Roseanna and the Therapist

Fiction by Oliver Cassidy



Couldn't get myself to throw away the picture of the painting of the woman in the frame. I bought the frame to frame a picture of Raymond, my cat. And I used the frame for just that - to frame Raymond. So I actually wound up buying a new frame to frame the picture of the painting of the woman that was in Raymond's frame. I admit this only because my therapist advised me to be honest. So there I go. Something honest.

My imagination ran away with me. I named her Roseanna. She looked Italian, classy Italian; seemed like a good name. She was trim, but not skinny. I like that.

I frequently imagine Roseanna barefoot and standing on my face. When I try to get up, she shifts her weight and keeps me in place. Sometimes she stuffs her foot in my mouth. That's what I envision happening as the painting's being painted. She's stuffing her foot in my mouth. And she refuses to crack. She concentrates on the artist. She doesn't let on that she's stuffing her foot in my mouth. I really, really enjoy thinking about that.

I also frequently imagine my therapist - an attractive woman in her early forties - barefoot and standing on my face. Stuffing her foot in my mouth. Sometimes I imagine myself telling her my problems and she rudely sighs and lets her pump slide to the floor and stuffs her foot in my mouth and checks her watch as I suck her toes against my will. I really, really enjoy thinking about that, too.

I'm not interested in the psychological explanation. I just enjoy it.