Sex and Murder Magazine

By Karl Koweski



The doctor looked like Stephen King. His jet black hair was so thick and bushy, you'd need a machete to part it. He wore eye glasses like twin fish bowls, his dark eyes submerged within. Big, sulphur colored teeth and a nostrum twice the length of his forehead. I figured he'd fit the chronic masturbator profile. But no. That mantle fell on my shoulders.

“Now how long have you been interfering with yourself?” Doctor Cameron inquired.

“I've been boxing the clown for-”

“Please,” the doctor said. “Here at Sunnybrook, we refrain from using cutesy euphemisms for the act of masturbation.”
steepled his fingers beneath his chin and regarded me with those watery eyes.

“You wanna know when was the first time?”

“However you feel is the appropriate way to answer.”

“Well, the eighth grade, I guess. Thirteen, fourteen years old. Like anybody else.”

“Anybody as in whom?”

“Anybody as in everybody. Everybody does it.”

“And you've researched this? Interviewed subjects? Compiled statistics?” The doctor furrowed his brow. “Let's keep the answers centered on your aberrations and not project your onanastic tendencies on the populace. How many times a day do you touch yourself in an inappropriate manner?”

“You mean like jerk off? Or just touch?”

“Touch yourself for the purpose of arousal. And please stop fondling my ink pen.”
didn't realize I still held the pen I used to fill out the paper work. I looked at the cheap ball point pen perched between thumb and forefinger.
doctor rephrased his question. “How often throughout any twenty four hour period do you manually bring yourself to orgasm? And be truthful. Dishonesty on your part will only prolong your stay here and negatively impact our ability to rehabilitate you.”

“Rehabilitate? You make it sound like I'm a crack addict.”

“Interesting you should make that comparison. What would you say about a crack addict smoking dope in the presence of his six year old daughter?”
doctor allowed the silence to hang between us a full minute before continuing. “That's enough for our one-on-one time today, Mr. Melrose. I'll have Mr. Fogel escort you to the dormitory and give you a more thorough explanation of what will be expected of you during your stay at Sunnybrook. And please do keep in mind we are here to help ensure a healthy and productive lifestyle that will benefit you and your family.”
thanked him and immediately hated myself for it. Waiting outside the doctor's office for Mr. Fogel, I sat on the hard plastic chair for how long? Ten, twenty minutes? There were no clocks on the walls. My watch had been confiscated during indoctrination along with my belt, my shoes, my wedding ring, even my wallet with the folded beaver shot stuffed behind the credit cards I declared bankruptcy on two years ago.
heard computer keys tapping in an adjoining office and thought about my own computer, an assembly line Dell now in the possession of the eggheads here at Sunnybrook. Even now, specialists pored through my files, my internet history, sites ranging from zombie porn to naked midget mimes. And all those porn clips downloaded from peer-to-peer sites. Erica Campbell. Raven Riley. Brandi Belle. I knew their bodies better than my own wife's.

“Mr. Melrose?” Mr. Fogel stood to my right. He held a clipboard angled away. He wore khaki pants and a gray polo shirt with Sunnybrook insignia embroidered on the chest. There was something perverse about the size of his gigantic moustache.

“Yes?” I stood and extended my hand.
glanced at it distastefully. “We don't shake hands here. Sunnybrook policy. My name is Mr. Fogel and that will be the only way you will address me. Understand?”

“Sure.”

“Yes, Mr. Fogel.”

“Yes, Mr. Fogel?”

“Ok. Follow me. I'll get you situated.”
led me from the managerial area toward the dorm. Along the hall, posters hung at five-foot staggered intervals. All the images featured soft focused congregations of men. The catchphrases went along the lines of NO MORE FLYING SOLO or WINNING BACK YOUR LIFE FIVE MINUTES AT A TIME.
suppose when the doctor said dormitory, I expected a university-style dormitory with small, semi-private rooms and perhaps the inconvenience of a room mate.Fogel led me into a military style barracks. Fifty cots were lined up at three foot intervals. A standing footlocker separated each bunk. Track lighting illuminated the entire room. No dark corners existed here. At a rough estimate, maybe twenty men, pale and sullen, milled about in small groups numbering no less than three, no more than five.

