Chapter 1
The Shrinkatorium
Hello, my name is Derrek Hamlish and welcome to my totally screwed
up life Well, to be frank, my life is
only screwed up about 90 percent of the time.
So I was sitting there in the lobby of a “Shrinkatorium,” a mental health practice run by a team of
clinical psychologists who try to poke and prod nut cases like me in order to
justify charging a hundred bucks for 30 minutes of Zigmund Frued analysis.
This was my first visit here, certainly one of desperation,
for reasons noted in paragraph one. But when the doctor entered the lobby with
her clipboard, my outlook on life suddenly brightened. She certainly had a
pleasant enough kind-looking face, with average length brown hair, no makeup,
and a touch of a Mona Lisa smile. But I
would have forgiven any blemishes, for that face was attached to the body of an
Olympic decathlete.
Well, I suppose it’s only the men who compete in decathlon,
but top to bottom, she was well toned with a sleek slender figure and a hard
body that suggested she spent many hours in the gym … but not too many. She looked to be in her late twenties. She
wasn’t muscle-bound like female body builders.
There was perfection in her shape.
Her hips weren’t too wide, her buttocks and boobs weren’t too big, and I
wondered why a doctor would wear a practically skin tight outfit to the office.
My god, I could even see her belly button. She was an ‘innie’. Maybe the dress code here was like ‘casual
Friday’, except today was Wednesday. She had a body that wouldn’t quit. That’s why I wouldn’t quit ogling it.
I then realized that I had developed an industrial strength
boner in my crotch so I quickly grabbed a magazine to cover up. If I had the
chance, I would do her seven days a week and twice on Sunday. I don’t remember how long I was staring at
her, but when her eyes looked up and around the room, I glanced in a different
direction while my nervous anticipation made me think “Oh god, pick me! Pick me, please!” A half hour session with this goddess would
make the hundred bucks very worthwhile.
As she opened her mouth and announced the word “Mister”,
waves of hot blood shot through my face and upper body.
“Mister Anderson.”
I slumped back into my seat.
The disappointment of seeing some loser take my spot in line was tough
to bear. Worse yet, the next doctor who entered the lobby looked like a dowdy
old librarian with a swimmer’s inner tube around her belly.
She looked up and announced, “Mr. Hamlish.”
Oh shit, here we go.
The way my luck has been lately, I should never have gotten my hopes up
that I would have been the patient who’d land the female doctor with a designer
body. My boner quickly diminished. I’ll
bet my balls even retracted up into my abdomen. So I followed the woman back to
her office. She shut the door and offered her hand.
“Good morning, Mr. Hamlish.
I’m Dr. Frumpy. Would you please
take a seat and tell me what brings you in today?”
I looked around at all her doctoral degrees hanging on the
wall. I sighed and wondered what I was
doing here. We sat about six feet across
from each other. “Doctor, I have manic depression, high anxiety, extreme
loneliness, and thoughts of suicide.”
She nodded and replied, “And how does that make you feel?”
I rolled my eyes, thinking “Is this woman brain dead?” But I took a deep breath and answered
her. “It makes me feel depressed,
anxious, lonely, and suicidal.”
“And can you describe what causes you to have these
feelings?”
“I know exactly why I have these feelings. Several years ago, I met a woman who put a
curse on me that causes me to get younger whenever ordinary water touches my
skin. I undergo age regression. So I can’t hold a job, they fire me, and I
can’t hold a girlfriend, they dump me.”
She nodded again. “I see … And why do you suppose this woman
would put a curse on you?”
(I can already tell she’s trying to shift the blame to
me.) “I don’t know. I figured she was a
prostitute begging for money, so I said ‘get away’ and called her a bad word.”
“And what word was that?” she inquired.
“Uhh … skank … wait, what are you doing?”
“I’m looking up the clinical definition of ‘skank’… Ah, here
it is … ‘Offensive slang, a derogatory term for a female considered promiscuous
and unclean … a dirty, repulsive, immoral woman … a woman of low and sleazy
character … a female of vulgar, lewd, and unhealthy appearance’.”
