Francis Levy - Erotomania - A Romance

One day I took the plunge. It was somewhere between our second and third fuck, so it must have still been early morning when I snuck off into the kitchen and picked up the phone. Monica was in her usual state of post-coital delirium. I could hear her moaning, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," from our bedroom. The abandon that had characterized my earliest days with her had long passed. I'd become so concerned about the wake of destruction that followed our sexual escapades that I was rarely if ever non compos menus after sex anymore. I got General Shapiro's answering machine message. This is Doctor Shapiro on an answering machine. Please leave your name, number, and the time you called, and I will get back toyou shortly. Shapiro had grown up on the wrong side of the tracks; there was a pugnacity in the tone of the message that went back to his hardscrabble childhood. His voice echoed as if he were booming out a message to his troops in some chilly airplane hangar along the 38' parallel in Korea.

1 hesitated for a moment as the tape ran.

"General Shapiro, hi… it's James Moran. Um, let's see, 1'd like to talk to you about Monica and myself, but at this point I would rather you didn't call me at home."

"Hi, Mr. Moran, it's Dr. Shapiro." The echoing sound in the background of the answering machine message was still there even though the message itself had stopped. Did he dictate his message in some dank cave? Did this tough veteran of sexual warfare inhabit some rugged mountain lair when not in his office?

"I think a complication has set in. It's like when you get an infection after surgery. That suggestion about getting interested in other things besides sex is where it all started."

"1 know. She's got hypergraphia satyriasis."

"Don't you want to hear what she's been doing?"

"1 know,1 know…."

"She got interested in abstract expressionism, but it only increased her desires. We're getting thrown out of museums, office buildings-anywhere there's public art poses a problem." I blurted out her symptoms as fast as 1 could. When General Shapiro made his mind up about a diagnosis, nothing would shake him, and even though many of his diagnoses had nothing to do with any symptoms we described, he always seemed to hit the nail right on the head. Hypergraphia satyriasis sounded right, though hypergraphia referred to the compulsion to write, and satyriasis was a sexual compulsion restricted to men. You had to take Shapiro with a grain of salt, or you wouldn't get anything out of him at all. For all I knew, the diagnosis could have referred to the case of another patient, but it didn't matter. As Shapiro had pointed out, he rarely experienced any failure in his many years of work. So even if he was treating Monica for the wrong ailment, he'd undoubtedly come up with the right cure.

"It's the hypergraphia satyriasis. She's a She's not suffering from cancer. go on to live totally normal lives."

"I'm not doubting your diagnosis, but what do we do if she rejects it. It's unfortunate, but you are providing her with grist for her mill. She finds you totally irresponsible in these diagnoses, and here you come up with an ailment whose chief symptom, compulsive writing, has nothing to do with her. Then to make matters worse, you make up a dual diagnosis giving her a second ailment that primarily afflicts males."

"It's not a dual diagnosis. If you look in the DSM, hypergraphia satyriasis is listed. She has an anomalous form of it that derives from the same source. The same neuronal structures in the brain are affected, only in Monica's case the symptom is compulsive sexuality in the presence of abstract paintings rather than compulsive writing of dirty novels, which is the actual everyday manifestations of the hypergraphia in typical cases. In an atypical case like Monica's, you have a permutation. The abstract expressionist lines are like scribble. The pornography usually confined to the page takes place on or near canvases, but I don't think we're far off the mark. Psychopharmacologists medicate hypergraphics, but I don't think Monica needs medication. Monica is afraid of being happy. It causes her anxiety. This sexuality is just her way of avoiding pleasure." I couldn't see him, but I was sure that Shapiro was running his fingers through his nonexistent hair.

"We've used our bodies to have out-of-body experiences. The intensity of our sexuality has alienated us from our selves."

Shapiro sighed. He was bored. He hated it when patients talked about their problems. He especially hated it when patients offered diagnoses that differed from his own. The tone of his voice said fine, think avhateverjou want, but don't tell me. My analysis was not as long as Shapiro's, but I thought brilliant. Shapiro was like my father. He never paid any attention to anything 1 said. That's why I ended up fucking my mother. Out of body body experience; I couldn't believe Shapiro didn't realize my brilliance, but I wasn't surprised. If he acknowledged me then he wouldn't be able to take all the credit for the cure. Shapiro was like a hunter who stuffs the carcasses of his prey and hangs them on his trophy wall. He wanted Monica's tusk. If someone was going to get better in his office, Shapiro made sure it was his fault.

Before we got off the phone, Shapiro issued an ultimatum. Either we came three days a week, or he wouldn't see us at all.

"Why three? I've never heard of anybody going three times a week to couples counseling."

"We're not talking about anybody. We're talking about you. It's like Monica claiming that there's nothing wrong with your relationship since everyone else you know fucks their brains out and has to move into concrete bunkers to protect neighbors. Anyway, we know what one day a week did. You guys are the living proof that a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. You need a lot of knowledge." He laughed heartily at his own joke.

I had to think. Monica was lying on the bed rocking from side to side in that way she did when she was still horny. I fucked her one more time. All of our fucks tended to be astounding, but this was a particularly good one. I was as hard as one of those impenetrable metal alloys they talk about in the safemaking business. I was so hard that we ended up in what we call "lockdown." I had trouble getting it out of her. After I was done 1 had one of my old-fashioned out-of-body moments. 1 didn't know who or where I was. I came to in the same pizzeria I'd gone to the day 1 met Bill. Despite the decision that lay before me, 1 felt pretty fulfilled. I was getting laid more than I ever had, and it wasn't in order to prove myself. I'd never been in a situation where 1 wanted to fuck and had my desires so readily reciprocated. 1'd been with women who wanted to fuck me when 1 had little interest in them, and I'd been with many women whom I wanted to fuck, who never seemed to feel like it. Finally, I'd met a soul mate. Yes, we needed change, but I didn't want to throw the baby out with the bath water.

After the pizza 1 stopped off in a bar. There's nothing like an ice-cold beer when you've got to think things over. I had one, then another one, and another one. I started to feel bold and sure of myself. I was going to walk in the door, fuck Monica one more time, and read her the riot act. Those beers really made me feel powerful. No one was going to push me around-not Monica, not even General Shapiro. I was fearless. I continued ordering beers. All I wanted to do was drink and continue with my wonderful fantasies about what a big shot 1 was. Why should 1 bother going home and fighting it out when I could sit at the bar and have these wonderful feelings? I didn't need anyone. 1 was free.

"1'm drunk. Now we have a real old-fashioned couples counseling problem," 1 screamed, as a whiskey with a beer chaser sent me out on the street where 1 could tell my tale to the world. 1 could spot several people looking out their windows to see what the commotion was all about.