“Mr. Rearick. Front and center. And what did I tell you about hands in your pocket?”

“They're not my hands,” Mr. Rearick, a pasty faced, freckled redheaded man answered.
men standing in his vicinity giggled behind their empty palms. The intense lighting and the plum rings of exhaustion circling their eyes created grinning skulls of their faces.

“That's one demerit, Mr. Rearick. You don't want two.”
demented smile disappeared. Mr. Rearick approached hands flat at his sides. He stopped two feet in front of Mr. Fogel as though there were an invisible barrier between the two men. “No, I don't.”

“No, I don't, what?” A ghost of a smile flicked the corners of his moustache.

“No I don't want two demerits, Mr. Fogel.”
orderly withdrew a penlight from his belt and clicked it on. He played the ultraviolet light across the crotch of Mr. Rearick's chinos. “Looking clean, Mr. Rearick. Looks like you're learning to keep your bodily fluids where they belong. Inside your body.”
made a suck lemon face. “Yes, Mr. Fogel.”

“Mr. Rearick, this is Mr. Melrose. He's going to be your new flaccidity partner for the time being. Get him up to speed on what will be expected of him during his stay. Keep each other out of trouble. No touching below the waist, of course. Mr. Melrose, you will find your Sunnybrook apparel in the footlocker next to your assigned cot. Also in the footlocker you will find the Sunnybrook handbook listing all rules and regulations. I suggest you become intimately familiar with the codes of conduct if you wish for your stay here to be pleasant and beneficial.”

“Yes, Mr. Fogel,” I said.

“Mr. Swann will be along shortly to collect your civilian attire. Dinner is at 5 pm followed by the share circle. You'll be expected to know the Sunnybrook bylaws and conduct yourself accordingly.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fogel.” The words roiled around my mouth like a shot of Castor oil. I didn't call my bosses at work 'mister'.




Dinner consisted of a crumbling slab of meatloaf, watery mashed potatoes and a dollop of mushy peas. Code 43 of the Sunnybrook Handbook stated: No phallic foods will be served the duration of your stay. And the food was uniform in its utter blandness so as to be simply eaten, without pleasure or appetite in accordance with Code 5; Sunnybrook will ensure the client overcomes his addiction without the aid of cross addictions.
sat across the table glowering at his own tray of mush. “Go easy on the flaccidity punch,” he warned. “It's spiked with soft peter.”

“Soft peter?”

“I'm guessing you never served time in the military. Soft peter's the anti-Viagra. Keeps from having a dorm full of hard dicks running around.”

“Oh.”

“Don't look so morose, Melrose. This ain't the end of the world.”

“I've been institutionalized for chronic masturbation. I'll be lucky if I don't get divorced.”

“Self-pity is the masturbator's prime enabler,” Streggie, a little elf of a man, leaned over and recited emotionlessly.

“Well, if your wife does leave you,” Rearick said, “you all ready got all the tools you need for a sex life alone. Besides, it's not like you're an intravenous drug user. You ain't got any track marks lining your arms. Maybe a few bruises on the tool, but nothing noticeable in public.”

“Great. At least I'm not a junkie.”

“Hell, man, be thankful you're not Kerry Hedges over there.” Rearick pointed out a stocky guy, boyish-looking despite his gray hair.

“Looks like he's in the same boat as us.”

“Shit. He's not a masturbator. Can't even remember the last time he whacked it.”

“Then why the hell's he here?”

“He can't keep his hands off other guy's junk.”

“Oh, damn.”

“But don't start getting any ideas. He's under constant surveillance. Even the bracelet he wears; the alarm goes off if his pulse quickens. He even moves his wrist too quick, the orderlies are on him. Plus, he's the most unpleasant sonofabitch you'll ever come across. You can't so much as hustle your balls without him telling Fogel on you.”