(Jesus H. Christ! I
know what it means.) “Uh, yes doctor, I
said that word.”
Dr. Frumpy sighed and added, “Well, Mr. Hamlish, don’t you
think that based on your behavior, that you deserved to be cursed? It sounds a bit like the story of ‘Beauty and
the Beast’.”
I lowered my head. “I suppose so, doctor, but in that story,
the beast was at least given a task to accomplish in order to remove the
curse. My curse seems permanent. Aren’t
you going to try to help me?”
“Yes of course, but first I need to ask you a few questions
about your background.”
“Okay.”
“So Mr. Hamlish, when you were an adolescent, how often did
you masturbate?”
I frowned and demanded, “What does that have to do with age
regression?”
She frowned back. “Mr. Hamlish, if you want me to help you,
I’ll need your full cooperation.”
I sighed and said, “Okay, when I was a teenager, I used to
jack off probably once a day, sometimes twice.”
“And how often do you masturbate now?”
“Same … about once a day, and sometimes twice.”
“And when you masturbate, what do you fantasize about?”
(Right now, I was still fantasizing about the other doctor
in the office down the hall.) “Uh, I
guess I think about naked women most of time.”
“But do you ever think about being younger? Do you ever imagine yourself to be a small
child playing with his penis?”
My face was turning red. “Uh … I don’t think so, I don’t
know.”
The doctor leaned in.
“Mr. Hamlish, age regression is a tool that has been practiced with
hypnosis for many years. I highly suspect that the woman you were referring to,
your ‘skank’ so to speak, put you under hypnotic suggestion without your
knowledge. She suggested to your unconscious that you would feel younger every
time you touched water. Didn’t you imagine that your clothes were getting
larger and your body was getting smaller each time an incident occurred?”
My hands began to tighten on the arms of the chair. I was
breathing faster. “Yes!” I asserted. “But I didn’t imagine it. My age regression was real!”
“It always feels real, Mr. Hamlish. This hypnotic technique is designed to make
you feel likes it’s really happening …
and once you get locked in, the human brain is incapable of distinguishing fact
from fiction.”
“Are you saying that for the last three years, I’ve only
been imagining myself getting younger? I
don’t believe you,” I protested further. “The last time I was with a woman was
over a year ago. We were in a hotel and
I ordered champagne on ice. That was a
mistake because she playfully put a bunch of ice cubes down my back and I
quickly became thirteen years old. She
screamed. She called me a pervert. Then she spanked me and forced me up against
a wall. Then she jerked me off really hard.
Then she tossed me naked into the bathtub and stood over me while I
cried. Then she peed on my face. When
she spanked me, her jewelry left cuts on my butt that bled.”
I felt pretty bold now, so I got up, turned around, and
dropped my pants and my boxers, exposing my butt scars to the doctor. I asked her, “Do these scars look imaginary?”
“I see them,” the doctor said dryly. “You may buckle up now please. Mr. Hamlish, I very much believe that you
experienced an episode of violent sex. But
I also believe that this event occurred either when you were thirteen, or when
you were imagining yourself to be thirteen.
Mr. Hamlish, I’m asking you to stop acting ignorant. Age regression is derived from hypnotic
suggestion, not supernatural hocus-pocus.”
I huffed back, “Well I don’t believe anyone can hypnotize me
anyway. I’m too intelligent.”
Dr. Frumpy sat back in her chair. “Mr. Hamlish, I’ve heard many patients repeat
those words. But this is one area where
I think I can really help you. Would you
give me permission to try?”
Flippantly, I threw up my right arm and replied, “Hell,
knock yourself out.”
“Okay,” she replied. “Then let us begin … Uncross your legs,
put your hands on your knees, close your eyes … Okay, now relax your eyes, relax
your brain, relax your brow, relax your lips, relax your chin, relax your arms,
relax your shoulders, relax your heart, relax your lungs.”
“Good … your heart is now beating slower and slower, your
breathing is becoming shallower and shallower … relax your stomach, relax your
bladder, relax your prostate, relax your penis, relax your testicles … It feels
so good to relax … Now relax your thighs, relax your calves, relax your ankles,
relax your feet, and relax your toes.”
