy today,” said Dr. DelVecchio, “that woman yakked on and on about her sexual conquests, so I offered to hypnotize her. I’d take her back to her childhood, and we’d examine how she became sexually fixated. Well, she regressed beautifully, back to three years of age.”
“A mere toddler,” I said.
“Then,” said Dr. DelVecchio, “she wanted to sit on my lap, so naturally I let her, although she’s six feet tall in those thigh-high Manolo boots that I’d literally kill for. Well, she was all goo-goo and ga-ga and the next thing I knew, her hand was in my blouse. That’s when I realized she wasn’t hypnotized at all! So I reached into my drawer and pulled out my taser and gave her a jolt to the buttocks. The only problem was, she was sitting on my lap, so we both got jolted and fell to the floor, unconscious. When I woke up, she was gone and my skirt was up over my head. I’m hoping the worst didn’t happen. The very thought of lesbianism makes me want to vomit! What on earth will I tell my husband? Give me that drink!”
I handed her the drink. She propped herself up on an elbow and slurped. I said, “Doc, isn’t your husband the guy who raises orchids and plays the harp in his velvet pantaloons? I wouldn’t worry too much about your husband.”
She thought about it for a moment, then laughed. And so did I. After all, a man who recites the Kama Sutra to his Venus fly trap must have secrets of his own.
No comments:
Post a Comment