“Christ. This place is a madhouse.”

“Meaning you think our acts are natural outside these walls?” Rearick asked.

“Maybe not Kerry's.”

“So you've decided to have final judgment on what's right and moral in this society?”
stared stupidly at him for a moment. “What the fuck?”

“I'm just giving you shit,” Rearick finally laughed.

“How long you been here?” I asked.

“Let's just say you're my fifth flaccidity partner.”

“Fifth?”

“Yeah, I'm like One Spewed Over The Cuckoo's Nest in here. I may not ever get out of here. It'll be the final cure.”

“Bullshit. We can walk out of here any time we want. It's not like we're committed.”

“Ha! You might wanna take another look at that contract you signed, Melrose.”

“What? What's that suppose to mean.”
glanced at Fogel entering the cafeteria. “Put your tray up, partner. It's share circle time.”



The man who introduced himself as Sonny Dobson perched on the edge of a gray folding chair. Dressed in his Sunnybrook attire, he didn't look any different than any other clients circling the share area, as though they were all created from the same mold, old G. I. Joe style replicas where only the hairstyles change color.
said “I was still in junior high, I guess. Thirteen years old, maybe. I'd heard about jerking off, but I was always kinda scared to try it out. Mostly because we all accused each other of doing it and it was always looked at like it was the worst thing you could possibly do. I figured if I didn't do it, I'd be believable, you know, if I ever had to deny any accusations.

“There's this kid a grade ahead of me, Kevin Forster. I always hated the smarmy sonofabitch, always acting like he was better than everybody. Someone spread the rumor he got caught masturbating in the gym locker room. It was one of those stories you hear from a friend who heard from a friend of a friend who caught Kevin red-handed. None of us even questioned why the hell someone would even jerk off in a gym locker room where any dude could walk in and catch you.”

“I got caught flogging it in the back of a greyhound bus,” Kerry Hedges interrupted.

“Got caught by the guy you were flogging,” someone else added, laughing.
Swann, the moderator, made a sour face. “Enough of that Mr. Carrington. Mr. Hedges, you know better than to cut in.”

“Yeah, well,” Dobson continued, “we gave that poor sumbitch so much shit. Made jerk off gestures every time we saw him. Told everyone the story, the girls especially. Turned him into a pariah over night for nothing, you know? So after a while I got curious what the big deal was. I came home from school one day, said hello to my mom, walked into the closet of my bedroom and masturbated right there. Still the best two minutes of my life, that first time. I nutted into a moon boot. Next day, I called Kevin Forster out in the lunch line. Asked him if he washed his hands before getting them French fries. Everyone laughed at him. But not a day went by I didn't jerk off like a bandit.”
Swann templed his fingers under his nose. “Did you ever apologize to Kevin? Perhaps some closure?”

“Nah, he killed himself when he was eighteen. Hung himself with an extension cord in his closet. I figured maybe, I don't know, autoerotic asphyxiation? That's what I told everybody, anyway.”
Streggie said, “I always had a hard time finding stuff to beat off to. This is before the internet, mind you. Kids today got it too easy. A couple clicks and in two seconds they got all the porn in the world. I came out of a close knit family, kinda religious, you know? I couldn't get away with sneaking any porn mags into my room. My mom would find them in a heartbeat. I swear to god mom didn't have nothing better to do than scour my room while I was at school. For what I have no idea; I didn't smoke, drink, drug, I was terrified to come home with a B on my report card. But I needed something to beat off to. I even searched my parent's room when they weren't home and didn't find nothing.”

“You didn't look hard enough, dude,” Carrington said.

“Mr. Carrington…” Mr. Swann pointed his templed fingers at the lanky fella, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head and his legs stretched out, trying to look cool at a masturbation clinic.

