Yesterday’s Orgasmic Flavor
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It was either the spring of 1978 or the spring of 1979. I was seventeen, and I had therapy every Wednesday afternoon after school. I think my friend Anne Marie dropped me off-I can’t really recollect how I traveled from my high school that was a good twenty-plus miles away to my therapist’s office. Maybe Anne Marie drove; maybe I got one of my parents’ cars. I doubt the latter; they were never very forthcoming with the wheels.
At any rate, every Wednesday afternoon, I would go to my therapist. She was trained as an art therapist, though we never did any art projects. We just sat around and talked. Her couches were tan, a color I’ve noticed over the years is much favored by the therapists of the world, or anyway the color unites the ones I’ve been a patient of. Her office had a lot of kid things: tiny desks, floppy dolls, construction paper, heaps of crayons. It had the affect of a hotel lobby having a clandestine tryst with a kindergarten. I found it both a tad disconcerting and a bit soothing both at the same time.
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