“You are now completely relaxed in every way. Now when I snap my fingers, I want you to
keep your eyes closed, but realize that you are now eight years old and playing
with your toys on the floor in your room back home.”
“SNAP.” … “Hi Derrek.”
“Hi.”
“Watchya doing?”
(I didn’t realize that my arms were now in motion and I was
smiling.) “Umm … I’m playing with my die
cast cars and my stuffed animals.”
“Really? Is it like a
game?”
“Yeah, yeah … You see usually the cars would take the people
and animals around the city, but here, it’s the opposite. See, the animals take the cars around the
city. The city is my room.”
“That’s cool.”
“Uh huh,”
“Is your daddy home?”
“Daddy doesn’t live here anymore. He’s too busy with work.”
“I see. Well, is your
mommy home?”
“Oh yeah … Mommy’s in the kitchen drinking her medicine
again.”
“Derrek, do you know how to read?”
“Oh yeah, I read good. I’m in third grade already.”
“Good for you Derrek.
Do you think you can do me a favor and go into the kitchen and read the
name of Mommy’s medicine?”
“Uh … okay.” (I
didn’t know that my feet were going up and down as I sat in the chair. Then my
head seemed to be looking around.) “Uh, are you still here?”
“Yes, Derrek, I’m still here.”
“Okay, I think the name of Mommy’s medicine is two boy’s names.”
“Can you tell me who the two boys are, Derrek.”
“Oh yeah, it’s Jack and Daniel … Mommy needs a lot of
medicine so she doesn’t get sick.”
“Thank you, Derrek.
So tell me, do you have any special feelings about your penis?”
“My penis? That’s
funny.”
“Well, do you?”
“I love my penis … It’s my favorite toy. And only boys have a toy, not girls, so hah
hah.”
“Derek, when I snap my fingers, I want you to open your eyes
and be alert. You’ll be 28 years old again … and I want you to remember
everything we said while you were eight. Do you think you can do that?”
“Okay.”
“SNAP.” “Hello,
Derrek. Welcome back.”
My eyes suddenly went wide open. I looked at my large hands.
I turned my head in all directions. For
a second, I felt scared.
“Derrek, I normally tell patients not to remember their
hypnotic sessions, but I think you needed a little more convincing.”
My breathing quickened.
“So I’m …” I stopped talking
because I couldn’t believe my voice was so low.
“So I’m really not eight years old?” I asked. Dr. Frumpy handed me a
tissue when I started to shed a tear. “I
was just playing with my toys.”
“Derrek, this is what I was trying to tell you … Age
regression is a product of hypnotic suggestion.
It fools the brain. Even though
it seems very real at the time, you don’t actually become physically younger.”
I sighed deeply. “So
you’re saying that over the last three years, all of my age regressions were
just imaginary?”
“Don’t beat yourself up too much, Mr. Hamlish. You did the right thing by coming in today.”
“So what am I supposed to do now?”
“I’m going to refer you to a masturbatorium for
treatment. Doctor Dick operates one
nearby.”
“A what?” I said, wide eyed.
“Is that anything like a shrinkatorium?”
Dr. Frumpy grabbed a pen and started writing my referral.
“No, it’s obvious that your overly-frequent self abuse is contributing to your
problem.”
“How so?”
“A side effect of chronic masturbation is that your sexual
fantasies become so intense that your concentration during each episode puts
you in a state of self-hypnosis. This
only serves to exacerbate any other ongoing problems you may have with hypnotic
suggestion. Additionally, this intensity
increases the blood pressure on the back of the eyeballs. If the eyes fill up
with too much blood, you could eventually go blind.”
“How about if I only do it till I need glasses?”
“Mr. Hamlish, the last time I heard that joke, I fell off my
dinosaur.”
(You are a dinosaur, you stupid bitch.) “Sorry, doctor. I really appreciate
everything you’ve done for me today.”
“Go to the front desk now and schedule to see me again in
two weeks.”