“Anyway, I had a TV in my room, but no VCR. This is back when VCRs were still real expensive and we just had one in the house. But I found that I could hook up my parent's camcorder to my TV and watch movies. I knew good horror movies always had a few scenes of T n' A. So every week I'd rent a couple horror movies to beat off to. It'd take me hours to get off. Playing and rewinding, playing and rewinding the Linnea Quigley strip scene in Return of the Living Dead. Getting aroused, ready to pop, catching sight of a nasty-looking zombie, having to start all over. Sometimes having to watch the sex scenes through the camcorder's view finder if my parents were home. All that time wasted, I could have been a horror movie director instead of stuck here.”

“You're getting help, Mr. Streggie. That is what is important.”

“Well, the worst part,” Streggie said, “I'd just rented Lifeforce. A Tobe Hooper movie about, like space vampires, and I was really excited about it cause I heard it was loaded with full frontal nudity. I got the camcorder out of the closet and found a blank tape already inside. I thought, hey, you know, I don't know what I thought, really. I turned it on and it was my mom and dad getting it on, man. They'd recorded themselves and they were doing everything. You know…”

“No, dude, you didn't…”
put his face in his hands and didn't say anything for a long time.

“Dude,” Rearick said, “I've jerked off to some crazy shit in my time. Midgets, mimes, midgets with mimes, midgets dressed up like mimes, pregnant German women with Down Syndrome. But parents? Fuckin pervert, man.”

“That'll be enough, Mr. Rearick,” Mr. Swann said. “We are here to share. We are not here to judge.”

“Parents, dude.”

“You are hovering dangerously close to a demerit, Mr. Rearick.”

“Ok. Ok. Sorry, Chuckles. It's perfectly natural to masturbate to, what would you call it, Mr. Swann? Visually documented parental fornication?”

“That's one demerit, Mr. Rearick.”

“Fuck, man. What do you want me to hear, sitting here listening to this twisted shit? You want me to congratulate Chuckles for choking out a load for his mom and dad?”
didn't look up from his palms.

“That sort of behavior is counterproductive to the Sunnybrook ideology. You can tell Dr. Cameron all about your problems in the morning.”

“Like I give a shit.”

“I jerked my brother off imagining my mom and dad,” Kerry Hedges said.



“Hey, Melrose,” Rearick hissed from the cot next to mine. “You jerking it?”

“What? No. You just asked that five minutes ago.”

“Well, that's five minutes you could've started on it.”

“I don't want to get started on anything. I just want to sleep.”

“It's just gonna be more of the same old shit for you tomorrow.”

“For me? Why not you?”

“You heard the man. I gotta go see the doctor in the morning. For another attitude adjustment. Probably take me outta regular circulation for a while. Last time they told me it was my last chance. Fucking bullshit. I haven't touched myself in weeks. Haven't had a decent hard for… ever it seems.”

“Rearick. What'd you mean, earlier, when you asked about reading the entire contract? About leaving here?”

“Read the contract. All the way through. Sunnybrook is an experimental live-in rehabilitation facility. You're their guinea pig, Melrose, no different than I am, or Hedges or Carrington, or poor fucked-up Streggie. If you opt to leave before the mandated length of your stay--.”

“What's the mandated length of stay? They didn't tell me any mandated length of stay.”

“As determined by Dr. Cameron.”

“Shit.”

“You'll be in violation of the contract and you'll be required to pay for treatment received.”

“Fuck. I didn't even want to come here. My wife made me. How much do they charge?”

“You're looking at thirty thousand dollars a day.”

“What? What the fuck!”

“Shhhhh. Quiet, man. You'll get us both locked in the light room. Didn't you read the fine print? Or has masturbation made you blind?”

“Thirty grand a day for what?”

“To wrest control of your life away from your penis, to hear them tell it.”


we finished a breakfast of runny oatmeal and raisin toast, Mr. Fogel retrieved Rearick for his meeting with Dr. Cameron. Rearick bowed his head and offered no goodbyes.
rest of us were led by Mr. Dwyer, a slight man in blue sweatpants and a Sunnybrook staff t-shirt, to a football field-sized yard behind the barracks. Here, surrounded by a twelve-foot high chain link fence topped with razor wire, Mr. Dwyer led us through half an hour of light calisthenics followed by a two mile run. The entire time he repeated Code 7 of the Sunnybrook handbook. A rigorous exercise routine dampens masturbatory urges.
wanted to argue the logic of Code 7. After all, I was at the peak of my athleticism when I embarked on the one-handed journey without end. However, at the moment, I had to admit there's nothing less appealing than almost two dozen huffing, sweating guys shuffling along the track punctuated every ten seconds by Carrington muttering, “this is some bullshit.”
looked like a run but we moved slower than a walk. Even then, there were men who couldn't keep up; Dobson, Streggie, Kerry Hedges.
hit my twenty-four-hour mark, the first thirty thousand dollars I didn't have, three quarter miles into the run.
communal showers were awkward. A single room, three-dozen shower heads and no partitions. Twenty guys trying not to look at their own cocks, trying not to glance at their neighbor's cocks, making sure no one's taking an inordinate amount of time to lather their cocks, praying the soft peter doesn't wear off any time soon and keeping an eye on Kerry Hedges whereabouts.
there, Mr. Fogel herded us into the group session. Before Mr. Swann took over, Fogel introduced me to my new flaccidity partner, Carrington.

“If you'll take your seats.” Mr. Swann was all ready seated on a folding chair surveying his clipboard. “I believe today we'll start with you, Mr. Brock.”
Brock didn't look old enough to have even graduated high school. He slouched in his chair, weak chin resting on his chubby chest as though he were sitting in the back of algebra class rather than the Sunnybrook group therapy spotlight. His acne sparkled like cherry stars in a cottage cheese sky.

“I'm curious about your masturbatory habits, Mr. Brock.” Mr. Swann began scanning his clipboard. “With this device called a fleshlight. For the sake of anyone present who is unaware exactly what a fleshlight is, can you enlighten us?”
by the catcalls, most everyone had all ready been enlightened.

“It's this thing,” Wes mumbled.

“Speak up, please, Mr. Brock,” Mr. Swann said.

“It's this thing.” The volume rose but the words remained jumbled.

“Please enunciate clearly, Mr. Brock. Remember, you're speaking not only to me, but to an audience of your peers who need help every bit as much as you do. We're not here to judge or demean you. Only to cure you of your affliction and present you a better quality of life. A life no longer centered on the next opportunity to touch your penis. Now please. Describe this masturbatory aid.”

“It's this thing. You stick your dick in it and it feels just like a real pussy.”

“What's this fleshlight constructed of, Mr. Brock?”

Brock's mouth hung open. “What?”

“What material is the business end of this fleshlight constructed of that it should feel like a woman's moist, swollen vagina?”

At the words, “moist, swollen vagina,” I felt a brief flutter at my groin. The sensation expired quickly like a moth in a kill jar.

“Latex, I guess,” Wes mumbled. “I dunno, some space age polymer…”

“And the latex feels like a woman's vagina?”

“That's what the box says.”

“Mr. Brock, have you ever touched a woman's vagina?”

“Well, it's also got a mouth and booty hole attachment.”

“Answer the question, please, Mr. Brock.”

Brock's eyes glazed. His mouth hung open, lips moving as though he were measuring his answer options. Finally he settled on the truth. “No.” For him, admitting to his virginity was like Hester Prynn owning up to adultery. In case you missed the blazing, gigantic fucking A.

“What about when you were born?” I asked.

“I was a C-section baby,” Wes muttered, sweat beginning to bead his forehead.

“Oh you poor bastard.”

“Enough.” Swann drew his eyes away from his clipboard long enough to give me a stern stare. “Mr. Melrose, are you looking to take up where your flaccidity partner left off?”

“No, Mr. Swann.”

“Respect, Mr. Melrose.”

“I wasn't disrespecting.”

“Respect, Mr. Melrose.”

“Yes, Mr. Swann.”

“Now how many other men in this room have experimented with masturbatory aids in a solitary setting?”

Only Kerry Hedges raised his hand.

“Well I appreciate your honesty and willingness to share, Mr. Hedges. But I asked how many men have used masturbatory aids. I did not ask how many men acted as masturbatory aids.”

Hedges lowered his hand.

“According to your paperwork, here, this hasn't been the first masturbatory aid in your arsenal of real feel vaginas. What was your first?”

“Uh… I had uh… a mold of Missy Dahl's ass and pussy. That was pretty sweet.”

“And it says here, you also possessed a set of Sally Suckem's breasts.”

“Yeah.”

“And what purpose did these disembodied latex breasts serve?”

Wes looked down at his hands in his lap, hanging there like two strangled puppies. His lip quivered.

“You'll feel better when you share, Mr. Brock. And please keep in mind that nothing you say here will ever leave the room except in articles written for a handful of psychology journals.”

“Ok.”

“The breasts, Mr. Brock, what purpose?”

“I played with them while I fucked the Missy Dahl ass and pussy.”

“Somewhat of a Dr. Frankenstein creation is it not? Considering women don't have breasts growing out of their backs.”

Brock's mouth hung open.

“All right, Mr. Brock. How much would you say you've spent on these masturbatory aids over the years? Not including lube.”

Wes shrugged.

“According to my notes, the Missy Dahl buttocks and vagina coupled with the Sally Suckem's breasts retail for $302.68. Now you've been unemployed your entire life, correct?”

“I delivered papers for The Times.”

“Your entire adult life.”

“Oh.” Brock's shame was palpable. A tear welled over and spilled from his eye.

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” I asked.

“That's a demerit, Mr. Melrose.”

“What the fuck for?”

“Two demerits, Mr. Melrose. Now, Mr. Brock, without an income of any kind, how did you afford so many masturbatory aids?”

“My mom.”

“Your mom? The woman who brought you here, sobbing. The woman who signed you in to Sunnybrook for rehabilitation? Who claimed you were possessed by a demon, a 'jack-off demon'? She bought the Sally Suckem's breasts for you?”

“Yeah. No. She gave me the money. For college textbooks, she thought.”

“I see. And how were you able to attend classes without books?”

“What? I didn't go. I pretended and just went to my buddies' apartment and played Guitar Hero.”

“Wouldn't a college campus make an excellent place to meet women and perhaps eventually mount a meaningful sexual relationship?”

Wes shrugged. “Guess so.”

In the exasperated silence I said “he's scared of the pussy.” That was the problem. He didn't have any game. For him it was less shameful to plant his dick in a piece of plastic than to get rebuffed and rejected over and over by real life women.

“Mr. Melrose, I don't believe your medical transcription degree qualifies you to make a psychiatric analysis of Mr. Brock's mental state.”

“Well, it's pretty fucking obvious, is it not? He don't need rehabilitation like he's some kind of deviant. He just needs to learn how to talk to women.”

“You're coming dangerously close to a third demerit, Mr. Melrose.” Swann narrowed his eyes at me. “Maybe Dr. Cameron might be interested in your opinions, and maybe how these views reflect on your own masturbatory habits.”

“I'm not a virgin, dude.”

“Mr. Swann.”

“I've had plenty of women, Mr. Swann. More than you have, I promise you that.”

“Yet here you are. A patient at Sunnybrook. My patient.”

“Yeah, but I know what my problem is.”

“And we'll deal with your problem…”

“I'm married, that's my problem.”

“And we'll deal with your chronic masturbation in a later session. Today we are dealing with Mr. Brock's addiction. And I'm sure we'll be able to make more progress without your unwarranted, uninformed interruptions.”

I threw my hands up in the air.

“Now, Mr. Brock. Would you care to tell us how your parents discovered your masturbatory materials?”



“I understand you had an outburst today during group therapy.”

I didn't say anything. The doctor sat behind his desk. The entire office smelled of buffalo wings which reminded me I'd missed lunch waiting outside this prick's office door. By the way Fogel and Dwyer hovered to my left and right, respectively, I knew this wasn't going to be a civil meeting.

So I spoke accordingly. “You consider offering my opinion to a kid who's getting treated like a fucking monster cause he likes to jerk off an outburst, then, yeah, I outbursted.”

“Well, that certainly is a counterproductive attitude.”

“What are you gonna do about it? Give me another demerit? Pile them on, I don't give a shit.”

“No, Mr. Melrose, we're far beyond that point with you. It's time for us to take a more hands-on approach. But not the hands-on approach you're accustomed to.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck me? Yes. The last verbal resort of a beaten man. Fuck me, indeed, Mr. Melrose. You actually have more in common with that boy, Wesley Brock, than you realize.”

“I want out.”

“Mr. Brock simply can not keep his hands off himself to the point where he can no longer function as a productive member of society.”

“Bullshit. I want out of Sunnybrook. You can shove the contract up your ass and bill me, motherfucker. There's nothing wrong with me.”

“Like yourself, Mr. Brock doesn't care who he hurts with his inability to control his masturbatory urges. In this case, rather than a six year-old daughter, he was continually caught in the act by his mother and father.”

“Fuck you. You can't keep me here. You hear me?”

“Your belligerence, Mr. Melrose, does not offset the fact that you engaged in the act of self-interference in front of your six year-old daughter.”

“Oh, you're so full of fucking shit. That never happened.”

“According to the report filed by your wife-”

“My wife's borderline insane. She's the one who should be committed.”

“Nonetheless.”

“Look, my daughter likes to sneak around, ok? Ever since she was a baby she's been sneaky. I swear to god, she's got a spy gene or something. We take her to Wal-Mart, all she wants are the spy gadgets. Binoculars, little fake camera, walkie talkie, all that sort of shit.”

“So it's her fault.”

“Listen, dammit. I thought her and the wife were still at the grocery store. And it wasn't even like I was jerking off to porn. There's a woman in Texas I met online. Every once in awhile if we catch each other on when we're both home alone, we'll turn our webcams on and play for each other. Mutually. I lost track of time or they got home early. Either way, rather than come inside, my daughter spied on me through the window. All she could see was my back. She didn't see what I was doing. She didn't see any cock.”

“But she knew enough to call your wife to the window.”

“She might've all ready been there. She might have goaded my daughter into looking. Who the fuck knows? Things haven't been right with my marriage for a long time.”

“Because of your preference for masturbating with women on a computer screen rather than looking to repair the sexual relationship with the woman you chose to marry?”

“You don't know my wife, dude.”

“Dr. Cameron. You are to address me as Dr. Cameron at all times. The first code in your Sunnybrook handbook.”

“Fuck your handbook, fuck your codes. I told you I'm done.”

“But Sunnybrook is not done with you, Mr. Melrose. Sunnybrook is not done with you by a long shot.”

“You can't keep me here against my will.”

“We can keep you here as long as I deem necessary, Mr. Melrose. You must realize I do have your best interests in mind. Just because you can't realize you need help; that doesn't alleviate our responsibility to help you. At the very least, think of your daughter and the emotional scars you've all ready gifted her.”

“She didn't see anything.”

“Children are very intuitive, Mr. Melrose. What you believe she hasn't seen today will haunt her subconscious tomorrow. I can assure you of that, Mr. Melrose.”

“You're trying to fuck with me. There's nothing wrong with me, with any of us. I want out.”

“You want out, or your addiction wants out? And after only a day and a half. But then, with you, we realized quickly we were dealing with a near terminal case of chronic masturbation.”

I lunged at him then. I think I realized I was going to attack him the moment I stepped into his office. I was fooling anyone. I tried to lunge. Dwyer and Fogel wrestled me face first into the carpet before I had the chance to gain my feet and spring.

I wasn't the first and I wasn't the last. I was just the next. They handled me with the same calm efficiency they handled everything at Sunnybrook. I didn't see who slid the needle into my ass cheek. I felt the radiating warmth and expanding void. Then for a long time after that, it seemed, I felt nothing at all.



The session rooms were in the basement. I think they were in the basement. There were no windows. Without any clocks, I had no way to tell night from day or the passing of days. I slept. I ate. I spent hours in the cramped session room with Dr. Otwell.

The session room measured eight foot by eight foot. There was a sandbox, slightly larger than a kitty litter box, in one corner which afforded me a place to play out my fantasies with the toy figures showcased on the shelves lining the room. The figures ranged from hard carved wooden totems to green army men, from G.I. Joe action figures to Star Wars collectibles. There were various toys from several nearly forgotten cartoons. Thundercats, Silverhawks, Mask, I recognized. There were comic book heroes and villains. Batman, Superman, Wolverine. There was a Ken Doll wearing Malibu shorts (anatomically incorrect, I checked). The toys ranged in sizes from an inch to twelve inches.

After a decent string of good days I asked Dr. Otwell when I'd be going home.

“We can't think about home at this stage, Mr. Melrose.”

“Why not? I'm doing better, aren't I?”

“You're acting better, Mr. Melrose. There's a difference. Let's focus on the positives.”

“I'm trying.”

“I know you are, Mr. Melrose. Now,” he motioned to the action figures, “let's say you've just come home from a busy day. You're tense, tired, and beginning to feel those urges that have shackled you for so long. Show me what you do to get time alone from your family. What do you say? What excuses do you make?”

“I can't keep doing this, Dr. Otwell.”

“You can and will, Mr. Melrose. I have complete faith in your capacity for healing.”

“I don't think so, doctor. I really don't.”



I was finally granted unescorted bathroom privileges. The hallways were narrow and lined with a dozen doors per side. All closed and revealing no secrets. There was no telling how many of my brothers of the furtive stroke were locked down here.

The bathrooms were as cramped as the session rooms. There were only two stalls, both lacking doors per Sunnybrook protocol. I'm sure there was probably a code in the handbook concerning stall doors, but I'd found the guidebook much like the demerit system, no longer applied to me.

Entering the bathroom, I noticed the first stall occupied by a fiercely Irish-looking man with a shock of red hair haloing his head. He was scrawny, with sunken eyes, hollowed cheekbones and a hawk nose as though he'd been waging his own private potato famine. It took a minute of blatant staring to recognize him.

“Rearick?”

He stood up to wipe and I couldn't help but notice there was nothing dangling between his legs. Nothing at all. He was as anatomically incorrect as the Malibu Ken doll in the session room.

“Rearick…what the hell happened to you?”

“Melrose, is that you?” A tear spilled down his cheek. “Don't tell me you're down here too.”

“What the fuck happened?”

Rearick grinned. It was the grin of a man with terminal lung cancer who's just been diagnosed with stomach cancer.

“I've been nullified. I've been freed from the tool of my addiction, Melrose. But it don't matter. Ha ha. Because you're never truly cured. I still feel the urges. I still feel the need.”

I backed out of the bathroom as he stumbled toward me, his sweatpants around his ankles, the flap of pale, hairless skin between his legs shining in the fluorescent light.”

“They're gonna cure you, too, Melrose. Except it won't be any kind of cure you want.”

I turned my back and ran to the session room where Dr. Otwell awaited with his sandbox and action figures and gentle smiles.

“That was quick, Mr. Melrose. Very good. The less you dawdle, the less chance temptation can sink its hooks into you.”

His eyes sparkled with good humor and glimmered with something you had to look harder to see. Cruelty. He knew who was set to ambush me in the bathroom. There were no accidents at Sunnybrook.

“Are you ready to continue the healing, Mr. Melrose?”

“Yes, please. I want to get better.”